by Jen Turano
Gertrude watched as Agent McParland gave a sad shake of his head. “While I do understand your reluctance to accept Miss Cadwalader’s duplicity, I knew the moment the victim described an elderly, somewhat eccentric lady, that it could very well be Mrs. Davenport. We at the Pinkerton Agency have heard rumors about her odd behavior for years, but we’ve never been able to figure out exactly what she’s been doing. However—” he turned his attention to Gertrude—“the second I learned this lady was in the company of a woman described as wholesome and possessed of an innocent face and charming demeanor, I realized she was speaking about none other than you, Miss Cadwalader.”
“How would you have deduced it was Gertrude from that less than exact description?” Harrison demanded.
“Because I was fool enough to be taken in by Miss Cadwalader’s appeal—a foolishness that we apparently share, Mr. Sinclair.” Agent McParland sat back in the chair. “She’s not a young lady whom gentlemen neglect to notice, especially because wholesomeness is a quality we gentlemen prize. But it’s now become clear she’s nothing more than a chameleon, her charm and delightfulness a cover for the deceitful and manipulative woman she truly is. Add in the fact that Miss Cadwalader was discovered earlier today with possessions that did not belong to her, and . . . I rest my case.”
Swallowing past a throat that was remarkably dry, Gertrude leaned forward. “I’m not a thief, Agent McParland. And, while I willingly admit I was in possession of items that did not belong to me today, I was simply returning them on behalf of Mrs. Davenport. She never keeps the items she takes, although I can’t tell you why she takes them. It’s a mystery to me. But I’d be more than willing to bring you back to search her house, which will prove both mine and Mrs. Davenport’s innocence once and for all.”
Agent McParland pulled out a small pad of paper from his jacket pocket and flipped it open. “So I won’t find a ruby hair comb, sapphire ring, diamond brooch in the shape of a turtle, three strands of pearls, four watch pins encrusted with jewels, three pocket watches, and a tiara?” he asked.
“Goodness, all that has gone missing?” Gertrude whispered.
“Stolen, Miss Cadwalader, not missing. Which means there’s now been a full investigation ordered by the Pinkerton Agency because we’re paid a substantial amount of money to keep the guests at the Manhattan Beach Hotel safe, and yet—”
“You did an abysmal job of that,” Harrison finished for him. “And you’re doing an abysmal job now because Mrs. Davenport did not have a reticule on her while at the Manhattan Beach Hotel, nor did I hear her jingling at all once she returned to the ship, where I personally helped her on board the Cornelia. As for Gertrude,” he continued, sending her the smallest of winks, which seemed rather brave of him considering the situation,“I know she did not have any room to stash those items on her person, having suffered an unfortunate incident with her original gown that then forced her to accept a gown from my sister, who is not nearly as . . . wholesome in the figure department.”
He moved directly beside Gertrude and held out his hand. “I’ll be taking her home now, Agent McParland. If you happen to uncover any credible proof that warrants a search of Mrs. Davenport’s home, feel free to seek me out and I’ll accompany you to proceed with that search.”
“Now see here, Sinclair,” Agent McParland said, but before he could do more than get to his feet, the door to the interrogation room burst open and Temperance rushed in.
With a flutter of skirts and a flapping of her overly large hat, she stopped right beside Agent McParland, drew in a gulp of air, then nodded to Gertrude.
“I’m so sorry it took me so long to get here, but I’m afraid we don’t have time to linger.” She gulped in another breath. “I went to fetch Mrs. Davenport after I had the hansom cab follow you when I saw you being escorted away from the Cornelia by all those men. I didn’t know what else to do when I realized they’d taken you to jail. But then—” She stopped talking and drew in another breath, almost as if she needed a moment to collect her thoughts. When she’d apparently gathered those thoughts, she looked to Gertrude again.
“I had no money if you’ll recall, so I had no choice other than to hope Mrs. Davenport would lend me the money for the fare to pay for the hansom cab. However, matters took a turn for the concerning when I arrived at her house.”
“She refused to give you money?” Gertrude asked.
Temperance waved that aside. “No, she gave me money immediately, but after she discovered you’d been arrested, she turned rather peculiar. Instead of agreeing to travel with me back to the jail to see you released, she dashed out of the house, saying she’d never be able to forgive herself, and then . . . I lost her as I tried to chase after her, and . . . I’m very much afraid that something horrible is about to happen.”
Chapter
Nineteen
“I don’t believe I thanked you for threatening Agent McParland with bodily harm when he wouldn’t step out of my way as I was attempting to leave the interrogation room.”
Harrison gave Gertrude’s hand a squeeze. “And here I was concerned you’d be annoyed with me for threatening the man with physical violence.”
Gertrude turned her head and peered out the narrow window of the hansom cab they were riding in, looking past where Harrison’s horse, Rupert, was attached by his reins to the back of that cab. “I’m sure Agent McParland is suffering quite nicely in the cab following us.” She grinned and turned front and center again. “I never imagined Temperance possessed a fiery nature underneath that meek attitude she’s presented to the world over the past few years. It certainly was a fortuitous circumstance for us that she turned that nature Agent McParland’s way. He was so taken aback to find himself bearing the brunt of her temper that he stepped right out of my way, which then provided you with an excuse to refrain from punching the man.”
“I’m somewhat disappointed about losing that opportunity. He was behaving completely untoward, and don’t get me started on that nonsense he spouted about you being a wholesome young lass. That is an observation the gentleman should have kept to himself.”
Gertrude blinked. “I thought he meant that as a compliment.”
“Well of course he did, but a gentleman simply cannot go around tossing compliments out at his leisure, especially when those compliments are directed to a young lady’s . . . charms.”
Gertrude’s mouth dropped open. “Agent McParland was referring to my charms?”
“Indeed, but then he threw in that bit about you being a chameleon who is deceitful and manipulative, and I knew he’d hurt your feelings.” Harrison squeezed her hand again. “You might recall that I was with you when we arrived at the Manhattan Beach Hotel and witnessed you practically leaping out of the carriage to ascertain if Agent McParland was on duty that evening.”
To Harrison’s surprise, instead of agreeing with that, Gertrude wrinkled her nose. “On my word, Harrison, that almost sounds as if you think I hold Agent McParland in great affection. I assure you, nothing could be further from the truth. In all honesty, I was panicking after learning Pinkerton detectives were employed by the Manhattan Beach Hotel. As you’ve recently learned, Mrs. Davenport has a few issues when it comes to helping herself to items that don’t belong to her. Knowing she could very well be up to her usual shenanigans, and not wanting her to draw the interest of the detectives, I had no choice but to rush to find her. Although given what Agent McParland disclosed, the detectives were already suspicious of Mrs. Davenport and had been for some time.”
“Because she’s been acting suspiciously for years,” Harrison said, leaning forward to look past Gertrude and out the window, settling back against the seat when he saw they were still some minutes away from their destination. “You’re certain we’ll find Mrs. Davenport at Grace Church?”
Gertrude nodded. “Relatively certain. Grace Church is the one place Mrs. Davenport travels to on a regular basis. Since Temperance said she was distraught, I have to imagine she’ll seek o
ut a place that’s very familiar to her.”
“Then I hope we do find her there because I have to imagine the peaceful atmosphere at Grace Church will soothe her distraught nature.”
“As I mentioned to you a few days ago, I don’t believe Mrs. Davenport attends church because she’s looking for peace. If you’ll recall, I think she’s looking for someone instead.”
Harrison frowned. “I do recall you mentioning that. But tell me this, why are you so convinced she’s looking for someone instead of searching for God?”
Gertrude returned the frown. “Because she’ll visit Grace Church numerous times per week, but barely attends any services when we travel to her cottage in Newport. That’s not a decision a person embracing her faith would choose to make. She also sends her butler to Grace Church while we’re in Newport, demanding he send written reports to her regarding the members of the congregation who attend each service we miss.”
“That does seem to suggest she’s looking for someone.”
Nodding, Gertrude added, “It worries me to think about what she’ll do when she finally decides that certain someone is never going to be at Grace Church, which is why I wish there wasn’t so much traffic crowding the streets today. As the minutes tick away, I can’t help but agree with what Temperance said—that something horrible is about to happen.”
Harrison raised Gertrude’s hand and placed a kiss on it. “What are you afraid we’ll find?”
For a moment, Gertrude didn’t answer him, but then her eyes brimmed with tears, and to his very great concern, those tears spilled down her cheeks.
“I’m afraid we’ll find her with no hope left, which might very well encourage her to do what my mother did and end her hopeless state once and for all.”
Abandoning the expected proprieties because he couldn’t bear the idea of Gertrude suffering, Harrison turned on the seat, then pulled her straight into his arms. To his surprise, she didn’t balk at the embrace, but burrowed right into his chest, releasing what sounded like a sigh. Gathering her closer, he rested his chin on top of her head and simply waited, allowing her the time she evidently needed to regain her composure.
When she shifted, he drew back, brushed the tears from her face, and placed the lightest of kisses against her forehead, knowing that was hardly proper, but unable to resist. When she sent him the wobbliest of smiles, he leaned closer.
“What happened with your mother?” he asked gently.
“It’s not a pleasant story.”
“I believe I once encouraged you to use my strong shoulders to unburden yourself, Gertrude. That offer is still good, and one I believe you should take advantage of right this very second.”
“But you won’t want to remain my friend if I tell you the sordid secrets of my past.”
“I’ll always be your friend, no matter what you’re about to disclose.”
She pushed away from him and smiled another wobbly smile. “I won’t hold you to that promise after I’ve revealed all the nasty details of my story, but it’s kind of you to say that.” She drew in a breath, released it, then drew in another before she looked out the window, as if telling her story was so uncomfortable she couldn’t do it while looking at him.
“My mother suffered from melancholy, quite like Mrs. Davenport suffers from, and she was prone to dramatic acts during her bouts of melancholy. That drama eventually led to her death, which happened in the home of my father’s mistress.”
“Your father’s mistress didn’t murder your mother, did she?”
Gertrude turned from the window. “No, there was no murder that day, although I believe my mother was hoping her death would be laid at the feet of that woman.” She bit her lip. “From what I’ve been able to gather from the investigation that followed, although I was only ten at the time, my mother burst into that woman’s house, ranting about the shame she’d been made to suffer because of the woman’s involvement in my father’s life. Then, after she was done ranting, she pulled out a pistol and shot herself.”
Harrison rubbed Gertrude’s arm, his heart all but breaking when he felt her trembling. “How horrible.”
“It was, although I was spared the shame of how my mother died when my influential Cadwalader relatives stepped in, paid my father’s mistress to not spread tales, and even managed to keep the manner in which my mother died out of the papers.” Gertrude shuddered. “Her death could have been avoided, though, if only I’d been more diligent in her care.” She shuddered again, drew in a ragged breath, then lifted her chin. “She was being overly dramatic on the day she died, and because of that, I didn’t immediately go after her when she flew into one of her rages and raced out of the shabby rooms we were renting. Because of that decision, there was no one to stop her from taking her life.”
“You were all of ten years old, Gertrude. Surely you must know there was little you could have done to influence your mother’s decision.”
“I’ll never know for certain, and besides, my not going after my mother is not the worst thing I’m guilty of.”
Brushing back a strand of hair that had come undone from its pins, Harrison wiped away a tear that was running down her cheek. “Perhaps you should start from the very beginning so I have a clearer picture of the situation.”
“I really don’t enjoy elaborating on that time in my life.”
“Clearly, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist.”
“Are you ever this insistent with your sisters?”
Harrison smiled. “I should think not since they’d then take to banding together to thwart me, but since you don’t have an entire posse of ladies to band against me right now, I feel perfectly safe being insistent with you.”
Shaking her head, Gertrude settled back against the seat. “Oh, very well, I’ll elaborate, but do remember you’re the one insisting on this after I disclose all the gory details.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Crossing her arms over her chest, Gertrude looked out the window again for a long moment, then returned her attention to him. “As I mentioned, my mother suffered from melancholy, but it’s next to impossible to explain exactly how deeply a case of melancholy can affect a person, let alone a family,” Gertrude began. “She’d always been prone to dramatics even when my father was alive, but after he died—and because he’d died under what can only be described as unsavory conditions—my mother’s dramatics took on a new and concerning turn. She’d not speak for days on end, and then when she did, hurtful words would escape from her mouth, like how disappointed she was with me, her one and only daughter, but a daughter who possessed only passable looks and no great charm to speak of.”
She held up a hand when he opened his mouth, stopping the argument that was on the very tip of his tongue.
“There’s no need to be offended on my behalf, Harrison,” she said. “I was an incredibly shy child, which made it next to impossible to display much charm, although the criticisms my mother leveled at me were devastating and difficult to accept at the time.”
“Did you ever consider in hindsight the idea that your mother might have been so critical of you because she was disappointed in herself? It’s been my opinion that many a cruel word has been tossed an innocent person’s way to distract from the deficiencies of the person spouting those words.”
“While I’ve often been of that opinion as well, I’m afraid that in my mother’s case, she meant every word. She was never happy with the books I chose to read to her, or the meals I tried to prepare. To this day, I’m not what anyone could call proficient in the kitchen, but I did try, although my attempts were never quite good enough for her.”
“She sounds like a deeply unhappy person.”
“She was unhappy, and spent the three years after my father’s death trying to find meaning for all the disappointments she’d been made to suffer. That’s why we spent an excessive amount of time on our knees in church, praying that God would bestow on us, or at least on my mother, a semblance of peace, bu
t that particular prayer was never answered.”
Harrison braced himself when Gertrude’s gaze turned distant and fresh tears clouded her eyes before she continued her story in a voice no louder than a whisper.
“We’d finally run out of money, you see, on that day so many years ago, and Mother was wringing her hands and bemoaning her fate. I made the very great mistake of suggesting she seek out one of our many wealthy relatives and ask for some assistance, which turned out to be the suggestion that finally had her losing all sense of reason.”
Gertrude raised a finger and traced it along the window of the hansom cab. “She screamed horrible accusations my way before she turned physically violent. She broke an umbrella over my head, then continued to hit me with the bits that were left, shouting words of disgust at me when I wouldn’t fight back. When the umbrella had nothing remaining to it except the handle, she flung it aside, grabbed her reticule, then stormed out of the room.”
She turned from the window. “That was the last time I saw my mother alive, and as I said before, it’s my fault she died. I could have stopped her. It wouldn’t have been that difficult, but I chose to stay behind, unaware of my mother’s plight until the police came looking for me.”
An image of a young Gertrude sprang to Harrison’s mind, one that had her covered in bruises and huddling all alone in a derelict room, wondering when her mother might return to rain more abuse down on her.
Closing his eyes for a single second, Harrison drew in a breath, and then reached out and drew Gertrude straight back into his arms. Pressing his lips against the top of her head, he breathed in the scent of her hair, blinking away the moisture that was now clouding his vision.
“You must know, Gertrude, that your mother’s death was not your fault. She chose to end her life instead of fighting for it—and fighting for you. You were a child, she was the adult, and even though it does sound as if she suffered from severe mental anguish, she should have never allowed you to believe you were responsible for that.”