Conspiracy of Silence (Ravenwood Mysteries #4)

by Sabrina Flynn

  "Yes." Riot let his answer sink in. The murmurs grew to anger.

  "The plague is a sham!" a gentleman in the audience shouted.

  "It's a yellow problem!" another voice argued.

  "Science never lies!"

  The audience began arguing the heated topic.

  Judge Adams slammed his gavel down. "Order! Quiet down or I'll clear the room."

  Silence. No one wanted to leave. On the outside, Riot was as calm as could be, but inwardly was another matter—they needed an audience.

  Adams fixed Riot with a scowl, and leaned forward, his chair creaking in protest. "Do you have proof?"

  "Ma Gee questioned the residents about each reported plague death. Andrew Ross was present at every location—the Globe Hotel, a lodging house on the corner of Sacramento and Dupont, and finally Oneida Place. Police Surgeon Wilson can confirm the presence of plague in the test tube we discovered."

  Judge Adams shifted his weight on the bench. "Did you report this to the police?"

  "We did. To Deputy Inspector Coleman and Sergeant Price, who reported it to the Chief of Police."

  "And was an investigation conducted?" Judge Adams asked.

  "No."

  Judge Adams' whiskers twitched. "Why the devil not?"

  Riot glanced at the judge. "I think you know the answer to that, your honor."

  "I want your answer."

  "The reasons will become apparent. If I may continue?"

  Judge Adams consulted his watch. "After lunch. You may step down, Mr. Riot."

  Riot did as ordered, returning to his seat. He tried to catch Isobel's gaze, but she stared ahead. Dark circles ringed her eyes, and her cheekbones had sharpened over the past three weeks. From the tilt of her shoulders, he suspected if she looked at him, she'd break down. When he was seated, Judge Adams tapped his gavel on the block. "We'll reconvene in an hour. Defense, Prosecution—in my office. Now."

  Riot watched as the bailiff escorted Isobel out of the court room, until a shadow loomed over him, blocking his view. Riot stood and met the cool blue gaze of Alex Kingston. A flimsy partition separated the two men.

  What are you playing at?" Kingston said under his breath.

  "We gave you a chance."

  "We could have settled this out of court."

  "And yet we're here," Riot stated.

  "None of this will save her."

  Riot glanced towards the jury who were filing out. "I'm well aware of your jury-rigging."

  Alex Kingston smiled down at him. "That bitch humiliated me. I'll return the favor when she's in prison," he said for Riot's ears alone.

  Riot didn't reply, didn't rise to the bait, only waited. This went on long enough for the reporters to fall silent. A puff of photography smoke gave Kingston an excuse to back away. He stalked out of the court room.

  As lawless as times had been, Riot would have given a great deal to settle things the old-fashioned way—with a duel at sundown. Keeping a tight restraint on his self-control, he took a calming breath.

  A thin barrier was keeping the reporters at bay, but that didn't stop them from yelling questions his way. "Is Mrs. Kingston a prostitute?"

  He ignored their questions. But Jin did not. The girl tensed to lunge at the latest outrage. Riot grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. "No," he said simply.

  "I heard what he said. I am going to kill that man," Jin bit out.

  Riot did not doubt her resolve or her willingness. He'd even wager on her ability to carry out that threat. "Breathe, Jin," he whispered. "In and out. This isn't a place for a fight."

  "They're only words," Lotario said at his side. Although from the look on his face, Riot surmised that Lotario was only trying to calm the girl. "How do you think the trial is going?"

  Riot surveyed the court. "I'm still on the witness stand."

  "Surely the jurors will see she was in danger."

  "I wouldn't be surprised if the jury is fixed."

  The young man made a strangled sound. "Then the judge will overrule their verdict."

  "Doubtful."

  Lotario gripped his arm. Desperation lay in his hand. Riot met his eyes. Gray like his twin, the same high cheeks and sharp nose. Those eyes glistened. "Bel can't go to prison. It will destroy her."

  "I know," he whispered.

  "There's twelve men on that jury—at least half will have secrets they'd rather keep hidden. We'll blackmail the jury."

  "And become Kingston?"

  "It's Bel we're talking about."

  "Bel and I considered that approach. We decided against it."

  "I'm glad you consulted me." Lotario let go of his arm. "She'll get two to six years for fraud."

  "Bel assured me she could endure it."

  "And you believed her?"

  "No."

  A severe woman interrupted their conversation. Lotario instantly transformed, tucking his emotion behind an indolent mask. "Hello, Mother," he drawled.

  Mrs. Amsel ignored her wayward son, and looked to Riot. She had greeted him at the beginning of the trial with a sharp slap on each cheek. He had accepted her gesture without a word. The other Amsel brothers, Emmett, Aubert, and Vicilia, had given Riot apologetic glances. And then there was Mr. Amsel—grief had taken its toll on Isobel's father. He now needed the arm of his eldest son. Weeks before, when Isobel was brought into the court room, he had wept with joy. But joy had turned to grief when Judge Adams declared Isobel a 'flight risk' and denied bail.

  "I only have two cheeks, Mrs. Amsel," he said.

  Mrs. Amsel raised her hands, and paused. Slowly, she reached forward and took his head in her hands. She planted a kiss on each cheek. "Thank you for helping my daughter," she said.

  "Lotario helped, too."

  Her gaze slid to her son, and back to Riot.

  Lotario rolled his eyes. "Don't even try. I'm dead to her."

  "No," Mrs. Amsel snapped. "You are lazy."

  Lotario smirked. "My clients think otherwise, Mother." He winked.

  Mrs. Amsel gripped her cane, turned, and walked away.

  "Do you really need to throw it in her face?" Riot asked.

  "She's my mother. I can do what I like. She's always been disgusted with me."

  Riot consulted his pocket watch. "That look on your mother's face wasn't disgust, it was pain. How would you feel if Bel were a prostitute?"

  Lotario flinched, and Riot left him with those words. He had someone to meet.

  27

  Weaving Spiders

  We are close. —Z.R. Journal Excerpt

  Friday, March 23, 1900

  A BLACK SPIDER FLOATED in the corner, eight legs dancing in mid-air. Sarah Byrne nudged a lamp an inch to the right and tilted her mirror. Perfect. She could see the crimson hourglass glistening on the bulbous black body.

  Sarah knew that shape. The spider was deadly. She sketched in the mark of death on her drawing pad, but her pencil didn't do it justice. When she was finished with the sketch, she'd fill in the hourglass-shape with some red charcoal, or maybe even paint.

  Startled, Sarah looked up from her drawing pad to check on the spider. She didn't like to take her eyes off it for too long. What if it crawled away? Leaning in closer, she watched the spindly legs reaching and weaving in chaotic order.

  What masterpiece would the widow weave?

  As a little girl, Sarah had sat and watched her gramma knitting. The widow's movements reminded her of the swift click of sticks and her grandmother's gentle rocking. Her gramma would barely glance at her work, and Sarah wondered if, like her gramma, the spider even needed to see those invisible threads. Did the widow instinctively know the shape of her web?

  Although Sarah's own efforts had been doomed to disaster, she had been mesmerized by her grandmother. The spider was the same. She glanced back at her drawing. The web wasn't finished, she realized. Moving quickly, she sketched in lines, as if she might discover the pattern before the web was complete. But that glistening black body, those needle-like legs, and tha
t mark on its belly made her shiver.

  How long before those weaving needles touched her?

  A door opened downstairs, and Sarah jumped out of her skin. With her heart in her throat, she reached over to turn down the oil lamp. Footsteps creaked in the entryway. She snapped her book closed, tucked a pencil behind her ear, and hurried to her bedroom door.

  It was likely her uncle coming home. He was away on business more often than not, and at the wise old age of twelve, she was far too old for a mammy. Still, Sarah yearned for company and missed her friends at Ravenwood Manor.

  Picking up her oil lamp, she walked downstairs. It was late—pitch outside with a hidden moon. "Uncle Lee?" Her voice sounded hollow in the empty house. She waited for his greeting, but none came. Standing on her toes, she turned up the gas to the hallway light. Light flooded the stairway, but no one was standing in the entryway. The front door was closed.

  Maybe she had imagined the noise?

  "Uncle Lee, is that you?"

  "No, but I'm a friend." A man stepped into view at the bottom of the stairway.

  Sarah clutched the sketchbook to her chest.

  He smiled. "Where is the old fellow?"

  It took a moment for her to translate the words. The stranger had a high-sounding accent. "Uncle Lee's here somewhere," she lied. "Who are you?" It was rude. But then she was too scared to be polite.

  "William Punt." He smiled again. "Why don't you run along and fetch your uncle."

  He'd caught her in her own lie. "My uncle must have just stepped out. He'll be back any moment." She watched William Punt for a reaction, but this bit of news didn't seem to bother him.

  "I'll just wait in the parlor. Might I have a cup of tea?"

  Good manners kicked caution soundly to the side. She found herself nodding despite every bone in her body telling her to race out the front door. Mr. Punt stepped into the parlor, and she let out a breath of relief. There was something familiar about the man. Maybe he was one of Uncle Lee's friends.

  Sarah walked slowly down the stairway, one step at a time, looking over the banister, preparing for an ambush. The man looked like a gentleman in his fine suit. And it wasn't as if she knew all of her uncle's friends. In fact, she hadn't met a single one yet. Surely, her uncle wouldn't give a key to just anyone. But Sarah also knew from her time with Tobias and Jin that a person didn't always need a key.

  Would a burglar sit in a parlor and wait for the owner to return? The answer bolstered her.

  A sinuous line of smoke drifted into the hallway. A cigar. Its smell clogged her nose. Gramma would have kicked the man out for such an offense, but Sarah didn't know the rules of her uncle's home. He was hardly ever there.

  On her way to the kitchen, she glanced through the open doorway. There were two men in the parlor. She could barely make out the second man in the dimly lit room. He sat in an armchair, smoking. Sarah's feet stuttered.

  William Punt flashed his smile again. "Do you need help with the tray?" He had an accent that sounded like Mr. Riot, but his eyes were looking down on her from a mighty tall place. Politeness as fake as a false front building.

  "No, sir," she answered. "I was wondering if your friend would like tea, too."

  Mr. Punt glanced at the cigar man, who hadn't spared her so much as a glance. He was too occupied with his cigar.

  "I think not. Tea for two will do. You and me."

  Sarah hurried to the kitchen, and set the kettle. While waiting for the water to boil, she glanced down the hallway to the telephone. She could ring Mr. Riot, but the men would hear. And what would she say—that her uncle's friends had come to visit?

  She hadn't traveled halfway across the United States to be skittish now.

  When the tray was arranged, she added some muffins that she had baked for her uncle. They had gone cold.

  Squaring her shoulders, Sarah carried the tray towards the parlor, determined that she would be a good hostess, every bit as gracious as her gramma.

  The tray barely rattled as she entered. She smiled at the two men. "I didn't get your friend's name."

  "Gray. Parker Gray," the man said. "Bill, why don't you help her with that tray."

  William Punt hopped forward to take it from her hands. It was a good thing he had, because Sarah froze. Her fingers went numb. She knew that voice—had heard it the night she'd followed Jin to the brick house.

  Tell him to hitch up the wagon, she's too lively for a horse. Parker Gray had said those words to a man named Bill.

  Sarah's heart leapt in her throat. She could feel Gray's eyes on her as he puffed away on his cigar. She swallowed, and focused on the cups, not daring to look at him.

  "Thank you." Her voice came out like a squeak. Sarah reached for the teapot, poured a cup for Mr. Punt and herself, one for Mr. Gray to be polite, and one in the name of hope—a fourth cup for her uncle.

  "Have a seat, Sarah." Mr. Punt gestured towards the settee. She didn't recall mentioning her name. And she certainly didn't want to sit. Sarah wanted to bolt from the room to telephone Mr. Riot, but something warned her not to. A wild dog had cornered her once, and while every bone in her body had screamed at her to run, she had stood her ground. Running only sparked viciousness.

  So Sarah sat, and to her dismay, Mr. Punt sat beside her. "Your uncle's told us a great deal about you," he said. "Imagine that—you traveling across the country all on your own."

  Gray blew a great, slow cloud of smoke from his lips. He had a careless way about him—his bowler was cocked at an angle and he sat with his ankle on his knee, as if he owned the house. The man looked bored.

  It was hard not to stare at him.

  "And then you ran straight into Atticus Riot." Mr. Punt whistled low.

  "Yes, it was fortunate," she said.

  Mr. Punt crossed his legs, and sipped his tea for a contemplative moment. "What's the old fellow like?"

  "My uncle?"

  "Atticus James Riot—detective of infamy." Mr. Punt said Riot's name with a clipped voice, as if biting off each word.

  "He's famous?"

  "Not the good sort of famous. I'm afraid he's a very dangerous fellow."

  "He is?"

  Mr. Punt nodded. "And he's been making things difficult for your uncle."

  Sarah took a sip of her tea to hide her surprise. She had gotten that same feeling. It was clear her uncle didn't care for Mr. Riot, but what could he possibly have done to make things difficult for her uncle?

  "Uncle Lee doesn't tell me a thing of his affairs," she said.

  "Understandable. But your uncle should have warned you about Atticus Riot. Did you know he's a gambler?"

  Sarah's eyes widened. Gamblers were legends—dangerous sorts who were right up there with whores and thieves in Gramma's book.

  "And a killer," Mr. Punt whispered.

  Sarah forced herself to blink—to feign shock rather than outrage. How could he accuse Mr. Riot of such a thing? Mr. Punt gave her a slight nod that seemed to say 'Consider yourself warned.'

  "I'll keep that in mind, sir. Thank you."

  "Not at all. I don't know if he's the type to harm a girl, but then you're practically a woman." Mr. Punt looked her over. A little too long. He set his tea on its saucer, and slid his arm along the back of the settee. His arm seemed impossibly long.

  Sarah leaned forward, picking up the butter knife and a muffin. Any excuse to get away from that arm. As she sawed her muffin in half, she glared at the silver utensil, wishing it were sharper. Her fingers were trembling.

  "I'll just ring my uncle." She started to rise, but the cigar man gave a quick shake of his head, and Mr. Punt's hand clamped down on her shoulder. He pushed her back down with a casual sort of touch.

  "No need for that, Sarah. Let me butter that muffin for you." Mr. Punt took the knife from her fingers, and Sarah tensed to run, but Mr. Gray's eyes pinned her in place.

  The front door opened, and Sarah nearly fainted with relief. Before she could hop to her feet, Mr. Punt thrust the plate an
d muffin back into her hand, and sat back, returning his arm to the settee.

  Her uncle whistled as he shed his hat and coat, and then the tune cut off. Smoke was thick in the parlor, and it was sure to have traveled to the entryway. Lee Walker suddenly appeared in the doorway. Thin and wiry, he looked pale under the light. His gaze darted from her to the man beside her, then over to a glowing circle of ember before finally settling on the eyes of Parker Gray.

  "We were just getting acquainted with your niece," Mr. Gray said.

  "She's a lovely thing," Mr. Punt said, letting his long arm drape over her shoulder.

  Sarah tried to shift away from him, but she was pressed against the armrest.

  "Sarah, come here," her uncle ordered. His voice was hoarse. She moved quickly to obey, but Mr. Punt's arm tightened around her.

  "Why don't you sit down and join us, Lee. We'd like to catch up on business," Gray said.

  "I don't discuss business with Sarah present."

  "Of course." Parker Gray gestured at Mr. Punt with his cigar. As soon as he released his hold, she bolted for her uncle.

  "They said they were friends of yours," she whispered.

  Lee Walker glanced towards the corner of the parlor, at Parker Gray, and he put a smile on his face. "They are friends. No harm done. Run along to bed now."

  He gently pushed her out of the parlor, and shut the door in her face. Sarah walked up the stairs, and then remembered her sketchbook in the hallway. Taking care to avoid the creaks and groans of the house, she sneaked downstairs to retrieve her book. But that closed door beckoned. She thought of Tobias and Jin, wishing they were there. It was much easier to be foolish with friends.

  Careful not to let her shadow fall over the crack under the door, she moved closer, and pressed an ear to the wall.

  "That wasn't our deal," said Gray.

  "I did just like you told me—you said all my debts would be cleared."

  "You didn't follow our instructions."

  "I staged that accident. It's done," Walker bit out. He sounded desperate. "Kingston settled with me out of court. I gave Fields his cut of the settlement."

  "The deal was for you to fall down that hatch, take Claiborne to court, and then give Fields his cut of a settlement. Not for you to take a payout."