What the Dead Leave Behind

by Rosemary Simpson

  “You’ll need to be careful, Miss MacKenzie. Watch what you do and say. Remember they’ll be keeping as close and suspicious an eye on you as you on them.” Geoffrey Hunter thought there was real danger lurking in the MacKenzie mansion, but he hadn’t figured out the form it would take. Physically, Prudence was untouchable. Alive, she was worth a fortune to her stepmother; dead, she decreased Victoria’s wealth by half. The laudanum had been a clever ploy to control her, but it hadn’t worked. Once Victoria and her brother realized they’d been duped, they’d try something else. That’s what had Hunter worried.

  “I’m going to search that house from the attic to the basement,” Prudence declared. “Every room, every hallway, every drawer in every piece of furniture. There won’t be any secrets by the time I finish.”

  “Be careful,” Hunter warned again.

  “I’m remembering what you’ve been telling me all day, Mr. Hunter. Suspicions without proof are like water running through a sieve.”

  “I couldn’t build a case on what you found out,” Conkling said. “And believe me, I’ve argued and won on threads so thin, they were almost invisible.”

  “We’ll get the evidence,” Prudence promised. She wanted to tell them she’d do her best to be as brave as they believed her to be, but she choked back the words. It was all about putting up a spirited front now, about stoking the anger she had felt burning away her fears. Nothing was certain except that she was no longer alone. The Judge was dead, but between them, Josiah Gregory and Roscoe Conkling almost filled his shoes. Charles was gone, but into his place had stepped Geoffrey Hunter, a man unlike any she had ever met.

  Prudence would enlist Colleen’s help tonight and then she would sleep. Tomorrow, rested and wary, she would begin the search for what would bring down Victoria.

  * * *

  “Do you have that picture Prudence got for you?” Conkling asked when Josiah had escorted the Judge’s daughter out of the office and down to the hansom cab that was waiting to take her home.

  “I do.” Hunter placed the photograph and its silver frame on Conkling’s desk. He had located a photographer who promised he knew a process that could produce copies without a negative. Once the copies were made, Prudence would smuggle the original back onto the MacKenzie parlor mantel.

  “All you have to do is look at the expression on Prudence’s face to know she’s unhappy. Miserable, I’d say, but determined for her father’s sake to feign happiness about this second marriage. She may not understand why the Judge feels he needs a new wife, but she loves him enough to pretend that all will be well between her and her new stepmother.”

  Conkling was right. The Prudence in the wedding photograph and the Prudence who had listened dry-eyed to Maurice Warneke’s vivid description of Charles Linwood’s head wound were not the same person. Entirely on her own she had questioned Dr. Peter Worthington as skillfully as Hunter himself could have managed and she’d played the role of stenographer well enough to fool the Dakota’s shrewd concierge. Prudence was the only one of them who could search the Fifth Avenue mansion for the information Geoffrey had asked her to find; she would beard Victoria in her own den. Alone.

  Once Prudence returned to the mansion, she would have to resume full mourning, every step she took encumbered by heavy black silk skirts. She would become a virtual prisoner of her home, since any sortie outside the Fifth Avenue mansion would cause comment, attract unwanted attention, fuel gossip that was bound to get back to Victoria. She had managed to disguise herself and elude her stepmother today, but her luck would not hold forever. Colleen and James Kincaid were her conduits to Conkling and Hunter, but they would have to be especially cautious. Victoria MacKenzie had already rid herself of her late husband’s housekeeper and devoted butler.

  “What will you do next?” Conkling rubbed the side of his face until the skin reddened above his beard.

  “I need to trace Victoria Morley backward. From the Dakota to wherever she met the Judge. Having a name is almost never enough; being able to show a likeness makes all the difference.”

  “Have you considered going back to the Pinkerton Detective Agency now that Allan is dead?”

  Conkling threw you off with his abrupt changes of topic and questions that demanded direct answers. It was a tactic he’d cultivated in the years when he was teaching himself to be the best lawyer of his generation.

  “What brought that up?” Geoffrey was very transparently stalling for time.

  “I understand that Robert and William are just as dedicated as their father, but a little more inclined to let bygones be bygones.”

  “We parted amicably.”

  “That’s not exactly what I heard.”

  “We agreed not to get in each other’s way.”

  “A bit closer to the truth. Have you? Thought about becoming a Pinkerton again?”

  “I’d be lying if I said I haven’t. They’re the very best to be had anywhere in the world. Allan created something entirely new when he built his agency. No one disputes that. But he didn’t tolerate dissent, which he defined as anything that even vaguely resembled the desire for discussion. In the end, I couldn’t stomach being told what to do and how to do it every minute of my working day. Which was every minute of my life. When you signed up with Allan Pinkerton, when you became a Pinkerton, you were expected to give up everything else. I couldn’t worship the Pinkerton god long enough to get used to it. But I have nothing against Robert and William, and they have nothing against me.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “If you mean, have I been in touch with them since Allan died? Yes. Yes, I have. I went to his funeral. I paid my respects. The man saved my life once, but the price he asked me to pay was too high. Being his sons, Robert and William understood.”

  “I’m glad. Prudence will need you. She’ll need someone who sees her as something more than a client. I’ve been having nightmares about this case, Geoffrey. As if there’s some very fundamental evil waiting to spring out and overwhelm us. Not us. Prudence. We can walk away. She can’t.” Conkling rubbed the side of his head again. He had no patience with any part of his body that did not perform the way he expected it to. “To tell the truth, the nightmares aren’t just about Prudence. I see Charles Linwood struggling up Broadway in the snow every time I close my eyes. Despite what you told me Maurice Warneke said, I don’t know how his death could be anything except an accident, but I can’t seem to shake it off.” He cupped his hand over the bothersome ear, as if the heat from his palm would ease it.

  “Are you all right? Shall I call Josiah?”

  “Don’t set the watchdog on me just yet.”

  “We need to prove that Victoria was the Judge’s mistress before he married her.” Hunter brought the focus of the conversation back to the main thrust of the investigation. Charles Linwood was still an everyday presence for him, too, but he told himself they might never know the truth of his friend’s death. Destroying Victoria’s hold over Prudence MacKenzie was much more possible.

  “Why does any man marry his mistress?” Conkling had never even considered formalizing any of his many liaisons.

  “Because he has to?”

  “Because she has something on him so potentially damaging that he dare not refuse her.”

  “Unless he’s already married.”

  “Which Thomas wasn’t. Sarah died when Prudence was no more than six or seven years old. 1875, I think. Ask Josiah to check the date. He didn’t marry Victoria until February of 1886. Eleven years a widower.”

  “What made him decide he needed a wife again after all that time?” Geoffrey thought he already knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it from Conkling.

  “Perhaps it was Victoria who decided he needed a wife.”

  “And then he died. Less than two years later.”

  “Under circumstances I now find very odd. Suspicious circumstances. My poor friend.”

  “You don’t know that yet.”

  “Yes, I do. And so do you.
Peter Worthington thinks like a doctor, you and I reason like lawyers. Thomas Pickering MacKenzie was murdered.”

  CHAPTER 10

  There were two places in the house Prudence was determined to explore without Victoria’s knowledge: the attic and her father’s bedroom. Both were locked.

  “Can you get the keys, Colleen?”

  “What are you looking for, Miss Prudence?” The hairbrush in Colleen’s hand remained suspended above Prudence’s unbound hair; the question had startled her, coming out of nowhere like that.

  “You don’t have to go into either place with me. Just get the keys. I’d have to explain myself to Mrs. Barstow, and I’d rather not do that. She might refuse to give them to me. At any rate she’d be sure to tell my stepmother, and I don’t want Mrs. MacKenzie to know where I’ve been.”

  “She’s bound to find out, miss. She knows everything that goes on in this house.”

  “How?”

  “How, miss?”

  “How does Mrs. MacKenzie know everything? Only if someone tells her. If you wanted to keep a secret, Colleen, who would you be sure not to tell?”

  “Not to tell, miss?”

  “Who would be most likely not to keep your confidence?”

  She thought for a moment, then brought the hairbrush down through Prudence’s hair with a brisk, determined stroke. “That would be Mrs. Barstow herself, Miss Prudence. Mrs. Dailey was a lovely woman, housekeeper when I first came. She knew I missed my mother something fierce, and she’d let me have a bit of a cry now and then and never scolded me for it. Told me to drink a cup of tea and look forward to my next day off when I could visit with her. Mrs. Barstow came with the second Mrs. MacKenzie. Not to say anything critical because she’s the first one up and dressed in the morning and the last to put out her light, but Mrs. Barstow is a cold woman. Not cruel, just without a drop of good warm blood running through her veins. Ice water, if you ask me.”

  “I don’t want you to do anything that will get you in trouble, Colleen.”

  “I think I know a way, miss.” Colleen’s deft fingers worked Prudence’s long hair into the poufed upswept twist that framed her face in soft waves. “Mrs. MacKenzie told me to take the letter cases back up to the attic when you finished with them. I can tell Mrs. Barstow that you’re done and ask for the key to put them away. The only thing she’s always looking for someone else to do in this house is climb stairs. She’ll let me go up to the attic on my own. I can leave the door unlocked. And I don’t think she’ll bother saying anything to Mrs. MacKenzie since I’ll only be doing what she told me to.”

  “Won’t she find out? I’ll have no key to lock it when I leave.”

  “You could say you forgot to put some of the letters back in the case, couldn’t you? Then I’d have to go up again. This time I’d lock the door behind me. Nobody ever goes into the attic unless they have to.”

  “I don’t know, Colleen.”

  “Leave it to me, miss.”

  * * *

  Colleen might not have done it if Mrs. Barstow had shown half the understanding to the maids as the housekeeper she’d replaced. Not that Mrs. Dailey hadn’t been strict. She had. But she’d also had a heart in her, and she’d comforted many a homesick kitchen girl and maid. They worked all the harder for her because of it. Colleen herself hadn’t known Mrs. Dailey all that well; she’d only been in the house for six months when the Judge married again and his housekeeper retired. Young to retire, Colleen had thought at the time, never having known a working woman who didn’t keep on working until she dropped in her tracks. But the rich had different ideas about things, and if Mrs. Dailey was lucky enough to be one of the very few that a family pensioned off, then good luck to her.

  Mrs. Barstow shook the staff up and made sure they came down standing. She found fault with everything they did, even to the way the maids’ caps sat on their heads. Cook had always seen to her own domain, but the new Mrs. MacKenzie made it clear there would be no autonomy in the kitchen. Cook and her helpers were firmly under the housekeeper’s thumb, as were the young male servants and the bootboy. Cameron had been heard to say that it was an odd way to run a household, but now Cameron was gone, too. There was a streak of Irish mischief in Colleen, always had been, which was probably why Mrs. Barstow rode her so hard. And why Colleen was willing to help Miss Prudence. She flat-out didn’t like the woman who ruled her days, so if she could nip at her heels a bit without her ever knowing it, so much the better.

  “I’ve these two cases to take back up to the attic.” Colleen held the awkward cardboard cases as though they were almost too heavy a load to carry. “Mrs. MacKenzie’s orders.”

  “I know what the mistress told you,” snapped Mrs. Barstow. She didn’t like being asked for anything, especially by a maid who had the temerity to knock on her parlor door and interrupt her midmorning sit-down.

  “I should take them up now, if you don’t mind. I’ve the parlors to see to and the young miss wants the Judge’s books dusted as well.”

  Colleen shifted from foot to foot, as if her legs hurt just to be standing there with the cases in her arms. If Mrs. Barstow decided to lead the way up three flights to the narrow uncarpeted staircase leading to the attic, she wouldn’t be able to leave the door unlocked for Miss Prudence. She concentrated on those stairs, willing the housekeeper to think about them also. There were days when Mrs. Barstow’s knees clicked as loudly as a cricket’s chirp every time she took a step. Colleen prayed this was one of those days.

  “Mind you bring this key right back to me,” the housekeeper said, struggling to unlock the heavy chatelaine hanging from her waist. Keys to every room in the house were on that ring, duplicates to the ones held by the mistress and many she wouldn’t bother carrying. Keys to storage cabinets, silver and china cupboards, to the attic and the cellar. There were rooms that were unlocked to be dusted and swept, then locked again when the maid finished with them. The Judge’s study. His bedroom.

  Colleen reached out while Mrs. Barstow’s swollen fingers were still fumbling with the clasps and chains from which the keys dangled; the housekeeper handed her the entire ring, then sat rubbing her hands as though she’d just come inside on an icy winter’s day. She had arthritis; most women who spent their lives in service developed the distinctive painful knots and knuckle knobs. Mrs. Barstow was tight-lipped about her past, but Colleen figured she must have put in her time as a maid like the rest of them before working her way up to the cushy post of housekeeper with all of its privileges and customary benefits. A special cut of chop from the butcher, just for her. A cup of tea made from the mistress’s expensive best imported China leaf. The dregs of a decanted bottle of sherry. Housekeepers could live very well.

  “I’ll bring this right back,” Colleen promised. She was out of the housekeeper’s parlor and halfway up the basement stairs before the woman could think to tell her to take the attic key off the chatelaine. There was nothing wrong with Colleen’s young fingers.

  She sped up to the second floor on the uncarpeted back stairs, her indoor boots making hardly a sound. They were soft-soled leather, the better not to disturb the family with her comings and goings. She paused at the door into the second-floor hall, pushed it open without making a sound, stepped through, and then stood frozen in place, listening for approaching footsteps. Nothing. Not a sound. Nobody in sight.

  She laid the letter cases down on the Turkish carpet runner that further muted sound, and in less than a minute had unlocked the door to the Judge’s bedroom and scampered into the back staircase again. If anyone chanced to try the knob, which she knew was unlikely, they would assume that Clara, the new German girl who was both upstairs and downstairs maid, had not pulled it securely closed behind her the last time she dusted and polished in there. Or that she had been interrupted and was coming back. Clara herself wouldn’t dare report it to Mrs. Barstow.

  The attic staircase was as narrow as a coffin, the door barely wide enough to slide a piece of unwanted furniture through
without scraping off the finish. Colleen set the letter cases where Mrs. MacKenzie had told her to, on top of a closed rolltop desk that looked as though it might once have been part of an office. Not grand enough for the Judge’s private library, but sturdy and workmanlike. Maybe the first desk he’d used when he’d opened up his law practice as a young man. Kept for sentimental reasons.

  She couldn’t stand there wondering and making up stories to answer the questions bouncing around inside her head. Trying to be as quiet as she could, because the attic staircase was at an angle to the hallway that led to the servants’ bedrooms up under the eaves, Colleen closed the door behind her. Just in case someone passing by should happen to glance her way, she inserted the key into the lock, pretended to turn it, then came down the staircase with Mrs. Barstow’s chatelaine swinging ostentatiously from her hand.

  She’d done it!

  * * *

  Prudence had to get into the attic during the day, when the servants would be about their duties in other parts of the house. Nighttime was out of the question; no matter how quiet she tried to be, she wouldn’t be able to silence her footsteps or conceal the sounds of searching. The servants’ bedrooms were too close to the attic staircase. So it had to be during the day.

  With any luck at all, Victoria would have afternoon callers today, ladies stopping by to leave their cards, others arriving with the intention of staying for the allowable thirty minutes before moving on to another social call. Prudence would not be expected to receive them. Victoria, however, knew the delicious details of poor Charles Linwood’s death, and although still in mourning herself for the Judge, she had let it be known that she was receiving again. Only close friends, of course.