Whispers in the Reading Room

by Shelley Shepard Gray

  She wondered if he meant such a thing. Did men ever do anything without an expectation for something more? A tingle ran up her spine. To cover up her confusion, she said brazenly, “You sound as if you know something I don’t know.”

  “I simply know that it is a good thing that you’ve decided to move on. One never knows what will happen in one’s future, especially since it seems as though your employer has suddenly decided to revisit his past.”

  Without another word, he walked away, and as she watched him go, she caught sight of the pocket watch. And realized he had just turned down the same alley Mr. Marks had.

  Though she knew better, she rushed forward and followed. It was a foolish decision and a dangerous one. But she had no choice. There was no way she was going to abandon Mr. Marks now.

  CHAPTER 34

  Sebastian had promised himself that when he left the tenements, he’d never go back. Yet, that promise wasn’t all that easy to keep. Every couple of years, he found himself back in the area. Though he had a new name and a new life, sometimes he needed to remind himself of who he really was.

  The son of a prostitute who had once been willing to do anything and everything to change his circumstances. Maybe he still was willing to do most anything.

  The place smelled the same. The terrible stench of the stockyards mixed with the sharp tang of blood, machinery oil, coal, and unwashed bodies. There was a time when he’d hardly smelled it. Now he was sure he was going to have to give all his clothes away to remove the odor from his being.

  However, it had never been the smell that had bothered him as much as the constant noise. The braying of cattle, the squeals of swine. The men complaining. Women yelling at their men and children. Too many children crying. Encasing it all was the continual din of the machinery, the trains arriving, the clang of boxcars opening and shutting, the screech of brakes.

  That irrepressible noise had stayed with him his whole life. It was why he worked in a club where gentlemen’s voices floated upward, where the noise of dice and cards and chips clicked in an orderly way. The clink of glassware and the ribald laughter were far preferable to hear than all the sounds that struck nerves and summoned images of heartache and pain.

  Of course, nothing could match the beauty of the quiet solace he’d found in the library. There, the rooms smelled of dust and Lydia Bancroft’s faint lemon and lavender scent. So clean. So fresh. And the words he’d found in the books were like nothing of his past.

  All of that was why he’d used his fists and his brains and his wits and his determination to give himself a new life. He’d adopted the name Sebastian because it was a character from Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night. He’d taken the surname Marks because he liked how deceptively simple it was. It was also, of course, a play on Marx. Simply a more gentlemanly, acceptable name.

  He’d sworn to himself that he would never again be known as the skinny, pale Samuel Marx, the bastard son of a two-bit prostitute who died far too young and left him with nothing.

  But “never” was proving to be an elusive state in his world.

  “Samuel Marx,” an elderly woman cackled from her stoop. “As I live and breathe. I hardly recognized you.”

  He forced himself to stop. “But yet you did.”

  She pointed one gnarled finger to the corner of her right eye. “It’s the eyes. One always thinks you’ve got near on black eyes . . . until you see them up close. You always did have too pretty eyes for a man. Pity.”

  He racked his brain, but he couldn’t recall ever meeting this woman. “Do we know each other?”

  “I knew you when yous was just a babe.”

  He had no time for this. He walked on.

  “I knew yer mother too! Fed her a time or two when she was a young girl.”

  He felt the breath knocked out of him as he turned back around and stared. “Say again.”

  She smiled, showing several gaps in an otherwise surprisingly pretty smile. “Yer mother, she was Adelaide, weren’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “Adelaide grew up here. Her father, yer grandfather, died when they were building the tunnels. She was a happy child.” She shrugged. “Then one thing happened and she weren’t so happy no more.” She smiled again. “But that didn’t stop her from coming by here once and showing you off.”

  He blinked, hoping the sudden wetness in his eyes had less to do with the woman’s story and more to do with the soot in the air. “She showed me off.”

  “Sure she did.” She laughed. “She swore up and down that you were a smart child. Smartest boy in the city, she used to say.”

  He hadn’t heard that. He’d never imagined such a thing. “I never knew she thought that.” With effort, he swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. He didn’t want to admit that the pride of a common prostitute meant something to him.

  But when that woman was his mother, how could it not?

  “Perhaps it’s good that you returned then, ain’t it? I mean, you never know what you will find in yer past.”

  He was in the process of agreeing with that when he saw a woman and man struggling barely a block away. At first he was as tempted to ignore the fray as the old woman was. But then he realized he knew both people involved—Sergio Vlas and Bridget.

  As he raced closer, he saw that Sergio was gripping Bridget’s arm and saying something to her.

  She looked frantic and scared to death.

  “Bridget!” he called out.

  As Sergio stilled, Bridget looked his way and started yelling. “Mr. Marks, it was him! It was Sergio who killed Jason.”

  Ignoring the pain in his ribs and the sting of his cuts, he picked up his pace, just as Sergio slapped Bridget hard and she fell onto the street with a cry.

  A few scruffy-looking men and women appeared, some practically hanging out of windows, others walking out on the street. But not a one of them made a move to either help Bridget or assist him.

  After quickly ascertaining that Bridget was not too badly hurt, he grabbed Sergio by the collar. “What have you done?” he yelled.

  “I stopped him,” he replied, panting hard. “I did what you were too weak to do.”

  “Avondale did nothing to warrant his death.”

  “Of course he did. He owed all of us money. Thousands of dollars. My men beat him, warned him. His promise to pay his debts after he married your Miss Bancroft was no good anymore—and that was your fault, Marks, when you took up with someone well beyond your station. But Avondale arrogantly thought handing over that watch was enough to buy him more time. Well, it wasn’t. Something had to be done. Someone had to make him an example for all the other deadbeats.”

  “But why kill him? We’ll never get the money back now.”

  Vlas waved off Sebastian’s comment, illustrating that his final act had never been about only the money. “He beat my girls. He beat everyone’s girls. But what would you care about that part of our businesses?”

  Sebastian stilled. “You should have taken him to the police.”

  Sergio grinned. “The police? Listen to you, all high and mighty. There’s no police for the likes of us. No cop is going to stay on our side. It’s better that he’s dead. In fact, Marks, I followed you here thinking it would be best if you were dead. Underneath, you’ve always been too soft for Camp Creek Alley. And now you’re worse than ever. Besides, I’d just as soon have your customers and Bridget here for myself—”

  Sebastian barely heard the threat on his own life. Knowing how close he came to being arrested for Avondale’s murder, knowing how frightened Lydia had been, seeing Bridget hurt . . . He grabbed the man’s shoulders and shook him hard.

  Sergio twisted and then slammed his fist into Sebastian’s jaw. Sebastian retaliated, just before they both fell to the ground. Their fight continued, and suddenly, Sebastian was ten again. Fighting for food, for shelter, for his life. His punches became harder. Little by little, Sergio stopped fighting.

  “Mr. Marks, stop!” Bridget cried. �
��Stop! You’ll kill him!”

  The air stilled and reality returned.

  Struggling to his feet, Sebastian swayed, then noticed that the crowd around him was looking at him with grudging respect. “Bridget, are you all right?” he asked.

  She nodded. “And you are too, Mr. Marks. You are too.”

  Breathing hard, both from his exertion and the realization of what had just occurred, he blinked.

  Then, as the seconds passed, he breathed deep—and almost smiled—as three police officers came running up. Everything was, indeed, going to be fine after all.

  NINE DAYS LATER

  Lydia was discovering that it wasn’t too difficult to get through each day if she simply concentrated on each task that needed to be completed instead of how she felt about doing it. Simply taking all emotion out of every activity made most anything possible.

  Her heart certainly appreciated that fact.

  She’d been able to return to the pawnshop not once but two times. Now it hardly bothered her at all that the man there knew her name but pretended to be surprised to see her each time she walked through his front door.

  Simply not thinking about the fact that the rest of their paintings had been in her father’s family for generations made it almost painless to sell them. The same could be said for pawning her mother’s heirloom jewelry.

  And all she had to do was imagine creditors knocking on her door to not feel guilty about selling their townhouse.

  She’d come to the conclusion that sentimentality was an overvalued emotion.

  She’d clung to this belief when she visited various boardinghouses in the city. She’d stepped into each one determined to only see the benefits to such establishments. That was far easier than imagining how her mother was going to cope while living in one.

  After all, one needed to be fed, warm, and safe. That was what was important. All she had to do was ignore the worn furniture and the rather ragtag addresses and focus instead on locating someplace reasonably clean and almost respectable for her mother.

  By remaining numb, she’d been able to sign a leasing agreement for her mother and pretend that she had a chance of living there longer than a few weeks before dissolving into a fit of tears. That her mother wouldn’t alienate herself so quickly that the landlord was very likely to send her packing in less than a month.

  Yes, if she simply concentrated on duty and obligation instead of heartache and disappointment, she could accomplish most anything.

  It was impressive, really.

  At last Lydia’s list was almost complete. All she had to do was talk to Priscilla about which date should be her last day of work.

  Then Priscilla would completely take over the lending library and begin running it to the best of her ability.

  And Lydia could at last meet with the director of the employment agency and accept one of several offers that had come her way since she’d begun her employment search.

  At the moment, she had three job offers from three very good addresses. It seemed though most of society frowned upon women falling from grace, mothers of school-aged children were pleased to take advantage of that fact.

  Her worst fear had become her easiest accomplishment. She now had her choice of children to teach for the rest of her life.

  It was ironic, she supposed, that the very last thing on her list—the matter of leaving her job at the library and securing a new position as a governess in another family’s home—was far more difficult to accept than losing her own home.

  Or perhaps it wasn’t ironic at all. Merely something of a sad statement on her life.

  Perhaps that was because she had felt so at home at the library. Her job had been everything to her. She’d enjoyed the books, the peace and quiet, and most of all the happiness the hours spent in the pages of the novels had given her.

  She doubted she’d have either the access or the time to read so many books ever again.

  She already knew that visiting this library, even on her afternoons off, would be almost unbearable. Especially since, well, Priscilla was very nice but not very bright. Or hardworking. Lydia was fairly sure the girl would mess everything up in no time.

  “Do you have any more questions about cataloging or ordering before I leave for my appointment, Priscilla?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure? Because you look upset. What don’t you understand? I promise no question is too small. It’s how one learns after all.”

  “I simply hate the thought of you leaving this place. As much as I’ve liked working here, I know it will never mean what it does to you.”

  Priscilla was no doubt correct. Unfortunately, that didn’t make Lydia feel any better. Instead of making her feel proud of the work she’d done, it simply brought home the knowledge that she’d spent most of her adult life giving her heart and soul to a building and the books inside. At the end of the day she would have nothing to show for it.

  “It’s for the best. Everything has a time and a purpose.”

  Priscilla looked doubtful. “Maybe. But it still seems like a shame.”

  “That’s because it is one.” She tried to smile but knew her effort looked sickly. Therefore she made a great show of examining her timepiece. “My goodness. It’s after one. I had better hurry, or I’ll be late.”

  “Of course, Miss Bancroft. Don’t worry. I’ll handle everything here.”

  After leaving the building, Lydia drew in big breaths of air. Anything to soothe her frayed nerves.

  She regretted her impulse soon after she started walking however. It was snowing, and the wind was even more frigid than usual. Everywhere she looked, people were bundled up and walking with force, obviously trying to get to wherever they needed to go as quickly as possible.

  She was in the minority, as she had over an hour to waste before appearing for an appointment. She was standing outside a small café, debating the pros and cons of going in and having a bowl of soup, when Vincent Hunt approached.

  “Mr. Hunt?”

  He tipped his hat. “Miss Bancroft, good afternoon.” He smiled. “I was hoping it was you.”

  She was torn between hugging him like an old friend and brushing him off as quickly as possible. In the end, she did neither. “How are you?”

  He rubbed his hands on his arms. “Cold.”

  “Well, it is February.”

  “Indeed.” He paused, then forged ahead. “Have you eaten? May I join you?”

  “I don’t know if that would be advisable.”

  “Please? I have some news to share, and I’d prefer to do it someplace where my teeth weren’t chattering.”

  “All right then.”

  He led the way inside and after greeting the proprietress, asked for them to be seated close to the roaring fireplace.

  After they both ordered bowls of split pea and ham soup and cups of tea, she leaned back with a sigh. “Thank you, Mr. Hunt. You gave me the push I needed to step inside here.”

  “What are you doing out on such a blustery day?”

  “I have an appointment with an employment agency.”

  To her surprise, he looked pleased. “Will you be hiring some servants at last? Did your financial situation turn around?”

  “Actually, I am seeking employment.”

  “But you have your job at the library.”

  “It gave me much enjoyment, but not so much in terms of actual income, Mr. Hunt. I am applying to find a governess position.” She was almost able to speak of the job without stumbling over the words.

  “But you can’t do that.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “Mr. Marks needs you.”

  “You were standing in my foyer over a week ago when he told me in no uncertain terms that he did not want me to be in his life.”

  “He was lying. I’m sure of it.”

  Their bowls of soup arrived, and Lydia was grateful for the reason to halt the conversation. She dug into her meal, enjoying the hearty flavors and satisfying warmth.<
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  When Vincent was about halfway through with his soup, he said, “I suppose you know Sergio Vlas killed Avondale.”

  “Yes. It’s been in all the papers. It seems he didn’t appreciate Jason’s ongoing debt, but especially his beating his . . . the women in his employ.”

  “He had also realized that Avondale had no ability—and probably no intention—to pay him back, so there was no reason to keep him alive.”

  Lydia frowned. “I never would have imagined that money would play such a part in someone living or dying. Obviously, I was wrong.”

  “People are killed for all sorts of reasons. That isn’t a surprise. The reporter from the Courier had his own bizarre reasons to have people killed. Can you imagine? Benson Gage was so determined to force authorities to pay more attention to Camp Creek Alley that he would convince a gang to accelerate their criminal activity just so he could write about it.”

  Lydia nodded.

  “It is hard to imagine, but I am so glad Captain Ryan was able to find and arrest the gang leader and learn the truth. When Lieutenant Howard came to the townhouse to tell me the whole story, he said the man was quite willing to help the reporter in his quest, even with unnecessary murders, despite the inevitable increased police interest. He knew their takings from the fair crowd would soon be depleted, and he was more than willing to steal money and jewelry from wealthy men returning to Camp Creek Alley after being distracted by fair events.”

  “I know Mr. Marks was relieved to learn the man actually had too much respect for him to do any more harm than he did when they followed you to the fairgrounds that day at the reporter’s request. When you were not killed as expected, the reporter was afraid you or Mr. Marks had seen your attackers, people Mr. Marks might have recognized. Even as Mr. Marks was giving his statement at the police station, Gage was already asking the police questions that tipped them off about his possible involvement.”

  Eager to change the thread of conversation, Lydia asked, “Have you heard from Bridget? She told me the last time I saw her that she was going to leave Mr. Marks’ employ.” She was much safer to ask about than Sebastian.