“That is correct,” Evangeline assented mildly.
Delphine continued. “But when you consort with... with...” She searched her memory for the English equivalent of “canaille” and spat out, “this riff-raff! Mon Dieu, what will people say? On doit penser à la réputation!”
Freddie understood very little French but he understood the last word. “Delphine, if she cared at all about her reputation, she never would have started wearing those God-help-us bloomers when she rode her bicycle in Lincoln Park last fall.”
“That’s enough from both of you!” Evangeline settled the matter. “Delphine, if I need anything more, I’ll ring. You may go.”
The housekeeper nodded and, casting one more daggered look at Freddie, retired.
“As for you!” Evangeline turned her attention to her visitor while she dispensed refreshments. “You will peacefully drink your tea and refrain from mentioning bloomers for the balance of this conversation.”
“My word as a gentleman.” Freddie wolfed down a cucumber sandwich as if it had been a gumdrop.
Evangeline settled herself and resumed more pleasantly. “Now, we were speaking of murder.”
That was all the encouragement Freddie needed to regale his attentive companion with the events of the morning.
After he had finished his narration, Evangeline reproached him. “But you misled me. It’s not a murder after all, is it?”
“Ye gods, Engie! What else could it be? Do you seriously believe it was an accident?”
“It isn’t beyond the realm of possibility.”
“Maybe not, but it certainly pushes the boundaries of probability. Besides, I saw something suspicious when I was interviewing people this morning.”
“What was that?” The lady poured him another cup of tea and helped herself to a biscuit.
“There was a fellow skulking about.”
“I should think any crime scene would draw its share of skulkers.”
“Idlers, curiosity-seekers, maybe, but this was different. This fellow had a purpose.”
“What do you mean?” Evangeline sounded intrigued.
“He seemed to be working the crowd. I watched while he paced back and forth along the police line, listening to everything that was said. I saw him examine the broken railing very carefully. I saw him look at the dead girl’s face as if he wanted to memorize every feature.”
“Maybe he worked at the factory and knew her.” Evangeline inspected the remaining sandwiches on the tray for anything interesting.
“That’s just it!” Freddie exclaimed triumphantly. “He didn’t. I checked with the night watchman. This fellow was a vagrant. The police drove him away. Mark my words, he’s the murderer!”
“Well, well. Are you saying that you’re about to launch a new murder investigation, Mr. Simpson?”
“With your help, if you’re interested,” he offered hopefully.
The lady demurred. “Under other circumstances, the idea might be appealing, but right now Mast House is taking all my attention.” Evangeline referred to the settlement house in Chicago where she taught English classes to the immigrants who lived in the area. The settlement was also a focal point for the city’s charities.
“Oh, I thought maybe...” Freddie trailed off in a small, disappointed voice.
Evangeline regarded her visitor gravely for a few moments before speaking. “Have you forgotten why Mast House so urgently needs my help now? Not six months since, I sat in this very parlor and declaimed the waste and expense of the World’s Fair. I said the money might have been better spent on wage increases.” She sighed heavily. “I was more right than I knew. The Fair created an artificial boom for the city last year. The rest of the nation was in a depression but not Chicago. Jobs were plentiful...” she paused, “until the Fair closed and winter came.”
Freddie looked down at the floor, unable to meet her gaze.
“I’m sure you remember last winter. It was the winter when jobless men were sleeping in police lock-ups just to stay warm. When the soup kitchens ran out of supplies to feed the hungry and all the temporary lodging the Central Relief Association could find was filled to capacity. It was the winter when all of us at Mast House, once again, were charged with the task of cleaning up the mess that the captains of industry created. Despite our best efforts, the mess remains.”
A pall settled over the room. Freddie felt duly chastened for his thoughtlessness. He was about to excuse himself and slink away but Evangeline seemed to read his thoughts and take pity on him.
“Cheer up, my lad,” she said softly. “For what it’s worth, I may be able to give you a good start on your investigation. I know the family.”
“Family? What family?” Freddie brightened.
“You said the Hyperion Electroplate Company, did you not? The one on North Avenue by the river.”
“The very same. What’s that got to do with it?”
“I know the family. The company is owned by the Allworthy family.”
“Oh, that family! How do you know them?”
“They own a brownstone in the city on Schiller and Dearborn, a few blocks away from mine on Astor. We travel in the same social circles, attend the same functions, that sort of thing. And here’s another surprise—”
“Wait just a minute.” Freddie reached into his coat pocket for his notebook. “Do you mind if I take notes on this?”
“Note away.” Evangeline smiled at a secret joke. “You know, the one affectation you’ve adopted since trading a career as a failed junior lawyer for that of a journalist is that you always carry that silly notebook wherever you go. I expect your pajamas must have a pocket to accommodate it.”
Freddie glowered at her by way of reply.
Unfazed by the silent rebuke, she laughed. “Are you ready now?”
“Go ahead. You were saying there was another surprise.”
“Yes, quite. The Allworthy family is building a country villa here in Shore Cliff.”
“Really, where?” Freddie knew the area and couldn’t recall any new construction.
“I’m surprised you didn’t see it. But then again, you have been skulking in the city of late. You should take a walk down Aurora Avenue some time.”
Evangeline was alluding to the prestigious street that fronted Lake Michigan and commanded a spectacular view of the lake from the bluff for which the village was named. Many a well-to-do resident of Chicago had paid a premium for land to build a summer palace that would afford a sunrise from that vantage point.
“They’re building a block off of Center Street. The lot must have cost a fortune. Construction began last month. It promises to be another rococo horror with far too much Italian marble for my taste.”
“When will it be finished?”
“By the middle of the summer.”
“Hmmm, that’s interesting.” Freddie scratched out some more notes and helped himself to a third cup of tea. “What else do you know about them?”
Evangeline looked off toward the windows, searching her memory for relevant facts. “Well, the factory technically belongs to the wife, Euphemia Allworthy née Dalrymple. She controls the family fortune. I believe it was a condition of their marriage contract, but she allows Martin, that’s the husband, to manage their holdings.”
“Didn’t he have any money of his own?”
“Apparently not. He came from a blue-blooded family out east whose wealth no longer matched its social pretensions. As far as I can tell, his only distinguishing characteristics are a good pedigree and a spotless reputation.”
“There’s that word again.” Freddie laughed, recalling their earlier conversation with Delphine.
“Yes, and knowing how little I care about other people’s opinions of mine, you can imagine how little I sympathize with Martin Allworthy’s sense of values.”
“He’s like Caesar’s wife?”
“Quite so. Above reproach and, therefore, far beneath my notice.”
“The night watchman said Al
lworthy left the factory before I got there, so I never saw him. What does he look like?”
“Well, he’s in his late forties, with blond hair and a goatee, though both are going gray so it’s hard to tell what color they are anymore. Blue eyes. He’s developing a bit of a paunch which seems to be de rigueur for a captain of industry these days. His temperament is relatively self-effacing.”
“What about the wife?”
“She’s a bit older. Probably around fifty. A tall woman of formidable weight and temperament. Her hair has already decided its color—steel gray.” Evangeline considered a moment. “On the whole, I rather like her.”
“Really?” Freddie looked up from his notes. “She sounds like an absolute terror.”
“But she stands for something.”
Freddie stared at her blankly until she elaborated.
“Euphemia knows who she is, and if it ever came down to a choice of doing what was right or what other people thought was appropriate, she would do what was right.”
“And?” Freddie prompted.
“And I’m sorry I can’t say the same for her husband.”
Freddie pondered her comment as he watched her rise and walk to the writing desk at the opposite end of the parlor.
“And then there’s this.” Returning to her chair, Evangeline held out a card for Freddie to read.
“On May 12th, the honor of your presence is requested—”
Evangeline cut him short. “It’s an invitation to a dinner party at their house in the city a few weeks from now. Would you like to escort me?”
“Would I!” the young man exclaimed eagerly.
“Yes, I thought you might.” Evangeline rang for Delphine to clear the tea things as she walked Freddie to the door. The one at the front of the house. The one that Delphine double-bolted immediately after his departure.
Chapter 3—A Respectable Trade
Martin Allworthy glanced nervously at the clock on the breakfast room wall. 7:42 a.m. His coddled eggs and toast should have arrived at 7:41 precisely. He prided himself on punctuality. Euphemia had gone to Shore Cliff early that morning to oversee the construction of the country villa, but as soon as she returned, he most assuredly would speak to her about the kitchen staff. The servants had never shown him the proper respect. They never came to attention when he entered a room the way they did for Euphemia. And now, his breakfast delayed the minute she left the house. It was a deliberate attempt to flout his authority. Of that he was convinced. A deliberate attempt. He would certainly speak to her about it. At the first opportunity.
Martin’s plans for retribution were interrupted when the butler, Garrison, entered at 7:43 AM carrying his breakfast tray. After glaring at the butler and looking significantly at the clock on the wall, Martin grudgingly took the napkin from the proffered tray and folded it precisely into a triangle before placing it on his lap. He then took the morning copy of the Gazette which Garrison handed him. He folded the paper in half and then again in quarters and began to read.
His breakfast proceeded without incident until he reached page three. Martin abruptly stopped chewing his toast when he came to an article entitled “TERRIBLE TRAGEDY AT NORTHSIDE FACTORY.” Yes, it had been a tragedy. How could something like this have happened—at his company of all places? He had worked night and day to build the reputation of the business, though Euphemia never gave him credit for even half of what he’d done. And now this! He anxiously scanned the two-column story, then breathed a sigh of relief. At least the coroner had found the cause of death to be accidental drowning. He could scarcely bear to contemplate the scandal if the police had believed Nora’s death had been murder. Good Lord, the lurid publicity—the infamous notoriety that would attach to his business, to his reputation. It was too painful to even consider. But, thankfully, the crisis had passed and things could return to normal.
Just at that moment, the door opened and Garrison entered again. This was quite irregular. “Yes?” Martin asked pointedly.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your breakfast, sir, but there’s a... ahem... a gentleman who wishes to speak to you.”
“Now?” Martin was appalled at the thought. “It’s not even eight o’clock in the morning. Tell him to meet me at the factory during normal business hours.”
Garrison lowered his head apologetically. “I did just that, sir. The... ahem... gentleman wished me to convey a message to you. He said the matter is of the utmost importance and it can’t wait.”
“Well, who is he?” Martin demanded.
“He did not offer me his name, sir. He merely said his business was with you, and there would be serious consequences if you refused to speak to him.”
“Well, this is going to cause me to be late for work!”
“Yes, sir,” Garrison agreed in a mild tone, clearly insensitive to the enormity of the offense.
Realizing that he had no alternative but to see the fellow, Martin conceded. “Show him in, if you must.”
“At once, sir.” Garrison bowed out the door only to return a few moments later. “The... ahem... gentleman wishes me to announce him.” Garrison stepped aside to let the visitor enter. “Mr. Desmond Bayne to see you, sir.” The butler discreetly closed the breakfast room door behind him and retired out of earshot.
Martin had gulped down the remainder of his breakfast and coffee in the interval. He made no move to rise and greet his visitor. He merely sat and stared at him across the table.
Bayne spoke first. “Now that’s what I call a proper introduction! Sure and it was the prettiest thing I ever heard.”
“You’re... you’re... Irish!” Martin stammered out the nationality with the same inflection he might have reserved to pronounce the word “leper.”
Bayne raised an amused eyebrow. “Faith, Mr. Allworthy. You’ll not be telling me you’ve never encountered a son of Erin before? All the Irish and Germans and Poles living in this great city today outnumber them that’s left in Dublin and Berlin and Warsaw taken together!”
Martin made no reply. Instead, to his horror, he had fixated on the liberal amount of dirt under Bayne’s fingernails. He proceeded to scrutinize the stained waistcoat and tie, and the even more stained yellow teeth. He became vaguely aware of the odor of alcohol among several other even more offensive odors permeating the air in the room ever since Bayne had entered it.
“You’ll not be minding if I take a seat, will you now, Mr. Allworthy?”
Martin’s horror reached its apex at the thought of Bayne’s filthy overcoat coming into contact with the brocade upholstery of his breakfast room chairs. “I... uh...” He tried to stammer an objection but Bayne, in one quick motion, pulled a chair away from the table, swept the tails of his coat out of the way and sat.
“Ah, that’s better now. It seems I’ve been standing on me feet for days. I’m much obliged to you, sir, for the respite.”
“Please state your business, Mr. Bayne.” Martin kept his voice cold.
Bayne took off his hat to reveal greasy black locks in need of a trim and scratched his head, as if in a quandary about how to begin. “Well, to put it plainly, sir, I’ve come to discuss the murder of the late Miss Nora Johnson.”
“Murder!” Martin exhaled the word in shock. “Who said it was a murder? I hold in my hand a copy of a newspaper article that clearly calls her death an unfortunate accident!” He shook the Gazette in front of the Irishman’s face for emphasis.
Unflustered by Martin’s reaction, Bayne took the paper and examined it briefly. “Well, well. Does it now. Surely, Mr. Allworthy, you’re not such a babe in the woods that you’d believe everything you read in the newspapers.” He handed the paper back. Martin placed it next to his breakfast plate, his hand trembling slightly in the process.
Bayne continued speaking, more to himself than to his host. “Accident they’re calling it? Murder is what I call it. I saw the place where it happened with me own eyes. Went there after the police dragged little Miss Nora, God rest her soul, out of the river
. Saw the guard rail broken clean in half, it was. Snapped like a twig. And I’ve been asking meself ever since, ‘Desmond,’ I says, ‘Desmond, why would a wee thing like that run full-tilt against a wood rail?’ Who knows if the poor girl had enough strength to break it at all, even if she tried. That is, unless she had a bit o’ help.”
“Well, that’s something no one will ever know for sure, is it.” Martin bridled at the implication. “Sheer speculation on your part!”
“Ah, but there’s more.” Bayne paused for effect.
Martin raised an eyebrow and waited.
The visitor leaned in closer to Martin’s chair and put a finger to his lips as a sign for secrecy. “I saw it happen,” he whispered.
Martin felt himself blanch at these words. “You, you what?” he whispered back, nearly deprived of the power of speech.
“Aye, that I did. Saw it all from a corner of your loading dock. Saw the wee thing go into the river and a man standing over her all the while. Heard her, too. I did. I can still hear her piteous little voice crying out clear as a bell.” In an exaggerated falsetto, he mimicked, “’Help me! Why won’t you help me? You know I can’t swim!’”
Martin felt his forehead break out in a cold sweat. He began to dab at his face with the triangulated napkin. “This is unbelievable!” he gasped. “How could this have happened?”
“Is it now, Mr. Allworthy? Is it so unbelievable as all that? I’m wondering why, seeing as how you were there all the while. You were the one who shoved her in!”
Martin jumped up at the accusation, his chair falling backward. He hastily righted it and began to pace around the room. “Are you mad? What are you suggesting?”
“Oh, I didn’t see a face clear that night, but I’m guessing it was you all the same. Aren’t you asking yourself how I come to know that fact? How I come to be here with you at all?”
Martin, still pacing, spat back, “That’s easy! You could have asked anyone the name of the man who owned the factory. You could have asked anyone where I lived.”
Shrouded In Thought (Gilded Age Mysteries Book 2) Page 3