by Michelle Cox
“Yes, of course, sir,” Billings answered for James. “Yes. Allow me, sir. Perhaps you might be more comfortable in the study or the morning room while we settle this away,” he said with an obsequious gesture.
“Yes, I think so, Billings,” Antonia said calmly, though her face was dark and furious. “We will retire to the study.”
“Very good, madam,” he said with a bow and hurried to the other side of the room to open the pocket doors. Antonia stiffly followed him, walking past Clive as she did so but not condescending to look at him.
Henrietta stood hesitating, not knowing what to do next. She wanted to approach Clive, but she was afraid of what his reaction might be. He stood looking at the floor, ignoring her, so, giving him a last look, she walked past him too, and followed Antonia into the other room. Billings was already bustling about the study, hastily lighting lamps and poking the existing low fire into more robust flames. When he retired, Antonia moved to stand before the fireplace. Only once did she glance at Henrietta, but her face remained grim. Henrietta did not think she had ever seen her this angry. Quietly Henrietta sat down in one of the chairs, trying to think of what to say to either of them.
When Clive finally entered the room, Antonia lost no time in addressing him. “How dare you,” she hissed. “Don’t you ever speak to me that way, especially in front of the servants,” she continued, her voice that of cold steel.
“I wasn’t actually addressing you,” he said angrily. Unexpectedly then, he let out a deep sigh and rubbed his forehead wearily. “Forgive me, Mother,” he said, walking toward her now. “I’m not myself. I . . . I . . . I’m easily startled at times.”
Henrietta saw Antonia’s face falter a little, but she remained aloof. “Be that as it may, such behavior is inexcusable. Your father never lost his composure. You might remember that. If you are to be master of this house.”
Henrietta drew in a breath and expected Clive to throw back a retort, his jaw clenching again, but instead he stiffly tilted his head in acknowledgement. “Please, sit down, Mother,” he said, clearly making an effort to control his voice. “Would you like a sherry?” he asked politely.
“No, thank you. I’m going up now. It would seem the two of you have much to say to each other,” she said coldly. “I believe I’m in the way.”
Henrietta opened her mouth to entreat her to stay, but no words came out, and Antonia quickly brushed past her, anyway.
“Good-night,” she said without looking back at them as she disappeared from the room.
Clive watched her go, and then catching Henrietta’s worried, accusatory look, shockingly threw his cognac glass into the fireplace, shattering it. Billings appeared in the doorway within moments, and even his normally immovable face looked concerned. Henrietta gestured for him to stay where he was. He looked at her and then at Clive, his eyes quickly ascertaining the situation, and then silently retreated.
Henrietta stood, nervously wringing her hands, wondering what she should do, as she looked at her husband, his arms outstretched on the stone mantle, his head bowed.
“Well,” he finally spoke, “don’t you want to go up, too?”
Henrietta took a deep breath, walked toward him, and tentatively wrapped her arms around him from behind. His body remained stiff for several moments before she felt him relax into her arms. A flood of relief running through her, she leaned her head against his back as she held him. “Clive, darling, what’s wrong?”
Clive remained silent, still bracing himself against the mantel. “So many things,” he finally said hoarsely.
“Won’t you please tell me?” Henrietta entreated. “It was the noise, wasn’t it? It reminds you—”
“I hate myself for it,” he whispered. He turned toward her now but didn’t meet her eye. “I hate that I’m still that weak . . .”
“You can’t blame yourself, Clive! The war was horrible. I wish you’d tell me more about it, but I don’t wish to distress you.”
“No, best just to leave it.” He sighed. “I’ll have to apologize to James tomorrow. And to Mother.”
“But that’s not the only thing, is it? You were upset before that . . . when I came in.” She touched his arm and looked up into his troubled hazel eyes. “Is it because I was late?” she asked, hardly believing that he would be so mean in his expectation of her.
He closed his eyes. “No, darling,” he said, a heavy breath escaping. “I’m sorry if it seemed that way. I never wish to limit you. I trust you completely,” he said, running his finger along the side of her face. Henrietta thought that an odd comment, but she let it go.
“What is it then?” she asked softly.
Clive stared at her for a few moments and abruptly ran his hand through his hair. “I’m pretty sure Father was having an affair,” he said quietly.
“An affair?” Henrietta murmured, never guessing that this could be what was troubling him. “There must be some mistake, Clive,” she said gently. He was obviously getting worse, she worried. First, he believed his father had been murdered and now that he had been carrying on with another woman . . .
“I only wish it was.”
“Why . . . why do you think this?” Henrietta tried to ask gently.
Clive hesitated for a moment and then pulled a letter out of his inside jacket pocket. “Here,” he said, handing it to her. “Read this. I found it in Father’s things this afternoon.”
Henrietta took the letter and unfolded it. The paper was thin and of poor quality.
Howard,
It is our anniversary again and time for our usual arrangement. You’d better have the gift ready. I got your note about meeting, and I’m not too happy. I’ll let you know when and where. If you’re thinking of ending our relationship, don’t. You are mine forever. Never forget that.
Susan
Henrietta’s brow furrowed as she read it several times before looking across to Clive, who had in the meantime poured himself a new brandy. It certainly was an odd missive, but it did not have the flavor of a love affair to it.
“Hmmm . . . it’s very peculiar,” she began, looking it over again. “It doesn’t sound like a lover, though, Clive. It sounds more like a . . . like a business transaction, not that that makes it any better.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that.”
“Besides the fact that it is signed ‘Susan,’ it doesn’t seem to be terribly feminine. The language is not very romantic—for a love note, that is.”
“Maybe it’s a disguise; maybe they agreed ahead of time to write in such a way to avoid suspicion.”
“Perhaps, but why would she sign her name? Why not use a nickname?”
“Maybe it is. After all, she addresses it to ‘Howard’ not ‘Alcott.’
“Hmmm . . . I see what you mean. The language is also rather crude, but perhaps that is part of the ruse as well. It is hardly the speech of a refined woman.”
“Well, maybe she isn’t,” Clive said, gripping his glass tightly.
“No, maybe not,” Henrietta said quietly. “The paper is cheap, too.”
“Yes, I noticed.”
She walked toward him and handed the note back. “Where did you find it?”
“Tucked under a larger stack of correspondence, under the blotter, as if to hide it.”
“Were there others?”
“I haven’t found any yet, but I haven’t gotten through everything. That’s another thing,” he said, taking a large drink of his brandy. “His affairs appear to be very much out of order. I started to go through his account book, and it seems like he has very little personal cash, which can’t be. I must be missing something or not reading it correctly. I get the feeling that something has gone terribly wrong. And then I found this letter—which speaks of their ‘anniversary’ and ‘a gift.’ It’s not hard to put two and two together. If this were an outside case and not my father, I think I’d have already come to the obvious conclusion.” He paused as if to take it all in. “Was he really paying a woman to be his compan
ion?” he reasoned haltingly. “I simply can’t believe it; and yet, what other conclusion can I draw?”
“It does sound bad,” Henrietta admitted. “But perhaps there’s some other explanation?”
“I can’t think of what it would be . . .”
“Maybe she’s someone from his past that he . . . he agreed to help? Or someone that saw him in a compromising position?”
“And is blackmailing him?” Clive said incredulously. “Impossible. You heard everyone at the funeral. ‘A pillar of society,’ ‘a man of his word,’ ‘honest, true, upright,’—I could go on and on.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t once make a mistake, Clive.”
“He wasn’t the type that would cower to a blackmailer.”
She let out a deep breath, thinking. “Well, perhaps not. Maybe it really is just a love affair. Your parents don’t . . . didn’t . . . seem overly affectionate . . .” she said tentatively. “Is it possible?”
“I guess anything’s possible, but I just can’t believe it of him.”
“What about asking your mother . . . in a roundabout sort of way, I mean.”
“Never! She’s very fragile right now,” he said, pouring himself a new glass of cognac.
Henrietta turned this over in her mind. It’s true that Antonia seemed to be truly grieving Alcott, and yet she had not given in to excessive sadness or displays of emotion. The servants were looking to her for direction, she had told Henrietta after the funeral. It was her duty to be strong in light of the current crisis, as the smooth running of the household depended on it. Women, she had said, had to be stronger than men much of the time, and Henrietta was inclined to agree with her, at least on that score.
“Yes, darling,” Henrietta said gingerly, “but your mother is very much a woman of the world. She’s no blushing violet. Perhaps she could easily shed some light on this.”
“Maybe . . .” he said reluctantly. “But not yet. I want to try to get to the bottom of this without involving her.”
“But why? What good would it do now?”
“I just want to know.”
“Are you sure?”
Clive sighed. “Well, if nothing else, I still need to go through the rest of his things. Maybe I’ll find something more.”
Henrietta didn’t know what to say to this. There was clearly nothing more that could be done at this point, and she felt her body correspondingly begin to droop. It had been a terribly long day. She just barely managed to stifle a yawn.
Clive looked over at her as if really seeing her now. “Go up, darling,” he said tiredly. “You must be fagged. You haven’t even had a chance to tell me what happened with Elsie. I’ve been frightfully selfish. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry about tonight. I behaved very badly.”
Henrietta let his apology go, not wishing to return to the subject, but she was worried about him. She could tell that he was still restless and upset. She did not want to leave him alone, and yet she was, in truth, thoroughly exhausted. “I don’t mind sitting up with you,” she offered.
“No, I’ll just finish this,” he said, holding up his nearly empty glass.
“Bring it with you,” she suggested.
“No, I’d like to think for a moment . . .”
“Well, if you’re sure,” she said, walking over to him. She kissed his chin and let her hand brush against his chest. “Good-night, then.”
—
Clive stood looking into the fire, wondering what to do next. There were no leads, no clues. He was convinced now more than ever that something untoward had happened to his father, and he meant to get to the bottom of it. He was conscious of the fact, however, that no one else shared this belief, even Henrietta, he suspected, and especially Captain Callahan, to whom he had paid an unannounced visit just a few days ago.
When Henrietta had gone into the city last week to see her family, Clive had decided, on the spur of the moment to drive over to the Winnetka Police Station under the guise of reintroducing himself. He had technically already met Captain Callahan, the chief of police, after the pursuit of Jack Fletcher, but his interaction with him that night had been brief. Clive’s original impression had not been, truth be told, particularly favorable, but he hoped that perhaps he was wrong about the chief, that the failed capture of Fletcher was due to bad luck and not his seemingly inept handling of the situation.
Unfortunately, it was an impression not greatly improved upon as Clive took a seat across the desk from him, having secured an immediate audience with Captain Callahan by virtue of mentioning to the desk sergeant that he was a former detective inspector of the Chicago Police. Having then been begrudgingly escorted back to the chief’s office and seated accordingly, Clive took his time assessing the man.
His office and his uniform were impeccable, which said much, but he was more rotund than Clive thought a chief, or any officer of the law, really, should be. His gleaming gold buttons were indeed straining as he leaned back confidently in his chair, looking pleasantly at Clive as if this were a social call and idly drumming his fingers. He had gray hair and a thick gray mustache, and his eyes lacked the piercing quality so useful in interrogating subjects or evaluating evidence, Clive thought. In fact, he possessed a jolly sort of absentmindedness, which might be welcome at a family Christmas party, for example, but not as the chief investigator on, say, a murder case. He reminded Clive of . . . well, of his father in a way, which thoroughly unsettled him. Angrily he chided himself to stop seeing ghosts in every corner.
He forced his thoughts back to the man in front of him, disgustedly wondering how he could possibly become the chief of police, especially in so affluent an area like Winnetka, and bitterly put it down to the usual politics. Even Clancy, his own bumbling sergeant back in Chicago, could have run the department better than he suspected Callahan could. But perhaps he was getting ahead of himself. Perhaps there was more to the chief than met the eye. This hopeful ember of thought, however, gradually diminished once Clive got around to talking about his father’s accident. Casually, Clive had found a way of asking if there had been any investigation of his father’s death.
“Investigation?” the chief asked with a pleasant smile, as if Clive had just asked something silly or imbecilic. “No, there was no investigation,” he said patiently, as if explaining something to a child. “No need, you see. Simple accident is all it was.”
“But how can you be sure?”
“Sure of what?”
“Sure that it was an accident.”
Captain Callahan looked at him and blinked lazily. “I don’t quite follow.”
“Look, sir, it just seems odd that my father was seen talking to two unidentified men on the platform, the same platform he’s managed to stand on for years without falling, I might add, before he slips and falls to his death before an oncoming train. Do you not find that rather extraordinary?”
This seemed to perplex the chief, and he sat for a few moments as if to decipher it. “Are you suggesting he may have taken his own life?” the chief said in a low voice, leaning slightly toward Clive as he said it.
“Of course not!” Clive said irritably, though it was the second time someone had suggested this explanation in as many days, a fact which he uncomfortably tucked away to reexamine later. “I’m suggesting that he may have been murdered, man!”
“Murdered?” the chief asked, mystified, and then unexpectedly chuckled. “No, Mr. Howard. It wasn’t a murder. Of that we can be sure.”
“How?”
“Why, isn’t it obvious?”
“No, it’s not! Were there any witnesses? Surely someone must have seen something. What about these two men my father’s chauffer saw him talking to? Were they identified?”
Captain Callahan looked at him blankly.
“It had just recently snowed, as I understand,” Clive went on. “Was there any sign of a struggle that could have been read in the footprints or markings on the platform? What about the station master? Did you question h
im?”
“Look, Mr. Howard, there hasn’t been a murder in Winnetka for over twenty years,” the chief said defensively.
“That has absolutely no bearing on this case.”
“But this isn’t a ‘case,’ you see. Let’s not go looking for something that doesn’t exist, shall we? Not good for business.”
With that comment, Clive thought he saw the first sign of wherewithal in Captain Callahan’s eye. So that was it. He was tied to the business owners . . . or someone else, some other entity, perhaps?
“Look, Mr. Howard,” the rotund chief said, leaning towards him across his desk. “We’re all very sorry about your father, but it was an accident. Quite open and shut. We know what you city cops are like. Suspicious of everything that moves, but it doesn’t work that way here. Not everything is suspicious, if you understand my meaning.”
“Yes, I understand perfectly,” Clive said slowly, not breaking eye contact even for a second.
“I’ll wish you good morning then,” the chief said pleasantly. “Nice of you to stop by. Davis!” he shouted out loudly.
“Yes, sir?” came an irritated voice, in a normal volume, which suggested the speaker was very nearby. Clive turned his head to see a man indeed seated very near the chief’s office behind what looked to be the smallest desk Clive had ever seen. Clive thought his bedside table might be bigger. It was just wide enough to hold a typewriter, a desk lamp, and a telephone. Davis wearily stood up and took the few steps required to reach his superior’s office. He looked to be a solid young man, his own height, with intelligent, piercing eyes and a black stubble growing across his firm jawline. He was dressed only in a shirt and suspenders and wore no tie. Clive noted that he would never have allowed Clancy to appear this slovenly. Davis was sizing him up as well, he could tell.
“This is my sergeant, Detective Frank Davis,” Captain Callahan explained. “Like to keep him close, as you see, heh-heh. Good man is Davis.”
The two stared at each other, Clive wondering if he were perhaps the brains behind the department.
“Show Mr. Howard out, won’t you?” the chief said pleasantly, leaning back in his chair again.