by Megan Chance
“A pretty thing,” I said softly.
He looked over his shoulder. “A gift I bought her. She wore it at the circles.”
“This? But it’s indecent.”
“You’ve so much to learn. She wore a chemise under it. It was for the men, eh? When they wanted to contact a spirit. It made them more willing to believe.”
“I imagine,” I said dryly.
“For the women, it was different. She pretended to be my wife.”
“Yes. She would need to be respectable for them.”
“I may make a charlatan of you yet.”
I pushed the dressing gown aside and reached in again, bringing out a silver-backed hand mirror, a brush that still held strands of her brown hair. It was a beautiful set, and old. I held the mirror in my hand, fingering the tooled silver. “She meant to come back. No woman leaves something like this.”
He said nothing. The next thing I drew out was a scarf—a beautiful paisley in greens and blues. I set it aside.
There was nothing more. In disappointment, I shoved the bag away. But then I heard something slide within it, and with a frown, I drew it back again and felt all over the bottom, into the pocket that lined the inside. And there in the corner, I felt it. A fine chain gathered in a little pile. I pulled it out.
It was a silver chain, very lovely and delicate, and swinging from it was a locket, a silver oval, delicate as well. I placed it in my palm, letting the chain fall between my fingers.
“A locket.” Carefully, I pried it open. Inside was a lock of hair, very like the lock of Peter’s hair I kept in mine, but this was dark, and it was a little curl, tied with a tiny cream-colored ribbon. On the other side, there was an engraving. I leaned close to read it. To my Addy—It was hard to see. I tilted the locket closer to the lamplight, and when I did, the curl of hair fell out, revealing more writing beneath, the continuation of the sentiment. Your husband, Ben.
I glanced up at Michel, who was watching me closely. “What was her surname?”
“LaFleur, when I met her. After a while, she used mine.”
“Was that her married name?”
“I never asked her. I assumed so.”
I shoved the curl of hair back inside and closed the locket. “Did you meet her husband?”
“Non. I try to avoid duels if I can, chère.”
I looked back down at the necklace.
Benjamin was a common enough name. No doubt there were hundreds of men named Benjamin with dark hair. And LaFleur was… what kind of name was that? It didn’t seem common at all, but neither did it seem quite real. Michel had said she was a medium when he’d met her. Many mediums took assumed names. Perhaps even Michel’s was one. And I knew from my visions that this medium was hiding from her husband. Suddenly my thought that she might have been Peter’s mistress seemed wrong. But Peter had never said anything to me about Benjamin having had a wife. Benjamin himself had never alluded to it. It could not be the same Ben. Of course it was not.
“What is it, Evie?” Michel asked.
I glanced up at him. His face was gaunt in the shadows cast by the lamp.
“Nothing,” I said, curling my hand around the locket. “The necklace is from her husband, that’s all. Odd that she would keep it after she’d run away from him.”
“Women do many odd things,” he said. He motioned to Adele’s things, spread as they were on the bed. “Did you learn what you expected?”
“She didn’t want to leave you. She loved you.”
His expression was veiled. “I’m irresistible, eh? But you knew that already.”
“Yes. I knew that.”
He swept aside the dressing gown, the scarf, the brush set, and crawled across the bed toward me. “So she meant to return and didn’t. Perhaps she changed her mind.”
“Or she couldn’t. You said she was killed.”
“Months after.”
“Was it so long?”
“It was a long time ago. She doesn’t matter to me. She never did.” He kissed my shoulder. “Enough questions. Don’t be jealous, chère. She isn’t here. Don’t let her come between us. Please, Evie. Control her.”
His whisper was lulling, but I knew he had other reasons for wanting me to keep her out. I knew he was afraid. I felt it in the way he clutched me, as if his sheer possession was enough to command me, and I let him believe it. And as my body leaped to his touch, as I twisted beneath him, I felt her just beyond my consciousness, watching. She waited patiently, and she pushed inside. When I reached my release, she took it all, she filled my head, and I knew—though Michel did not—that it was not me with whom he’d just made love, but Adele.
I WOKE JUST before dawn. Michel was asleep beside me, and carefully I lifted his arm from where it curled about my body and moved from beneath it. He made a sound of protest, but he didn’t wake. The carpetbag, Adele’s things, had fallen to the floor, and I left them there—except for the locket, which I saw glimmering in the faint blue light in a wrinkle of the bedspread. I picked it up and climbed carefully from the bed, slipping into my chemise, which was piled upon the floor, and bundling my other clothes in my arms.
I heard no noise yet, and I crept down the hallway and into my bedroom. My clothes I hung carefully, but I kept the necklace tight in my hand as I went into my own bed. I lay there against the pillows, letting the chain swing from my fingers, watching the back and forth pendulum of the locket. I needed to know more about her, and I could not trust Michel for the answers.
I must have stared at that necklace for hours. Finally, I rose and went to the armoire. I had already tucked away the brooch Dorothy had given me in the pocket of one of my gowns, and now I did the same thing with the locket, and hung two other gowns over it. Michel had proved how easy it was for him to come into my room, locked or not; I did not think he would take the time to search through all my clothes, and any other hiding place was too obvious.
When Kitty came, I bade her dress me quickly and call me a carriage. I did not tell anyone I was going, and no one was around to question me as I left. As I boarded the carriage, I saw the police watchman start to attention. The morning was cold, the sky overcast with clouds that signaled icy rain. Though I’d seen the new shoots of daffodils and snowdrops in the yard, spring still felt very far away.
“Pearl Street. Atherton and Rampling,” I told the driver, and we were speedily off.
It was nearing eleven as I climbed the steps to Peter’s office, and the halls were swarming with businessmen. The handsome clerk at the desk looked up owlishly from behind his glasses as I opened the office door and stepped inside.
“Mrs. Atherton,” he said, rising so quickly he knocked a pen off the desk. “How can I help you this morning?”
“I’m here to see Mr. Rampling,” I told him.
At that moment, one of the doors beyond opened, and Benjamin came striding out as if I’d beckoned him. His hair was smooth and shining, his beard neatly trimmed, his frock coat brushed. He was the perfect example of a prosperous lawyer. He was conservative and well bred, and it was surprising that such a man had not taken a wife. Why had I not thought that before now?
Foolish, I told myself. There were a hundred Benjamins. What made me think he had anything to do with Adele? Why could I not dismiss the thought?
He frowned when he saw me. “Evie?”
I stepped past the young man. “Have you a moment?”
“I was on my way to the prosecutor’s office, but I suppose he can wait.” He turned to the clerk. “Wood, will you send a man over there to say I’ll be late?”
“Absolutely, sir. I’ll go myself.”
Benjamin waited until the young man had disappeared through the door, and then he gestured for me to follow him into his office. When I was inside, he closed the door behind me.
“Did he move the cuff link?”
I had forgotten all about it. “I’m afraid I haven’t had the chance to look again. He’s been about, you see—” I took on the mien of distress,
and though I felt guilty for the lie, my need to reassure myself about Benjamin was greater. “I’ve been… well, I know you told me Adele was an illusion. And I think I must believe you. But even knowing that, I still see her. Michel is quite insistent that she’s real—”
“He obviously sees some purpose in it. I’ve told you that.”
“I know. But he swears he’s never said her name. He says she meant nothing to him, so why would he speak of her?”
“I hardly know.”
“She was married, did I tell you that?”
He looked surprised. “No. Evelyn, is there a reason you’ve come to discuss this illusion with me? The prosecutor waits—”
“She was married, but her husband didn’t come after her. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
“Wives take lovers and run off frequently. You must have known that from your father’s work. No doubt he was asked to investigate such things.”
“Yes, but if you had a wife, and she ran off, wouldn’t you try to find her?”
“Such a hypothetical is impossible for me to answer.”
“You’ve never been married, have you, Benjamin?”
“No,” he said shortly. “Which is why I have no idea of such things. When one makes suppositions based on fiction, one is bound to blunder.”
“You’re right, of course. I feel foolish. I’m not even certain why I came down here. Just to hear your voice, I suppose.”
“Having heard it, are you reassured?”
“Yes. Yes, I am. Thank you. I’m so sorry to put you off your schedule. I know the prosecutor awaits… .”
“He does, but you are my first concern.”
I smiled. “I feel much better now. Please, you should go. Don’t worry about me.”
“Then if you’ll excuse me.” He reached for the black case on his desk, and then he paused. “You’ll tell me when you’ve located the cuff link again, or found the gun?”
“The moment I do.”
Then, with an apology for not showing me to the door, he was gone.
I had told Benjamin that I had what I came for, and I did, but it was not what I’d wanted. It was not what I’d hoped for. “Bodies don’t lie.” Neither had his. I’d seen it clearly, the way he avoided my glance when I’d asked if he’d ever been married, the involuntary twitch of his jaw. He was not telling me the truth.
I left his office as quickly as I could, not wanting to be there a moment longer than I must. Dorothy’s carriage was waiting in the street, as was the mounted police watchman, at a careful distance behind.
“Home, ma’am?” the driver asked as he took my arm to put me into the carriage.
“No,” I said firmly. “I want to go to the New York Times. And quickly.”
27
__
LIARS WILL LEAD YOU ASTRAY
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 26, 1857
Research was the key; if nothing else, Michel and my father had taught me that. Benjamin had said it as well: “One can find anything,” he’d told me, and now I meant to see if the archives of the New York Times building on Printing House Square held the information I needed.
Steam rose like fog from the grates on the sidewalks above the pressroom of the Times; one could feel the thump of the great presses reverberating in the flagstones beneath one’s feet. When Dorothy’s driver let me off, I hurried into the offices, which bustled with people. I asked the man at the front desk for the archives, and he sent an assistant to take me there—a small room downstairs that was covered with shelves from floor to ceiling, and so full of the musty, dusty scent of old paper that I had to suppress a sneeze. He led me to one of the three tables in the room—there were other people there as well, all turning pages of yellowed newsprint, eyes searching the columns for information, and I thought how easy this was, how any clever person might find whatever they wanted about anyone. What privacy we had existed only in our own thoughts.
I hoped to find what I was seeking in a single news item: the account of a murder. I knew vaguely the time frame in which it had occurred. I knew also that it had happened either in Charlestown or Boston—and so whether it would even be in the Times depended greatly on its notoriety. I had no other choice; I was bound to this city by law and circumstance, and it was impossible for me to make a trip to Boston.
When the man asked me what months and years I wanted, I thought of my visions. Michel had been coughing, the women were clothed heavily, Adele had been cold, the streets icy. The winter months then, perhaps moving into spring. Michel had been researching Dorothy then, and he had known her for eight months. So I asked for the papers from the winter of a year ago. The pile, when he brought it, looked enormous. I thought it must take me days to go through it.
I began to scan the papers, one after another—the headlines first, and then, past the city news to the news of the country, and then the little notices from other towns. MURDER IN PORTSMOUTH, MURDER IN SALEM, . . . IN CONNECTICUT, . . . IN BOSTON, . . . IN BOSTON, . . . IN BOSTON… . There must have been twenty of them. All wrong. Not what I was looking for at all. After two hours of this, I grew tired, and the words began to swim before my eyes; the wavering gaslight and its heavy smell in the unventilated room began to make me feel slightly ill.
I took a deep breath and wished for some water, and then I picked up the next paper—dated January 14, 1856. The headlines seemed to gather together; I turned the first page, and then the next one, and then I saw it, part of a column of news from other cities: body found in charles river.
The back of my neck tingled. I blinked to clear my vision and pulled the newsprint closer.
BODY FOUND IN CHARLES RIVER
BOSTON—Local fishermen were thrown into great consternation Sunday morning by the horrible discovery of the body of a young woman caught in their nets. She has been identified as Adele Rampling, the wife of Charlestown attorney Benjamin Rampling. Mr. Rampling said she had run off some months previous with a Boston spiritualist, and that she had been performing as a spirit rapper herself under the name Madame LaFleur, but that he had recently recovered her.
Mrs. Rampling had disappeared Wednesday night after an argument, and her husband believed she had returned to Boston. This was confirmed by witnesses.
Mrs. Rampling was found mortally stabbed. Police believe that she is the victim of a robbery, as several items she had taken with her—including a silver locket—were missing. There are no suspects at this time.
I had to read the article again. And then the proof of Benjamin’s lie—of the enormousness of it—was stunning. He had been married. To Adele. Whose death was so like Peter’s it was remarkable—certainly the same person could have committed both murders. Any lawyer could have seen that, and yet Benjamin had never said a word—not of her, not of the similarity of the circumstances of Peter’s death, nothing. That he had known of Adele’s involvement with Michel was clear as well.
Benjamin had lied to me.
Why? Was it because he wanted vengeance against Michel more than justice? Because my fate had mattered to him only insofar as it allowed me to be used?
No wonder he’d been so angry when Adele’s spirit had appeared at the circle. I remembered his words: “Did he tell you those things? Did he put you up to it?”
He’d been angry because he’d thought Michel had told me about her. He’d been angry because he believed I’d taken Michel’s side, that he had lost my allegiance, that I was no longer his tool.
Dear God, what a fool I’d been.
But none of it made sense. Why not simply tell me the truth about Michel and Adele? Certainly that story alone, and the similarity of her death to Peter’s, was reason enough to suspect Michel. I would have understood.
And then I had another thought. Could Benjamin have been the one who killed his wife and Peter? It seemed impossible, and yet, he had a motive to kill Adele, and he’d lied to me… . I heard a shuffle behind me. There was a light touch on my shoulder that made me jump.
“Pardon me, ma�
��am, but are you well? Is there something I can do?” Behind me was the assistant who had brought me down here, looking very concerned.
“I’m fine, thank you,” I told him, smiling so falsely it hurt. “Truly, I am.”
He frowned, but he nodded and moved away, and I turned back to the newspaper. I read the words again, as if they might have changed in the interim to become something less noxious, more bearable, but of course they had not. Benjamin had lied to me, and I couldn’t trust him, and the days were moving inexorably toward my trial. I smoothed the pages, folding the paper carefully, setting it back onto the pile with the others, as if it had not irrevocably changed everything I knew.
Then I gathered my bag and rose. The assistant waited at the door. “I’m finished, thank you,” I said.
“Did you find what you wanted then, ma’am?” he asked politely.
“I found what I needed,” I said.
IN THE WARM safety of Dorothy’s carriage I tried restlessly to sort the mysteries surrounding Peter’s death into some kind of order. Benjamin had been married to a woman who had run off with Michel, a woman who had died in the same grisly way as had Peter. I knew from the visions that Adele had not wanted to return to her husband. Was it because he was dangerous? She’d said he hated her. Hated and loved, I remembered. He’d wanted her back, and she didn’t want to go. Why? Was it simply that she couldn’t bear the idea of being removed from Michel?
I didn’t know. Nor did I know whether Benjamin’s determination to bring Michel to justice for Peter’s murder had more to do with vengeance than with truth.
The only thing I did know was that the deaths of my husband and Adele were similar enough that it seemed unlikely to be mere coincidence, and I knew of only two people who had a connection to them both: Benjamin and Michel.
Benjamin had lied to me, and he was manipulating me. I had given him the chance today to tell me he’d had a wife, and he had not. The newspaper article said the police suspected a robbery. Yet I knew the location of Adele’s missing locket. Was it in Michel’s armoire because of the reason he’d stated? Or had he taken it from her to make her murder look like a robbery—the same way he’d taken the cuff link from Peter, a cuff link he claimed to have never seen?