Smoke and Mirrors

by Casey Daniels

  While she stood a distance back and watched, I opened the bag and proceeded to take everything out of it so that I might look carefully through it all.

  There wasn’t much of interest. Clothing, combs, shaving supplies. Setting those aside, I looked across the bag at Miss Carrington.

  ‘You knew where Andrew stayed when he was in New York.’

  ‘Of course.’ Her hands clutched behind her back, she bent forward to better watch me work. ‘I often stayed here with him though, of course, we could not be so public about it that anyone here recognizes me. Philistines!’ She laughed, but the laughter stilled soon enough. ‘He was not here just to see me. Each time Andrew visited New York he wrote articles about his adventures here for his newspaper back home,’ she explained, then coughed away her discomfort. ‘Do they know who—’

  ‘The constable is looking for a man named Jeffrey Hollister in connection with the murder and I am searching for Jeffrey, too.’ I ran my hand around the inside of Andrew’s bag. ‘I am sure he had nothing to do with Andrew’s death. If only I could talk to Jeffrey, perhaps I might find—’

  When my fingers came in contact with a piece of paper, I drew it out of the bag and held it to the light.

  ‘It is a receipt,’ I explained. ‘For rooms at the Astor House.’

  Miss Carrington’s mouth twisted. ‘Andrew never stayed there.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I am sure I never stayed there with Andrew. If there was someone else—’

  ‘I think not. Andrew was not such a man.’ Thinking, I cocked my head. ‘But that is exactly why this note acknowledging payment is so interesting.’ I tucked the paper into my reticule. ‘Why would a man staying at the Franklin House have a receipt for rooms at the Astor?’

  She thought through my question and twitched her shoulders when she had no answer, then watched as I looked through the rest of the contents of the bag. ‘So who is this Hollister fellow?’

  ‘Well, he’s green, for one thing,’ I said and laughed at the look on her face. ‘He’s the Lizard Man from Borneo. At least when he’s within the walls of the American Museum.’

  I finished looking through the bag, replaced its contents carefully and stood.

  ‘Nothing helpful?’ she asked.

  ‘Perhaps the receipt from the Astor House.’

  ‘Perhaps …’ Thinking, Miss Carrington pressed her lips together. ‘We dined often at Delmonico’s. There is a chance someone there might know something about Andrew.’

  ‘There is,’ I agreed. ‘And it’s nearly time for luncheon.’

  We shared broiled bluefish, new potatoes and string beans. Miss Carrington told me she had lived in New York all her life and that her father was a prominent physician who, on his death, had left her so financially well-off she did not need to depend on a man to support her. She was an artist, and she invited me to join the salon she held at her home in Chelsea each month.

  By the time we had finished our chestnut pudding we were on a first-name basis and, because the man who waited at our table could not help us when it came to telling us anything about Andrew, I continued my questioning of Clarice.

  ‘How long did you know Andrew?’

  ‘Two years,’ she told me. ‘No, three. We met when he was here in town looking into information for an article his late father was writing for his newspaper. I believe it involved some scandal. A banker by the name of—’

  ‘Withnower, yes.’ Every person in Bethel knew the story, for Maynard Withnower had been found to be taking large sums of money from his own bank. Or at least that’s what everyone thought. It was only later, after Maynard Withnower hanged himself from an oak tree, that the evidence against him was found to be false.

  ‘We had a mutual acquaintance,’ Clarice told me. ‘A man by the name of Forsythe. He introduced us and, from that time on, Andrew and I saw each other each time he was in New York.’

  ‘And when was the last time you saw him?’ I asked her.

  She considered the question for a moment. ‘At least a week ago,’ she told me. ‘He sent me a message to tell me he’d arrived in New York and he wanted to see me.’

  ‘And did you see him?’

  ‘Yes. Here.’ She gave her pudding spoon one final lick. ‘I thought it best if we met in public.’

  ‘Because …’

  ‘Because as I told you, Andrew wanted to marry me. I wasn’t interested. That doesn’t mean I didn’t admire him. Andrew was a wonderful person.’

  I could not have agreed more.

  ‘That is precisely why I ended our relationship,’ Clarice went on. ‘It wasn’t fair for Andrew to hold out hope that I might someday change my mind. He needed to find a woman who would appreciate him, someone who could be the helpmate he so wanted.’

  The tall clock that stood nearby rang the hour and Clarice rose to leave. ‘I have a model coming soon for the sketches for a new painting. You’ll excuse me, Evie?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you will come to my salon?’ She grinned. ‘There are a number of handsome poets who attend. You might find the gathering very interesting.’

  I had no doubt of it.

  I paid for my luncheon and stopped at the front of the restaurant while Jonathan – a man I knew since I dined there often – retrieved my cloak. He helped me into it and glanced out the window. ‘Happier today than she was last time she was here,’ he said.

  I looked over my shoulder to the window where I could see a flash of yellow as Clarice crossed the road. ‘You mean Miss Carrington?’

  Jonathan pursed his lips. ‘I’m hardly one to tell tales, but then, anyone who was here that night knew there was something afoot between the two of them. Oh, what a dust-up they had!’

  ‘Miss Carrington and—’

  ‘And Mr Emerson, of course. One of the boys clearing the table heard the whole thing.’

  ‘You mean about how Mr Emerson wanted to marry Miss Carrington and she wasn’t interested?’

  ‘Is that what she told you?’ Jonathan rolled his eyes. ‘The way I heard the story, he was the one who told her it was over between them.’

  I contained my astonishment. ‘And what was her response?’

  He leaned nearer, sharing the secret. ‘She kept her voice down, I’ll give her that. Otherwise, I swear she wouldn’t have the nerve to show her face here again. But there was no mistaking her anger. The boy cleaning the tables, he says she just about popped a cork.’

  ‘Really?’ I looked again toward the window but Clarice was already gone. ‘Did you say when this was?’ I asked Jonathan.

  ‘Early for dinner. Maybe five or six o’clock. Last Friday.’

  Friday.

  How odd that Clarice had said she hadn’t seen Andrew in at least a week. Nearly as odd as the fact that she’d forgotten to mention that she and Andrew had had an argument on the very night he had been murdered.

  NINE

  It is a long journey from New York City to Bethel so I started out very early Wednesday so that I was sure to be there on time. I did not tell Charity where I was going, nor did I mention it to Phin. She would not give me a second thought, and in fact, would probably be relieved to think I was busy at the museum, leaving early and coming late, and that our paths simply had not crossed for several days. He was more perceptive, of course. On thinking it through, Phin would know exactly where I’d gone and why. Andrew was a dear friend; I could not miss his funeral.

  Of course, I also could not let anyone in Bethel know I was there. They would ask too many questions: where had I been these last years? And why had I left? I could not risk exposing my shameful secret and hurting my family’s reputation. It was exactly why I had agreed to give over my child to adoption, exactly why each time I thought of my sweet babe my heart broke just a little more.

  I also had no desire to have contact with my mother while in Bethel. It was nearly as painful to remember the day I had told her I was to have James’s child and she had sent me out of the h
ouse and told me she never wanted to see me again as it was to think of when I had told James the news and he had turned his back and walked away.

  That next day, Thursday, the memories swirled around me, each more painful than the last, and I sat at the back of St Thomas’s Episcopal Church, away from the knot of mourners in the pews at the front, swathed in a black dress and cloak and with a heavy black veil across my face. It was not so easy to disguise the waves of emotion that engulfed me when, outcast, I watched old friends and neighbors together there and then my mother and sisters, who walked in and joined the mourners.

  I shouldn’t have come.

  The thought slammed into me and left me breathless and I nearly fled. That is, until I took another look at Andrew’s casket there near the altar.

  And I wondered again what had happened to him in those last moments in front of the Feejee Mermaid.

  I was able to occupy myself with these thoughts throughout the service and keep the sadness at bay and, before I knew it, the assembly processed out of the church and to the Center Street Cemetery.

  Following at a distance, I again kept to myself at the burial ground, hiding behind a tall standing stone, far enough from the grave so as not to be noticed.

  I am not an Episcopalian but I hardly think it mattered. I prayed along with the assembled congregation, my head bowed and my heart heavy. When the short service was over, the crowd scattered and I waited in the gathering silence so the laborers might be done with their work and I might approach the grave and say my final goodbyes.

  There was a copse of trees directly across from where I stood and as soon as the last shovelful of dirt was piled on the grave and the workers left the grounds, a man stepped out of the shadows and walked toward it. I recognized him at once.

  Frederick Withnower, son of Maynard, the banker whose reputation had been ruined when Andrew’s father had published an article about him in The Intelligencer, a man shamed who had taken his own life and had only been proven innocent later.

  I was certainly surprised to see Frederick there and outraged when he stopped only long enough at the mound of freshly turned earth to spit on Andrew’s grave.

  I could understand the anger. Though the incident had happened three years earlier, before Andrew’s father died and Andrew took over operation of the newspaper, the Withnower family had been ruined by the accusations.

  That didn’t make it any easier to watch the desecration, and when Frederick left and I stepped to the grave, I apologized to Andrew on his behalf.

  It did not make it any easier to forget.

  I was still thinking about the disturbing event the next morning when I left the inn where I’d stayed the night under a false name and boarded the coach that would take me back to New York, still swathed head to toe in veils and cloaks so as to keep the secrecy of my visit.

  I could not have been more surprised when Frederick Withnower climbed into the coach after me.

  As we were the only two in it, we exchanged polite greetings but no more, and I was just as glad. I had no wish to make conversation. He settled back in the uncomfortable seat, sullen and silent, and the veil I kept over my face gave me the opportunity to observe him without his knowledge.

  He was a man nearing forty, dusky-skinned with strong features and dark hair shot through with gray. His boots, I noticed, were worn at the toes, and the cuffs of his jacket were frayed, as were the hems of his unmentionables.

  At each stop we made over the sixteen-hour journey, I expected Frederick to leave the coach, but though we were joined by other passengers along the way and stopped now and again to spend time walking and to partake of meals, each time he got back into the coach along with me. Together, we made the journey all the way to New York City.

  Once we arrived, he allowed me to leave the coach first but, when I did, I took my bag and walked only as far as the nearest building. It was already dark, and I waited there in the shadows for Frederick to pass then fell into step behind him, grateful that he must have been as weary as I was from the long journey and did not walk too quickly.

  I was not familiar with the area of the city where we traveled and knew neither the streets nor the landmarks we passed. I only know that, a short while later, he stopped in front of a church and I watched from the shadows across the road. He did not enter the building but went around to the side. I waited as long as I dared, then slipped from shadow to shadow to see where he might have gone.

  Not far, it seemed, for the passage that Frederick had entered ended in a wall with a doorway in it and no way out except the way I had come. Even as I stood there, two men walked by unshaven, ragged and so corned they smelled to the high heavens of whiskey and were so busy holding each other upright they paid no attention at all to me. They, too, went inside the building and, more curious than ever, I neared the door and saw a small brass plaque on the wall beside it.

  St John’s House of Hospitality, it said. Enter here and find hope and comfort.

  Hope and comfort were two blessings I imagined had been hard for Frederick Withnower to enjoy since his father’s untimely death. It was clear he had lost everything and been forced to seek refuge far from where people knew his history and his family’s disgrace.

  It may have been commendable for me to have these thoughts if I intended to use my brother’s wealth and influence to help allay the misery beyond St John’s door, but I will admit that helping those far less fortunate than I was the last thing on my mind at present.

  I started for home, and I could not help but think that, because of Andrew’s family, Frederick Withnower had lost everything.

  And a man who had lost everything might well seek revenge.

  We had left Bethel long before sun up and, by the time I arrived home, it was late and I was bone weary. I had already cast my black veils away from me as I walked home, and now I handed my cloak and bonnet to Portman and asked if Cook was still awake so I might get something to eat.

  Before he ever had a chance to answer, the front bell rang.

  All too aware that news brought to the door at night is often unwelcome, Portman and I exchanged looks, but he is nothing if not conscientious. He wiped away the friendly smile he’d offered when I arrived, pulled back his shoulders and went to the door. From where I stood near the stairs I could see little more than Portman’s back. That is, until he stepped aside to allow a visitor in.

  ‘I am terribly sorry to bother you so late.’ Sebastian Richter didn’t look the least bit sorry and, had I been less tired, I might have pointed that out. His eyes were bright, his smile was warm and he was dressed in evening attire – dark jacket and unmentionables, white vest and shirt and a white cravat tied loosely and secured with a diamond-studded stickpin. The little red and yellow Succor ribbon pinned to his jacket provided a splash of color and he smelled slightly of brandy and beeswax candles.

  ‘I just arrived home,’ he said, his tall hat in both hands, ‘when I saw you walk up to your door. I thought if I came over quickly you would not yet have had a chance to retire. It is ill-mannered of me to stop over unannounced, I know, but as I said, I hated to waste the opportunity.’

  ‘Would you like a glass of sherry?’ I asked him. I was hardly being sociable, simply thirsty and feeling in need of something stronger than tea after the day I’d had. I led the way into the parlor.

  ‘Your brother won’t mind?’ Richter asked.

  I filled two glasses and handed one to Richter. ‘As you said yourself, I’ve been out. I haven’t seen Phin all day. For all I know, he may still be at the museum.’

  ‘Even at this late hour?’ He sipped and smiled his approval of the sherry. ‘It seems you Barnums take too much upon yourselves.’

  He was talking about the museum and knew nothing about how I’d been tracking a man who might be a murderer.

  Too tired to keep to my feet, I took a seat at the table and sipped my sherry. ‘I doubt you’ve come across the street to tell us we work too hard, Mr Richter. No doubt you w
ork hard yourself. You have your breweries. And Succor, of course.’

  ‘Yes. Succor.’ He touched a hand to the ribbon and took the seat across from mine. ‘It is one of the things I came to speak to you about, to thank you for your support. It is heartening to know that women of your character can show such empathy to those who are less fortunate.’

  What would Richter say if he knew that, without my brother, I might very well have been one of those women?

  Had I not been so tired, so sorry for Andrew’s fate and so immersed in thoughts of Frederick Withnower, his animosity toward the Emerson family and the fact that it looked as if he might have been in New York at the time of Andrew’s death—

  ‘It is not the only reason, of course, that I’ve come to bother you at this late hour.’

  Richter’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts and, startled, I winced.

  He pushed back his chair. ‘Of course, if it is inconvenient …’

  ‘No. Really.’ With the motion of one hand, I bid him to remain at the same time shaking my head to clear it of the thoughts that had pounded through it since I had seen Frederick in the graveyard. ‘Now I am the one being rude,’ I told him. ‘I’m sorry. I’m a bit tired. It has been a long day.’

  ‘Yes. Which means if I was any sort of gentleman, I would get to my business and be done with it so that you might get some rest.’ He set down his glass, picked it up again and took a sip of sherry. ‘You are far more lively and intelligent than most of the women I meet,’ he said, and before I could deny it – for I was feeling less lively by the moment – he stopped me with a smile. ‘I hope I do not overstep my bounds by mentioning it but, Miss Barnum, I cannot stop thinking about you! I saw the way you watched my children the other day and you must know they are the most important thing in my life. They need a mama who can tend to them and mind their education and their manners. And I need a woman …’ He was a handsome and sophisticated man so there was something especially endearing about the fact that the tips of his ears turned red. ‘I need a woman who is my intellectual equal. One with whom I can discuss art and politics and religion. Though I hardly know you well, I would like to find out if you are that woman. Miss Barnum …’ He sat up very straight and pulled back his shoulders. ‘Evangeline, I wondered if perhaps you might give me permission to call upon you.’