Kindle stilled in astonishment. He released my wrist and I released him. His smile unfurled slowly, like a flag in a tepid wind. “I’ll sharpen the knife for you.”
I kissed him briskly. “Shave your beard tomorrow. No more disguises. We meet Henry as ourselves or not at all.”
CHAPTER
28
He’s late.”
After a quick breakfast of boiled eggs, toast, and coffee in the shabby but clean dining room of our hotel, Kindle and I walked to Central Park to meet Henry. With no mention of me or Kindle in the papers, we walked down Seventy-Seventh Street toward the park with a cautious confidence. We garnered nary a glance from passersby, and the ones who did notice us took Kindle’s eye patch and serious mien as acceptable and expected eccentricity for the theater district.
“I thought ten o’clock in the morning was too early for Pope,” Kindle said. He threw a rock side-armed into the lake and counted the number of skips. “Five. Pathetic.”
“He chose the time,” I said.
Kindle positioned another flat rock in his hand and threw it.
I was bored and fidgety. I needed to walk off the nervous energy that had been building since we woke. Instead, we’d been waiting next to the lake staring at a well-dressed woman down the bank feeding bread crumbs to ducks from a paper sack for twenty minutes. “How deep is that sack?” I asked Kindle. He followed my gaze. “I’ve never seen anyone so intent on feeding ducks in my life.” I took a rock from Kindle’s hand and threw it into the lake. It skipped twice and fell into the water with a plop. “I wish I had a sack of bread crumbs.”
Kindle turned to me with a wry expression. “Would you like for me to teach you how to skip rocks?”
I lifted my injured hand. “I am an expert rock skipper, thank you very much. When my hand heals, I’ll show you how to skip a rock.”
“Oh, you think so?” Kindle took my hand. “You implied in Cheyenne there was someone east of the Mississippi who could fix your hand. Are they in New York?”
“Yes. But I cannot think of that until after my name is cleared.”
“You don’t trust he will not turn you in?”
“There was a bit of competition between us. He probably reveled in my downfall.”
“How is the pain?” Kindle asked.
“Better,” I lied. My hand ached incessantly, with occasional stabs of excruciating pain. The fear that my hand was beyond repair was real and grew every day my pain didn’t dissipate.
“Let’s walk around,” I said. “We won’t leave sight of Hernshead in case Henry decides to show, but I cannot stand still another moment.”
Kindle pulled my hand through his arm and led me down the path. The duck lover upended her sack to dislodge any errant bread crumbs and folded the sack carefully. We met where her path intersected with ours. Kindle stopped and motioned for the woman to pass in front of us. I smiled and nodded politely, expecting her to pass along. Instead she stopped and studied first Kindle, then me. There was no shock of sudden recognition on her face, rather an expression of confirmation and pleasure. “Dr. Bennett, so good to see you again.”
I pulled closer to Kindle, who tensed. The woman smiled and held out her hand in a placating gesture. “I mean you no harm.”
Kindle moved to go around the woman, but I held him fast and studied the woman’s face. Her clear, kind eyes were set in a pleasant face devoid of wrinkles, save the fine lines around her eyes, no doubt from laughing. Streaks of premature gray hair framed her face and escaped the loose, high-bun hairstyle she wore beneath a large straw hat. The hat was a masterpiece of eccentrics: white flowers pinned with brightly marked butterflies and a large, curved, iridescent peacock feather sticking out from the left side of the hat.
“You don’t remember me? How extraordinary. I’ve been told I’m quite unforgettable, though it’s never been in a complimentary way. No matter. It will not set me low. Hazel Dockery.”
“Yes,” I said. How could I have forgotten Hazel Dockery? When my reputation as a doctor for the women and children of New York society had taken off, Hazel Dockery had sent for me. After an examination where I discovered she was as healthy as a horse, she’d offered me coffee in a library full of an odd and interesting collection of items from Africa and South America acquired by her bedridden father. When I realized Hazel was Gerald Dockery’s daughter, I hoped the interview would lead to an opportunity to examine him. Rumor was Dockery had been bedridden for years with a vague, general, incurable complaint. Every doctor in town was sure they could solve the riddle of Dockery’s sickness if they only had the chance. His care was closely guarded by his elderly doctor and his last living relative, his daughter. My hopes were dashed when Hazel quizzed me on the effectiveness of the latest snakeoil cure being peddled by mountebanks. When I clearly and concisely repudiated their effectiveness, she looked extremely disappointed and dismissed me after a polite amount of time passed. I’d never heard from her again, which, considering her good health, wasn’t a surprise.
“Good to see you again, Miss Dockery,” I said uncertainly.
“Call me Hazel, please.” She appraised Kindle, waiting for an introduction.
I stumbled over what to say next. Instinct was to lie about Kindle, but to what purpose? Hazel knew who I was and surely knew the one-eyed man next to me was Captain William Kindle.
“And this is the Major, I assume,” Hazel said, not waiting for me to decide what to do.
“I was a captain,” Kindle said with a slight bow. “William Kindle, a pleasure to meet you.”
“Forgive me for staring,” Hazel said. “With the war cripples crowding the streets of New York City you’d think I’d meet you with some degree of complacency, but indeed I find you absolutely fascinating.”
“Thank you,” Kindle said politely enough, though I could tell Hazel Dockery was getting off on the wrong foot by likening Kindle to war cripples.
Hazel turned her attention to me. “I wouldn’t have recognized you. You’ve aged ten years. Five at least, since I last saw you.”
“You haven’t changed a bit,” I said.
“Yes, I know. I say the most inappropriate things. I blame Mr. Pope. He spoke of you as still in fine looks. I should have known. He’s an inveterate liar. It’s one of his charms.”
“You know Henry?” I said. Kindle’s head was on a swivel, checking the park around us for people who looked out of place.
“Yes. I’m his benefactress. He asked me to come meet you. He thinks a Pinkerton has been shadowing him since your arrest, Major. I think it’s Mr. Pope’s active imagination, but he seems quite sure. When he told me you two were in town … well, I would have found a way to come with him to see you in any case.”
“It seems Pope has told you quite a lot about our movements. He must have great faith in your loyalty,” Kindle said. “You’ll forgive me if I do not.”
“Oh, but you should,” Hazel said.
The park was filling with people: nannies pushing prams, women strolling together deep in conversation, men exercising their horses. Hazel noticed the growing crowd. She reached into her purse, pulled out a pair of dark-lensed spectacles, and held them out to Kindle. “Put these on. You’re going to draw attention with the eye patch.”
“I thought you said I blended in with the cripples.”
Hazel tilted her head. “Did I say that? Well, it’s ridiculous. You’re much too handsome to be overlooked and your eye patch only makes you more intriguing.”
Kindle took the glasses with great skepticism. “These won’t draw attention?”
“Of course they will. But William Kindle wears an eye patch, not dark glasses. No one will recognize her,” she said with a dismissive wave in my direction. I bristled. Hazel really was the most inappropriate person I’d ever met. I suppose being rich and beholden to no one gave her that kind of freedom.
Kindle turned away, removed his eye patch, and hooked the glasses around his ears. He turned around, shoving the eye patch in his
front pocket.
“My God,” Hazel said, breathlessly.
“I look ridiculous, don’t I?” Kindle asked me.
No, he looked more appealing than ever, but I didn’t want to stoke his ego. Hazel’s schoolgirl eyes would do the job well enough. “You look like a scar-faced blind man.” Kindle’s mouth quirked up. He knew I was lying.
“Come, my carriage is waiting on Seventy-Seventh Street,” Hazel said. She walked off without a backward glance, assuming we would follow.
“What is Henry thinking?” I said.
“I like her.”
“Only because she thinks you’re handsome and intriguing.”
“Obviously she is a woman with a keen sense of discernment.”
“You’re incorrigible.” Hazel had stopped at a curve in the path that would have taken her out of sight. She motioned to us, and with no better option, we followed.
Hazel’s coachman pulled the carriage into the mews behind Hazel’s Washington Square town house. An elderly, slightly stooped butler opened the carriage door for us to alight. “Thank you, Graves,” Hazel said. “Is Mr. Pope here?”
“In the library, Miss Hazel.”
“Very good. Coffee and such at Mrs. Graves’s convenience.”
The man bowed, closed the carriage door, and followed us inside. Servants scurried to stand when they saw Hazel, but she waved and said, “Passing through. Carry on.”
We walked up the servants’ stairs and went through a green baize door into the entry hall, Hazel shedding her gloves and coat as she went and leaving them wherever was most convenient. The hall was heavy and dark, with walls of deep mahogany and dark green carpets on the floor and running up the stairs. Hazel unpinned her hat from her hair, deposited it on a round table set in the middle of the hall, and picked up the mail from a silver tray. She flipped through it as she walked straight toward closed double doors. A footman materialized and opened the door a split second before Hazel would’ve run into it. She entered and, without looking up, navigated the most cluttered library I’d ever seen. The bookshelves were overflowing with books, newspapers were stacked in columns around the floor, and the desk was covered with towers of papers, on top of which Hazel threw the day’s mail. I automatically reached out for the mail out of fear it would get lost in the chaos of the desk.
“Mr. Pope, I have retrieved your packages,” Hazel said, her eyes dancing and landing on Kindle.
Henry Pope stood from a leather wing chair and held out his arms as if to embrace us. Kindle held back, but I enveloped Henry in a strong hug. I held him at arm’s length. “You’re looking well, Henry.” I patted his stomach, which was rounder and firmer than it had been eight months earlier.
“As are you, Laura. Marriage agrees with you. I suppose this old grump has been taking good care of you.” Henry realized his mistake as soon as he said it.
Kindle shook Henry’s hand. “Thanks for bringing up my failures, Pope.”
“Not what I meant, Major. I’m glad they didn’t execute you.”
“So am I.”
“Let’s get down to business, shall we?” Hazel said. “Henry, grab that chair over there. Yes, that one. Put that stack of papers …” She surveyed the office and pointed. “Over there. Yes, by the ashtray. No, the elephant-foot ashtray. Perfect. But wait. Turn them to the side, crossways, so they will stay organized.”
Kindle and I looked at each other in amusement. I mouthed, Organized? Kindle shrugged one shoulder and waited for me to sit in one of the wing chairs. Henry placed his chair to the side of Hazel’s desk near me, apparently unperturbed by being ordered around in such a haphazard fashion.
“Down to business,” I said. “Henry, when Kindle told me you’d engaged an investigator”—I grasped Henry’s hand and almost choked on the words—“I always knew I could trust you.”
“An investigator? Is that what you called me, Henry? How fantastic!” Hazel pursed her lips and her eyes searched the ceiling, as if imagining herself a modern-day, female Maupin. “Yes, I like that idea very much. One day. We should probably start at the beginning. Henry.” She waved her hand for him to start.
“Yes,” Henry said, scooting to the edge of his tall straight-back chair. “When I arrived in New York last fall there was a certain amount of … celebrity with my arrival.” Henry blushed and hurried on. “The article I wrote about you, you see, caused quite a stir.”
“I’d say so,” Hazel interjected.
“Sawbones was picked up immediately and published to even more fanfare, as I’m sure you know.”
“We avoided the world for months, Henry,” Kindle said. “We know nothing of this.”
“Right. Where were you anyway?”
“My sister’s orphanage.”
Henry nodded and I could tell he was filing that little nugget of information away for future fictional use. “Of course, I changed your names, but everyone automatically assumed the characters were based on you two.”
“What names did you give us, by the way?” I asked.
“Delilah Gascoyne and Wyatt Steele.”
“Those are two of the most absurd names I’ve ever heard,” I said, laughing.
Henry looked hurt. “I quite liked them.”
“Oh, yes,” Hazel said. “I know of a fair few babies named Delilah in her honor. Everyone loves her pluck.”
“Pluck?” I knew without looking that Kindle was smirking.
“Bravery,” Henry clarified. “We’re rambling off subject.”
“Yes, I’ll take over,” Hazel said. “As soon as Sawbones started making its way from drawing room to drawing room—on the sly, of course; no one would actually admit to reading a penny dreadful—Dr. Catherine Bennett became a renewed topic of conversation. And the conversation was quite different than what it had been seven months prior. To hear talk, no one ever believed you’d killed George Langton. I think Sawbones, along with the previous news that you had been brutally murdered by a Pinkerton, made you much more sympathetic and allowed your former enemies to look on you with more compliance and approval.” Hazel’s expression turned serious. “You were no longer a threat to their way of life, you see.”
“And now I’m back from the dead?”
“Society had seven months to mourn you, to burnish your reputation if not to a golden shine, at least to a dull, brassy one. It had become such a generally held opinion that you were railroaded for poor George’s death they could hardly call you a killer anew. Though some have, of course.”
“‘Poor George’? Did you know him?”
“Of course. All old money knows each other. George was a curious man, open-minded. He and I shared an interest in the supernatural.”
“Ghosts?” Kindle said.
“Spirits. I’d always viewed the claims against you with a skeptical eye, Dr. Bennett. Based on our brief acquaintance, you didn’t seem to be the type of woman to be carried away with her emotions. Too uptight and professional. No imagination whatsoever.”
“Excuse me?”
Hazel continued on as if she hadn’t offended me. “If you were having an affair with George, which I doubted. He wasn’t the type of man to whip any woman into a frenzy of passion great enough to result in murder by fireplace poker. I had resolved to visit Sister Sophia to make contact with George when my father had a flare-up. I was at his bedside for weeks.”
“How is your father?” I asked, eager to diagnose his mystery malady after all these years.
“He died.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry.”
“He was old and had been sick for years. By the time I was able to continue with my own interests, the reports of your deaths had surfaced. Fate interjecting. I determined to contact you and George in the beyond, get to the bottom of his death and maybe hear firsthand details from you about your own.”
I caught Henry’s eye. Honestly? He shrugged and looked abashed at Hazel’s far-fetched beliefs. He wasn’t about to contradict his benefactress.
“It won’t be a
surprise to you what I found out,” Hazel continued.
“On the contrary,” Kindle said. “It will be a surprise to me you found out anything.”
“You don’t believe in the afterlife?” Hazel asked.
“I do, but I don’t believe you can contact spirits and have detailed conversations with them.”
“They’re rarely detailed conversations. More likely have to parse what is said to make sense of it. But if you know the spirit, it’s easily done.”
I sighed. “What did you find out, Hazel?”
“George assured me you didn’t kill him, and he told me you weren’t in the beyond. I contacted Mr. Pope immediately. It took some doing, but I was finally able to get him to confess to his ruse.”
“Henry!” I said. “You promised.”
“Don’t blame Henry,” Hazel said, looking at Pope with affection. “Very few artists can resist the steady income promised by a benefactor. And I agreed to do spying on your behalf.”
“Let me make sure I understand,” Kindle said. “You knew Laura was alive from talking to George Langton from the beyond, contacted Henry and bribed him to tell you everything, and offered to spy on the Langtons to prove Laura’s innocence.”
“That’s about the sum of it, yes.”
“I don’t suppose George told you who did kill him, did he?” I asked.
“Unfortunately, no. His spirit was weak.”
“Of course it was,” I said. “What have you learned?”
“Not as much as I would like,” Hazel admitted. “I spent years spurning society; I find the women vacuous and boring as watching paint dry, but the Dockery name will always get me entrance when I want it. I’ve been attending more and more social engagements, and receiving more calls than I care to return.” She lifted the calling cards in the day’s mail. “But I have diligently done it in service to your freedom.”
“Thank you.”
“I hear lots of gossip; the trick is picking the truth out of the chaff. There is so much chaff. But that’s not the biggest problem. You know as well as I do, Dr. Bennett—”
Badlands Page 29