Almost a Lady

by Heidi Betts

  She only prayed that—before she did lose her job—she would be able to save enough to buy a nice little house somewhere and bring Erik to live with her. It had always been her most fervent dream and her primary goal. Lord, but she missed that boy.

  Once again, her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of wheels and hooves on cobblestone, this time from the other end of the wharf. The carriage stopped too far away for them to make out details. But strangely it did not appear to come to a rest near any prostitutes that she noticed.

  Brandt, too, appeared to find this odd. His hand clamped over her arm and dragged her back against the shadowed wall of a dark, empty warehouse. From there, he led her closer to the coach, putting a finger to his lips and gesturing for her to be silent.

  They sneaked along the connected buildings, listening for any sound, watching for any movement. As they got close enough to see more clearly, the driver climbed down from his perch and opened the door. But rather than someone stepping out, he leaned inside and pulled out a large, bulky sack. He tossed the heavy parcel over his shoulder and turned so that Willow and Brandt could see his face.

  Willow gasped, and then threw a hand over her mouth to smother the sound. Brandt's grip tightened about her wrist and Willow knew he was thinking the same thing: Outram Kyne. Virgil Chatham's tall, bald valet, at the docks, apparently . . . dumping something.

  She remained perfectly still, waiting for the man's next move. While they watched, he carried his burden down one of the landing docks and laid it gently on the ground. He untied the ropes at each end and rolled the contents until the brown burlap came loose.

  "Oh, my God!” This time Willow didn't bother stifling her cry of alarm, but the sound was still too low to carry.

  A woman's body toppled onto the splintered wood of the pier. Outram began arranging the pale, lifeless form, folding her arms and adding a single white rose between her clasped hands.

  As he started to bundle up the coarse cloth and ropes, Brandt stormed forward, raising his arms to signal the numerous Pinkerton agents stationed in various spots along the wharf. “Hold it!” he called out, making his way to where Outram stood.

  Willow hurried behind Brandt, already reaching beneath her skirt for the derringer hidden in her garter. She wasn't sure whether Brandt carried a weapon or not, but she didn't intend to be caught defenseless in the company of this obviously unstable creature.

  The valet straightened, stunned at being caught near the body of a dead woman. His eyes darted from side to side, looking for an escape. But Brandt was already there, tackling him and throwing his imposing frame to the ground.

  Outram fought, kicking, hitting, and scratching. But Willow kept the barrel of her gun trained on him, and Brandt did his best to keep the man down. Then they were surrounded by running, shouting Pinkertons, all coming to aid in Brandt's fight.

  Two men lifted Kyne; another helped Brandt to his feet. And they all stared at the young, dark-haired girl lying still on the dock.

  Willow returned the pistol to her garter and moved toward Brandt. His wig was askew, the blond strands covering one eye. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath within the tight confines of the corset, and she noticed that one side of the lacy material was flat where his sock breast had fallen out during the struggle.

  He stretched a hand out to her and she grasped it. In one motion, he pulled her against him, burying his lips in her hair. She wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed tight while she rested her head on his shoulder.

  Several of the agents led the servant away. Others remained with the body, covering her with the discarded sheet of burlap.

  Willow couldn't pull her eyes from the body lying immobile not three feet away. Her heart squeezed in sadness, for who she was and who she could have been. She looked to be no older than Willow's age, petite, pretty, probably vibrant and lovely at one time, with her whole life ahead of her.

  And now . . . she was dead.

  Willow wondered when this girl had been killed, and her stomach gave a violent lurch at the thought that she and Brandt might have been able to prevent it. They might have saved her.

  With his free hand, Brandt dragged the now straggling wig off his head. “Let's go change. We'll meet Robert at the police station and see what we can learn when they question the suspect."

  "We're going to have a bit of trouble getting a confession out of him,” Robert told them as he closed the door of a private interrogation room behind him.

  "Why?” Brandt asked. He was back in his own clothes, a pair of buff-colored trousers and a plain white shirt, the cuffs rolled to just below his elbows. Willow was still wearing her outfit from the dock, simply because it had been easier than undressing and then dressing again. And unlike Brandt, she didn't mind if people saw her in rather ratty old feminine clothes. But she'd covered her bare arms with a long-sleeved shirtwaist and lowered the hem of her skirt so that her legs were no longer visible.

  "It turns out the man has no tongue."

  Willow's eyes widened as she looked at Robert. That would explain why they'd never seen or heard him speak to anyone, not even his master. Nor had he uttered a cry of outrage while being captured, which Willow had found odd.

  "We did bring in Mr. Chatham to get his statement. He's visibly shaken and claims not to know anything about his employee's activities."

  "Do you believe him?” Brandt wanted to know.

  "We have no reason not to,” Robert said, though he sounded less than enthusiastic about it. “Chatham also claims to have alibis for the nights of each woman's death, though it will take some time to verify them."

  Robert turned to Willow. “What do you think?"

  She didn't know what to think. She'd been so sure Virgil Chatham was the murderer, and now she was being told the man was innocent. Whether it was doubt or simply the fact that she hated being wrong, a chill swept over her skin at the idea.

  "I'd like to know why Outram Kyne killed all those women. And what his connection is to Gideon.” She shot Brandt a meaningful glance, knowing that Charlie's note and all their research had not been misleading. It meant something.

  Robert, who was up-to-date on even the most minor detail of the case by now, said, “Perhaps the valet picked up on his employer's fascination with the Bible. Kyne has been with Chatham for several years now; perhaps he felt he was doing his master's bidding. We won't know until we talk to Chatham a bit more and somehow get a few answers from Kyne himself, but I'd guess that's the direction in which the police will be leaning."

  "And what about Charlie?” Willow persisted. “If Outram killed him, why? And if he didn't, who did?"

  Robert shifted his weight to another foot but held her gaze. “You said it yourself, Willow. Charlie figured out what was going on, got too close to discovering that Yvonne Xavier's killer had also murdered all of those women on the wharves. Kyne probably got scared and killed Charlie to protect himself. I don't think it's any more complicated than that."

  Willow chewed the inside of her lip. She still had her doubts, still felt a niggling suspicion that all was not quite as simple as Robert and the police liked to think. But there was nothing she could do about it now, not with Kyne in custody and Chatham being questioned—and most likely released.

  "I guess we should just be grateful there won't be any more killings,” she said softly. Even if she wasn't completely satisfied with the guilt of their prisoner—or the innocence of his employer.

  "As far as the police are concerned,” Robert put in, “they have their killer. Virgil Chatham will be sent home as soon as they're confident he's told them all he can about Outram Kyne."

  That should have made her happy. It didn't. But she sighed, gave a cursory lift of her shoulders, and turned to walk away. “At least it's over,” she said to no one in particular.

  "Is this yours, or was it here when we arrived?"

  Willow looked up to see Brandt holding a leather-bound book. She didn't recognize the volume. “It
must have been here when we arrived."

  They were in the process of packing to leave the Xavier house, now that their investigation was officially over. It made her a little sad and she wasn't sure why. Possibly because she still had a nagging feeling that all was not right with the Outram Kyne situation. But more likely—and she was loathe to admit this, even to herself—it was because this was where she and Brandt had begun . . . whatever it was they shared. A relationship? A love affair? A friendship?

  Perhaps a little of each. And she couldn't help but worry that once they left this house, this room—this room that had become their room—whatever it was they shared would all be over.

  Not that she cared, she reminded herself with an intentional straightening of her spine. As she'd told Brandt, she wasn't interested in marriage or anything remotely similar. But she couldn't help hoping that their relationship would continue.

  Only upon occasion, since Brandt would be returning to Boston now that their assignment was finished. But perhaps he would return to New York on business once or twice, and if she was also in town, they could get together. Maybe she would even be sent to Boston for the Agency and could drop in to see him.

  She glanced at Brandt out of the corner of her eye as she folded a lacy lisle chemise. He hadn't said anything about what would happen between them after they moved out of the Xavier household. She wondered if he'd given it any thought, or even cared.

  Right now, he only seemed to care about making all of his belongings fit into his single valise. Willow, on the other hand, needed a trunk and several bags for all the things she'd brought, as well as those Mrs. Xavier had thrust upon her during their stay. She would have to store some of them at the Pinkerton offices, since she couldn't possibly travel with this many parcels.

  Mary Xavier chose that moment to breeze through the open doorway. “Mrs. Hullpepper has some of your laundry downstairs, fresh and clean,” she told Brandt. “You can go down for it, if you like, or I can have it sent up."

  Willow saw him scowl, probably contemplating how he would get anything more stuffed into his small, well-worn carpetbag. Without a word, he moved past Mrs. Xavier and out of the room to retrieve his things.

  "Oh, I can't believe you're leaving so soon,” Mary said sadly. “I've so enjoyed having you."

  "Thank you,” Willow returned with a smile. “We've appreciated your hospitality."

  "It's been our pleasure. And thank you again for all you did to catch that horrible man.” Her voice softened and her eyes misted at the mention of her daughter's killer. Or perhaps simply at the thought of her daughter.

  "Oh, I nearly forgot.” She pulled a slip of paper from the pocket of her dress and held it out to Willow. This came for you not an hour ago."

  Willow took the note and unfolded it, quickly reading the wired telegram. “Oh, no.” She felt all the blood rush out of her head, felt herself sway, felt her heart lurch in panic.

  Grabbing an already packed valise from the floor at her feet, she gathered only a few more articles before heading past Mrs. Xavier for the door.

  "My dear, where are you going?"

  Willow barely registered Mary's concern. Her mind spun in a thousand directions at once as she raced into the hall and down the wide, carpeted stairs. Mrs. Xavier followed close behind, repeating her question, frantically trying to get an answer.

  "I have to go. I have to leave,” Willow mumbled as she threw open the front door and raced down the steps. “My brother needs me."

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  "What do you mean she's gone?” Brandt bellowed. They stood in the foyer, where Brandt, carrying a pile of newly laundered clothes, had come upon Mrs. Xavier staring out the open door after Willow's sudden disappearance.

  The woman wrung her hands, anxiety causing the lines of her face to run deeper than usual. “I don't know what happened. I handed her the telegram she'd received and she read it and ran out of the house."

  Brandt's fingers tightened on the fabric of his starched, folded shirts. “Did she say anything? Did she say why she was leaving, or where she was going?"

  Mary shook her head, eyes frantic. “She only said that she had to leave.” Her brow furrowed in thought. “And I believe she mentioned her brother. I didn't know she had a brother."

  Brandt did, but he thought the young man was missing. How was it that Willow had suddenly found him? Or was it that the telegram had contained some urgent piece of new information about her lost relation?

  He shoved the pile of laundry into Mrs. Xavier's arms and headed out the door. He didn't know what was going on, but he thought he knew who would.

  "You don't think she's in trouble, do you?” Mrs. Xavier called after him.

  He shook his head, but in truth, he wasn't sure. Outram Kyne might have been captured, but the less-than-pristine Virgil Chatham was still out there, and Brandt wasn't taking any chances.

  In record time, he made it through the busy city streets and up the front steps of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency. Without waiting for the secretary to announce him, he burst into Robert's office and speared him with a withering glance.

  A startled Robert sat up straighter in his chair and slowly laid down the pen with which he'd been writing.

  "Where is she?” Brandt charged.

  "Where is who? And who gave you the right to break into my office like this?"

  With his color rising and annoyance clear on his face, Robert rose to his feet to meet Brandt eye-to-eye. They would be nose-to-nose in a minute if Robert didn't start giving him the answers he sought.

  "Willow is missing. She received a wire at the Xaviers’ and has disappeared, and I suspect you know exactly where she is."

  "I don't know what you're talking about,” Robert replied calmly. But Brandt didn't miss the slight shift in his posture.

  Brandt lowered his voice to an intimidating pitch and spoke each word slowly, so as not to be misunderstood. “I'm not a patient man, Robert, especially when it comes to Willow. And I'm afraid that if you don't tell me where she is—within the next ten seconds, mind you—I'll have to put you through that wall.” He nodded his head in the direction of the hardwood panel behind Robert's upright frame.

  He expected Robert to balk, to take exception at being spoken to in such a manner, as he'd taken exception to having his office door kicked in, and Brandt was prepared to deal with that, too. He was prepared to deal with anything if it would only help him find Willow. But instead, Robert's gaze darted to the side, as though trying to decide whether or not to reveal what he knew.

  "She mentioned her brother,” Brandt prompted. “I know he's missing and that she's been looking for him for several years. If anyone knows where he is—and where she's gone—it's you.” A sudden thought entered his head and he blurted it out. “Knowing how much Willow travels for the Agency, I suspect that any information or correspondence would come through this office. Through you,” he added pointedly.

  Robert's cheeks reddened and Brandt knew he'd hit a nerve. “The wire she received . . . You sent it to her at the Xavier home, didn't you?"

  With obvious reluctance, Robert nodded. “It's not exactly as you think,” he began. “Willow does have a brother, but he's not missing. And he's not as old as she lets on. Erik—"

  "Erik? She told me her brother's name was Jeremy."

  "Yes, well, the missing brother story is one she uses often in her work, and it wouldn't do to bandy about his real name, for safety's sake. Erik is only twelve years old. He was born when Willow was already practically grown, and with some problems that make it hard for her to keep him with her."

  "Problems?” Brandt asked, still trying to absorb the fact that she had a brother much younger than he'd believed.

  "Yes. He's slower than other children his age and has certain . . . mental deficiencies. Willow has taken care of him since her parents died several years ago, and although I know she'd much prefer to have him with her, that's just not possible in this line of work. He stays w
ith a pleasant farm family outside Gettysburg, Pennsylvania."

  "Then why did Willow take off so suddenly this afternoon?"

  "A wire arrived here at the office saying that Erik has fallen ill. It must be serious or the Nelsons wouldn't have felt the need to worry Willow. I sent the telegram over as soon as I saw it, and I assume that's where she's headed."

  Brandt leaned forward to slide a blank piece of paper over the desktop toward Robert. “This farm in Pennsylvania. . .” he said in a tone that brooked no arguments. “I'll want directions."

  Willow dipped the square of cloth into the bowl of cool water once again and mopped Erik's brow. His fever was coming down, thank God, and he hadn't emptied his stomach since she'd arrived, even though Mrs. Nelson said he'd been vomiting for days.

  Everyone's biggest fear was that her brother had contracted cholera, since the nearby town had suffered an outbreak only a month before. But now that it didn't seem he was developing any of the more serious symptoms of that disease, and his fever had begun to lower, they were a little more confident that Erik would recover. Even the doctor, who had left less than half an hour earlier, hadn't seemed terribly worried. He'd given them a list of things to watch for and offered to return if he was needed, but had otherwise felt that Erik's fever would break and he would soon be back to his active, everyday self.

  As much as Willow wanted Erik to awaken feeling fit, that prospect was daunting. Her brother, when healthy, was a whir of motion. She didn't know how Mr. and Mrs. Nelson kept up with him, she was only glad they did. They were good to Erik and treated him like one of their own.

  She wiped his brow again and silently promised that she would bring him to live with her as soon as she could. It was the same promise she made each time she left after a short visit. And one of these days, she would keep it.

  Until she was on the train headed here, frightened beyond reason that she might lose him, she hadn't realized how very much she missed her brother, how much she wanted him to live with her. It stiffened her resolve to build her savings and find a place for the both of them to live. Soon.