Everyone but me.
Even as the crowd oohed and ahhed with delight and unbridled admiration and moved back into the parlor for a better look at the astonishing painting, I headed in the other direction, excusing myself around those avid art fanciers who were eager to get closer to the picture. The wound in my side reminded me that taking the stairs two at a time was not wise, but I paid it no mind. When I got to the second floor, Walker was nowhere to be seen, but I heard a door close to my right. I strode down the hallway and, without a word, stepped into the room just in time to see Walker, who had been facing the room’s only window, spin toward the sound of his unexpected guest.
‘Hello, Clarice.’
FOURTEEN
The great artist did not say a word, simply walked past me and locked the door I’d just come in, then turned to me.
‘How did you know?’ Clarice asked.
‘I didn’t. Not until I came here tonight and saw you.’
‘Then you think anyone might—’
‘No,’ I assured her and she let go a breath of relief. ‘It was something Damien said. Renaissance man and miss. He recited his new poem to me when I went to find you in Chelsea. And then there’s the muffler around your face, of course. You see, I’ve used the same ruse myself just recently.’
Clarice unwound the scarf to reveal a smile. ‘Then it seems I am not the only one putting on a false face to the world.’
If only she knew!
I shook off the thought. I had more important things to worry about than the face I showed the world. For one, I could not afford to be taken in by the friendship offered in Clarice’s smile and forget that it might very well hide the heart of a killer.
The thought firmly in mind, I strolled to the windows overlooking the street. It was dark now, and here and there along the avenue lights flickered from the windows of townhouses and shops. A horse and carriage clattered by, a couple strolled arm in arm. ‘My disguise was in aid of looking into Andrew’s murder,’ I said, then glanced at her over my shoulder. ‘Yours …’
Clarice pulled the black hat from her head and tossed it on a nearby chair. She shrugged out of William Kobieta Walker’s cape and cast that aside as well, then peeled off her leather gloves.
‘I have been told I have good hands,’ she said, examining them in the light of the lamp that burned on the table beside her. ‘Do you know what that means, Evie? When an artist is told he … she … has good hands, it is meant to be a compliment. It means you have talent. That you have an eye for your work and the skill and the gift to bring it to life on the canvas.’
‘It’s true. I saw your portrait of the man in your studio. You have a remarkable talent, indeed.’
‘Portraits. Yes. Women are meant to paint portraits.’
I am no artist and have little knowledge of their world, and Clarice knew it. That would explain why, when she went on, sarcasm soured her voice. ‘It is common knowledge among artists. The accepted wisdom. Women may paint, but they are meant to confine their talents to portraits.’
‘Because?’
Her shrug told me she was as baffled as I. ‘Because that’s the way it’s always been. Because it is what is accepted. Because going out into the fields and onto the farms and to horse fairs … well, that is simply something a woman shouldn’t do. No more than she should paint what she sees in front of her, no matter how begrimed or pitiable or sweaty or real it might be. Heavens! Doing something like that would be as scandalous as a woman working at a museum, don’t you think?’
‘The prejudice against me isn’t nearly as tangible.’
‘Only because you have your brother to shield you from it. No one would dare criticize what you do, not at the risk of offending the great P.T. Barnum! Those of us who do not have so strong a person to stand against any who might criticize us need to find other means to express ourselves.’
‘And so the creation of William Kobieta Walker.’
Clarice’s grin was wicked, and if she noticed that I did not smile in return, that I stood there, my back rigid and my head high, ready to challenge her and eager for the truth, she didn’t show it. In fact, she laughed.
‘It was a brilliant plan, don’t you think?’ she asked. ‘The moment I first caught wind of the sorts of paintings some of the young artists are doing in France, I knew I had found my true passion. You see, Evie, they do not sit in the studio and draw flowers and vases and fruit, dead things on a table. They do not recreate classic vistas or – heaven forbid! – religious scenes. They take their easels and their canvases out into the air, they paint what is real and alive and vigorous.’
‘Walker certainly does. His … your … paintings are marvelous.’
‘And they would never sell, not if word got out that they were painted by a woman. Do you know, I am a member of the National Academy, my fellow artists allow that. But while the men may take classes in life drawing using live models right there in front of them, women cannot gain admittance. My goodness, if they knew I was not only painting from life but painting farm animals, bulls! There would be nothing but scandal, and my work would surely be dismissed. Packed away. Ignored. Or worse, destroyed.’
‘I’m sorry.’ It was all I could say. ‘Perhaps it will all change some day. Women will paint what they desire to paint.’
‘Women will work in museums. And perhaps even investigate murders.’ Her grin melted. ‘For now, I suspect that if he knew, even your brother would find your penchant for mystery shocking.’
‘He does know,’ I told her and I steeled myself for what I knew I must ask her. ‘He is not shocked, but he is concerned. You see—’
There was a knock on the door. ‘Mr Walker,’ a voice called. ‘If I might have a word.’
Clarice and I exchanged looks. While she grabbed her hat and cloak and the scarf that had provided me with a clue to the artist’s real identity, I went to the door. I unlocked it and opened it but a hair’s breadth to look out into the hallway.
When the man who stood outside stepped back in surprise at seeing me, I took the opportunity to slip into the hallway and close the door behind me.
‘May I be of assistance?’ I asked him.
He looked at the closed door uncertainly. ‘I thought … that is, I imagined Mr Walker would be … what I mean is, I thought him to be alone.’
‘We are old friends,’ I assured him. ‘And I stopped by to offer him my congratulations on his newest work. It is remarkable, don’t you think?’
‘Yes. Quite.’ The man had hair peppered with gray and a rheumy left eye that caused him to look at me with his head tilted at an angle that made his jowls sag and sway. ‘I had thought to speak with him about the painting.’
‘He will be delighted to hear it. You are interested in purchasing it?’
I doubt the man expected me to be so candid. He tilted his head in the other direction and when he was forced to squint, cocked his head again to the left. ‘And you are …’
‘As I told you. A long-time friend of Mr Walker’s, and a sort of broker for his work. The painting downstairs …’ I pretended to consider it. ‘I do believe if you were willing to pay him five thousand dollars—’
‘Five thousand!’ His hand flew to his heart. ‘That is a life’s fortune.’
‘And worth every penny, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Well, yes. Of course. But—’
‘Thank you for asking about the painting.’ I stepped back toward the door, a signal to him that our conversation had ended. ‘You should know we’ve had any number of other inquiries. If you don’t decide quickly, I’m afraid the painting will be sold to someone else very soon. Good evening, sir.’
‘Good … good evening,’ he said, and went back downstairs.
‘Oh, that was delicious!’ Clarice greeted me at the door, her face wreathed in a smile, the hat and cloak back on in case I allowed the man from the hallway into the room. ‘Thank you for not giving away my secret.’
‘I had no intention of doing that,’ I told her.
‘And for naming that asking price!’ She clapped her hands together. ‘If I could earn as much as that for a Walker painting I would be a happy woman, indeed.’
‘And I would be just as happy. But first …’ When I pulled in a breath, I was reminded of the wound in my side and the real reason for my visit. ‘I need the truth, Clarice. About Andrew.’
‘I told you—’
‘You told me he wanted to marry you and you were not interested. But I have learned otherwise. When you left him at Delmonico’s, you were angry at Andrew.’
She clutched her hands at her waist and stood a little too straight, a little too still. ‘That may be true, but—’
‘And are you so desperate to hide your guilt that you tried to kill me, too?’
Her mouth fell open. ‘No. Evie, you can’t possibly think—’
‘I know I’ve been attacked, and I know the last attempt on my life left me with a vital clue, the scent of roses and lavender. Your scent, Clarice.’
She threw her hands in the air and let them slap back down against the black unmentionables that were part of her Walker disguise. ‘A lot of women’s scent! Oh, please, Evie, you can’t possibly think I would do a thing like that. We are friends.’
‘I would like to think so. I don’t want to think you’d wish me harm, but I must. I was attacked on Sunday and my attacker …’ Tears clogged my voice. ‘My attacker killed a friend who did his best to protect me. I will not stand by and not see justice done for him, just as I will not stop looking into the matter of Andrew’s death. You were angry with him at Delmonico’s and still angry when you returned home.’
She thought about this for a moment. ‘Damien. He told you.’
‘Yes. Now you must tell me the truth.’
‘The truth is …’ She took off the scarf and tossed it away. ‘Yes, I was angry at Andrew. But more angry at myself. You see, all this time I’ve lived the Bohemian life and preached its dogma. We are young! We are free to do what we like and love whoever we want, whenever we want. I am an artist, after all.’ The tremor in her voice told me she had to convince not just me but herself. She breathed in deep and let the breath out slowly.
‘Then I met Andrew. And I fell in love with him, Evie. Yes, I know. It sounds so plebeian, so ordinary. And, oh, how I try not to be ordinary! I had a picture in my mind of quite the happy family. Andrew working at the newspaper and me at home, painting when I could, spending time with the children I prayed we would have. When we met that evening at Delmonico’s and Andrew told me he could no longer see me, I should have been happy. That was what I wanted, wasn’t it? To be free. Unencumbered. And yet …’ There was a chair nearby and she sank into it.
‘I had to be angry,’ she said. ‘It was all I could do not to reveal that he’d broken my heart.’
‘Were you angry enough to kill him?’
She looked up at me. ‘Yes. But I didn’t. I could not have. I couldn’t tell you before, not without revealing the secret you have so skillfully uncovered tonight. But ask anyone here, Evie. They will surely tell you. The night Andrew was killed, there was a salon here at Marie’s, and William Kobieta Walker was very much in attendance.’
William Kobieta Walker and I left Marie Gradeau’s by the kitchen door, which was his habit, or so I was told once Clarice and I were settled in my carriage.
She waited until we were far from Eighth Street to remove her muffler and hat. ‘He is terribly secretive.’
‘That is, no doubt, one of the reasons his paintings are so popular. The more mysterious a thing, the more likely it is that people will pay money for it. I’ve learned that much in the time I’ve worked with my brother.’
We went to Chelsea and, once Clarice was changed out of her disguise, we drove to Castle Garden for a late supper. It was a fine night and we ate outside amid the flickering candles and the climbing vines that grew on trellises around each table and offered guests a bit of privacy.
Clarice finished the last of her oyster pie and smiled. ‘Are you satisfied now that I am not a murderer?’
‘I would certainly like to believe you are not, but have no doubt, I will return to Marie Gradeau’s and ask about William Walker’s presence there on the night of Andrew’s death.’
She threw back her head and laughed loud enough for the people around us to stop what they were doing and look our way, including the pinch-faced man who’d been at the museum that morning. I only hoped my brother was paying him enough to cover the cost of his dinner. ‘You are the most determined woman I know, Evie. The most determined person.’
I sipped my mint julep. ‘Whatever I am doing, I am doing it for Andrew. You see, I feel I owe it to him.’ I collected my thoughts. ‘Did Andrew ever say anything to you about Madeline?’
‘His sister? He told me he held her dear. He said that since the deaths of their parents he was responsible for her well-being, and he certainly thought that included making sure she married well.’
‘But he never told you she was here in New York?’
Her head tilted to one side, Clarice sat back and considered my question. ‘Is she? I wonder he never mentioned it. You would think he would have introduced us.’
‘So he never said he was looking for her? That he was concerned about her?’
‘Are you telling me she was here in the city and he didn’t know where? That seems unlikely. They were very close.’
I schooled my voice so as not to betray my emotions. ‘She was here with a man.’
A tiny smile played along Clarice’s lips. ‘Good for her!’
‘No, it wasn’t good for her, Clarice.’ I did not mean to snap at her, but at least when I did, Clarice stopped grinning. I pulled in a steadying breath. ‘His name is James Crockett and they were seen leaving Bethel together. James … Mr Crockett, has been known to seduce, and then abandon, women.’
‘And you think Madeline—’
‘I am sure of it. And so was Andrew. It is the reason he came to see me that day. To ask for my help. I think he wanted me to talk to Madeline, to talk some sense into her.’
‘Then you know this James Crockett, too.’
I did not answer. I did not need to. We exchanged looks, and Clarice knew full well that I was speaking from experience.
She touched her napkin to her lips. ‘Do you believe Andrew may have been killed by this James Crockett?’
Honestly, in all the time I’d considered the mystery, in all the ways I’d worked through how it might make sense and what it all might mean, that was one event I had not even imagined.
‘James … he … He is a good many things,’ I said and, try as I might, I could not keep myself from stumbling over the words. ‘But … I … I cannot think him a murderer.’
‘Yet if Andrew resented Madeline’s relationship with this man—’
I interrupted her with a curt shake of my head. ‘By the time Andrew knew enough to close in on them, James had already thrown Madeline over.’
Clarice folded her hands on the table in front of her. ‘Andrew was an honorable man.’
‘And you think—’
‘That if he thought his sister had been done wrong – and according to what you tell me, she had been – Andrew might have confronted this James Crockett. There may have been ugly words exchanged and accusations. There could have been a fight.’
I thought back to the nearly pristine scene I’d found in front of the Feejee Mermaid that terrible night. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Or you don’t want to think so.’ Clarice did not give me a chance to speak. She knew I would dispute the theory. She knew – somehow, she knew – that she could present me with the evidence and I would still not see the truth. But then, I had always been blind when it came to James.
She went right on: ‘What you’re telling me, though, is that you believe Andrew’s search for Madeline might have had something to do with—’ Clarice’s word caught on a gurgle of emotion and her eyes suddenly shone with tears. ‘You don’
t think … It cannot be …’ She took a handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed her eyes. ‘Oh, Evie, I’m afraid I made a terrible mistake.’
‘In regards to?’
‘To Andrew, of course. Poor, dear Andrew. That last night we met at Delmonico’s …’ Her voice clogged and she took a minute to school it. ‘The last time we were together, Andrew said he had something very important to do and it meant that he could not see me. As I told you, Evie, I got angry. I’m afraid I often act before I think, and that is exactly what I did that night. I assumed he was looking for a way to be done with our relationship. I thought he no longer cared. And now …’
‘He may have just been trying to tell you that with his worries about Madeline—’
‘He could not see me for a while.’ She hung her head. ‘I didn’t give him the chance to explain. I erupted like Etna and never gave him a chance to speak. Oh, Evie, he died thinking me angry at him and I never had a chance …’ Overcome, she hung her head.
‘No doubt Andrew thought there would be time to speak to you again, to explain.’
‘But there isn’t.’ She lifted her head, and the tears streaking her cheeks glistened in the candle glow. ‘There wasn’t. If only he’d told me—’
‘He would have. I’m certain of it. He would most certainly have told you, just as he tried to tell me. I’m afraid we both let him down.’
She pulled in a stuttering breath. ‘Then we both must surely do something to remedy the problem. Do you suppose Madeline’s disappearance has something to do with Andrew’s death?’
‘I don’t know for certain. I wish I did. If we could find Madeline perhaps we might learn the full truth.’
‘You needn’t tell me, I know you’ve looked. You are nothing if not thorough.’
‘I have asked where I might. It has done me little good.’
Clarice wiped her eyes one last time and tucked away her handkerchief. ‘Madeline has not returned home to Bethel?’
‘I don’t think she would. I don’t think she can. The people of Bethel know she came to New York with a man who was not her husband.’
Smoke and Mirrors Page 17