Lies That Comfort and Betray

by Rosemary Simpson

  “Finish telling me about Miss Sally Lynn, Kevin.”

  Kevin blinked his eyes rapidly to pull his mind back to where it had been before he got distracted by the cathedral. What a fine place it was. Blossom nipped the loose skin on the back of one of his hands. She was good about guessing when he needed a little extra help concentrating. “So she came down the steps reaching for the iron railing and nearly dropping her package, and a couple of times she tripped, but she didn’t fall.” Kevin’s hands imitated feet walking down stairs. “Then when she got to the bottom she looked back and what she saw frightened her.”

  “How do you know she was frightened?”

  Kevin was embarrassed for Mr. McGlory’s ignorance. “We could smell it, the fear. It was faint at first, then it got very strong very fast.”

  “Tell me what she was looking at.”

  “Not a what, sir. A who.”

  “Did you recognize him, Kevin?”

  “By his smell and by his face. Both. It was the man who pays money to play with Miss Sally Lynn. Blossom doesn’t like him, so neither do I.”

  “What was he doing at the top of the steps?”

  “Just looking. He came out of the church when Jerry went back in, but he didn’t walk down the steps. He stood there with his back to the door and stared at Miss Sally Lynn. He wasn’t smiling when he looked at her, and he didn’t say hello or good-bye. He just stared.”

  “Did he go to Madame Jolene’s?”

  Now Blossom nudged her cold nose into the palm of Kevin’s hand to give him courage and remind him that she loved him. He wouldn’t dare lie to Mr. McGlory, but the truth about his falling asleep on duty would be shaming. Humans didn’t like to be shamed. Neither did Blossom, so she understood Kevin’s hurt.

  “That’s when the catarrh came on me. I’d been fighting the cough for a while, but then I couldn’t see or hear anything, and it felt like walking through a crackling fire that was burning me up.” Kevin ducked his head and tickled Blossom’s nose to let her know he appreciated her loyalty. “I fell asleep, Mr. McGlory, right there in the cardboard shelter and the newspapers. When I woke up the fever was bad. Nobody was around and it was close to morning. Blossom led me along the streets until we got to Miss Jolene’s. I knew she’d take care of me.”

  “Big Brenda said she found you sprawled in the kitchen.”

  “The door was open, Mr. McGlory. I meant to turn the knob but it opened when I fell against it and the next thing I knew I was on the floor, lying on top of Blossom’s rug. She was following a scent trail out in the yard, whining and turning in circles, but she kept losing it. That’s odd, you know. Blossom never loses a scent trail once she’s picked it up.”

  “What’s the next thing you remember, Kevin?”

  “Waking up in that little room off the kitchen. All clean and warm and not burning hot anymore. They were sitting around the kitchen table, Mr. Hunter and Detective Phelan and the one who used to be a detective but isn’t now. Mr. Hayes. They were talking about Miss Sally Lynn. I listened to them and so did Blossom.”

  Billy looked down at Blossom, who smiled back at him. “What did you smell out there in Jolene’s backyard?” he asked her. “Who was it who managed to get away from you?”

  She cocked her head to one side and turned down an ear, trusting her human to interpret for her.

  “She doesn’t know, sir. It was a familiar scent or she wouldn’t have deviled it the way she did. But then I fell, see, and she had to get help for me.”

  “Tell me what you heard in the kitchen, Kevin. Can you remember?”

  Of course he could. Word for word, inflection for inflection, he repeated the conversation exactly as if it had been written down. Blossom barked to imitate the sound Mr. Hayes’s chair made when he overturned it.

  “I want you to go back to Miss Jolene’s house, Kevin. I don’t care what excuse you have to think up for why you left, as long as you don’t tell anyone where you went or why. Or who you talked to. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mr. McGlory.”

  “I’m assigning you and Blossom to protect the house and the women who work there.”

  “That’s Mr. Bright’s job, sir. He won’t like that we’re taking it away from him.”

  “You’re not. You’re helping out, that’s all. And Kevin, what you hear and knowing who comes to the house is as important as what you do.”

  “Do we have to sleep inside?”

  “Two more nights. Then you can stay in the shed.”

  “Miss Big Brenda always puts a pot of coals out there in case we come by.”

  “She’s a good woman. They all are in that house.”

  *

  “Will they still be there?” Prudence asked as the carriage rolled away from Bellevue.

  “I don’t imagine Detective Phelan will leave until he and his policemen have gathered up the last bit of evidence they can find. Mr. Hunter will insist on staying, and Mr. Hayes will probably not want to go either.” Josiah fussed with his stenographer’s notebook, making sure none of the pages had doubled over or become wrinkled, inserting his pencil stub into the leather loop that held it in place along the notebook’s spine.

  “I want to see her room before they clean it up,” Prudence declared. She tapped on the roof of the carriage to signal Kincaid to whip up the horses.

  “The police won’t clean it up, Miss. They never do. That’ll be left for the maids. Blood everywhere, I’d say. If that’s where the girl was killed.”

  “Sally Lynn Fannon,” Prudence reminded him. The dead shouldn’t become anonymous.

  “If Madame Jolene wants to use the room for entertaining clients tonight, she’ll have the maids and Big Brenda the cook in there with mops and pails and brushes before the last policeman closes the door behind him.”

  “Surely she wouldn’t, Josiah?”

  “She would, Miss. Madame Jolene says she’s running a business and anyone who thinks any differently is a fool.”

  “How do you know so much about her?”

  “Mr. Conkling handled a case there once. Very small case. Settled out of court and no one the wiser. No names in the papers.” Josiah’s ears and cheeks throbbed red; he was mortified to have to reveal that secret to such a genteel lady.

  “What else can you tell me about Madame Jolene?” Prudence asked.

  “She’s not French, though she tells everyone she is. Mr. Conkling tried to talk to her in French once; she stared at him and refused to answer. Then she said she’d made a sacred vow never to speak her native language again when she emigrated. Mr. Conkling said her French accent was unlike any he’d heard when he traveled to Paris. He liked her, though, so he pretended to believe whatever she chose to tell him. About being French anyway.”

  “How many women work for her in that house?”

  “She has ten girls, Miss.”

  “Josiah, have you ever availed yourself of the services offered in a brothel?” Prudence smiled as he turned bright red and began to cough. “Never mind, just tell me whether you’ve ever been inside one of these places. I need to know what to expect.”

  “I had occasion to visit Madame Jolene’s establishment in the course of the case that was settled out of court.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?”

  “Why did you and, I presume, Mr. Conkling, go to a house of ill repute?”

  “The complaint involved a certain degree of physical discomfort that might or might not have been mistakenly delivered.” It was the best he could do under the circumstances. “Mr. Conkling had to see the location of the alleged mishap. I accompanied him to take notes and make sketches.”

  “As you did for me today.”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “What did the girl’s room look like? I presume that’s where you went.”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “The room, Josiah.”

  “Small. Most of the space taken up by a large bed.” He didn’t dare look up from the notebook to which he was cl
inging as if to a life raft. “Rather fanciful decoration. Strong smell of perfume. An armoire for clothes, a washstand with basin and pitcher. The customary receptacle under the bed. Except for the brightness of the colors of the bedclothes and drapes, a very ordinary room. There was some art on the walls, but I didn’t study it.” Just remembering the subject matter of the crude paintings he’d glanced at made his palms sweat.

  Prudence appeared to be conjuring up the scene Josiah had described. Her delicately arched eyebrows puckered as she roamed mentally around the workplace of a soiled dove, the euphemism commonly used to refer to women who sold their bodies. Ridiculous nomenclature, she thought. Too romantic by far for what she now understood to be the reality of their lives. The stench of cheap perfume that Josiah recalled was no doubt liberally sprayed around the room to cover more unpleasant smells.

  “What do you make of all this, Josiah?” she asked. “These three murders.”

  “I’m not sure, Miss.” Mr. Conkling had never asked his secretary’s opinion about any of the cases he handled, nor about any of the debates or bills on which he worked during his congressional career. Josiah had kept his thoughts to himself for so long that he hesitated before answering the question. “I think it must have happened so quickly that they felt very little fear or pain. The killing part, I mean. And that was a mercy, given what came afterward.”

  “We haven’t focused on that, on the actual moment of their deaths. The cutting and the desecration of the bodies are so horrific they draw the mind away from the simple act of killing. Yet it must have been very swiftly done. No one has reported hearing any sounds of flight or a struggle. No screaming. No cries for help.”

  “Could they have been drugged first?” Josiah thought of the laudanum that had nearly taken Miss Prudence’s life.

  “No. There wasn’t any smell of ether or chloroform about the bodies. Nothing else would act as quickly. Laudanum has to be ingested.” She smiled reassuringly at Josiah. One thing she had determined upon was not avoiding the mention of the addictive narcotic whose casual use would always be a danger to her.

  “Knocked unconscious then?”

  “Ellen perhaps. But not even the coroner mentioned finding damage to the back of Nora’s head. That’s where someone would most likely be hit if the intention was to knock her out. And the motive wasn’t violation.” Prudence sat quietly for a moment, then rephrased what she had just said. “Rape. The motive wasn’t rape. I need to start calling things by what they are. If the motive for attacking Nora, Ellen, and Sally Lynn wasn’t rape, and nothing was stolen from them, why were they killed?”

  “The Tierney and Kenny girls wouldn’t have had more than a few small coins on them. We won’t know if anything was taken from Sally Lynn’s room until we talk to Mr. Hunter or Mr. Hayes,” Josiah said.

  “Apparently neither of those gentlemen believed I ought to be invited to the site of the killing to see it for myself. If you hadn’t used the telephone to call me, I’d be drinking my morning coffee in blissful ignorance. If I haven’t thanked you before, I do now, Josiah.”

  “We’re almost there, Miss.” Josiah folded the coach rug he’d lain across his knees and legs.

  “Stop, stop now!” Prudence pounded on the roof of the carriage with the steel tipped umbrella Geoffrey had convinced her to take with her wherever she went. “That’s Danny Dennis’s hansom cab. See it? Just turning the corner, coming down the street toward us.”

  Josiah peered out the carriage’s left side window. “Who’s in it?”

  “Joseph Nolan, that’s who. I’d recognize that cab and especially that horse anywhere.”

  “What’s Nolan doing in Danny’s hansom cab?” Josiah was thoroughly befuddled.

  “It was Mr. Hunter’s idea. He said Nolan wouldn’t take the family carriage to a brothel. He couldn’t trust the coachman to keep quiet about where he went. So Geoffrey decided to hire Danny to keep an eye on the Nolan house and be the closest available hansom whenever Nolan decided to hail one. Danny’s been shadowing him ever since. Certainly earning his coin.”

  “It can’t continue for much longer, Miss. Mr. Washington, the horse that pulls Danny’s hansom cab, is too distinctive. Those teeth, for one. Nolan is bound to wonder why the same cab keeps turning up.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. That’s the ugliest horse I’ve ever seen. Unforgettable. After today, Geoffrey will have to find someone else. Danny must have dozens of driver friends who’ll jump at steady money.”

  From where the carriage had stopped at the far end of the street, they watched as Danny Dennis negotiated a sharp turn before he reached the knot of curious onlookers standing in front of Madame Jolene’s establishment. Policemen in their distinctive dark blue frock coats and tall hats guarded the front door and the two police wagons parked outside. It was obvious that a serious crime had been committed inside the brownstone that looked exactly like all of its neighbors. The New York Metropolitan Police didn’t respond in force to anything less than murder.

  Mr. Washington turned effortlessly in the cobbled street that was barely wide enough to allow two vehicles to pass each other without touching. The curtains had been drawn tight across the front of the cab. No doubt it was Joseph Nolan inside. He hadn’t expected to meet the police.

  “If he doesn’t know she’s dead, it means he’s innocent of Sally Lynn’s murder,” Prudence said, watching the cab as it drove back in the direction from which it had come. “Or if he did kill her, then he didn’t think the body would be found this early and he was coming back to remove something he left at the scene. Something that could identify him. Kincaid can take us as far as the corner. We’ll find a cab there and follow Nolan. He may recognize this carriage.”

  “That’s too dangerous, Miss.”

  “I don’t see that we have a choice, Josiah. There’s no one else who can do it but us.”

  “I wish you’d reconsider, Miss.”

  Prudence wrenched open the carriage door. “Out,” she commanded. “Out. Go tell Mr. Hunter and Mr. Hayes where I’ve gone. If they hurry, they may be able to catch up. I won’t get out of the cab unless I have to. I just want to know where Nolan is going.” And why he panicked when he saw the police wagons.

  “No, Miss, I’m coming with you.” Josiah scribbled a message in his stenographer’s notebook, then ripped out the page and folded it into quarters. “Wait for me,” he called up to Kincaid as he tumbled out of the carriage and ran up the steps to Madame Jolene’s front door. He thrust the note at a policeman who automatically moved to stop him from entering the brothel, followed it with a handful of banknotes, and shouted desperate directions. “See that Mr. Geoffrey Hunter gets this right away. He’s inside with Detective Phelan. It’s a matter of life and death.” He shoved the stenographer’s notebook into the policeman’s reluctant hand. “Take this, too. Tell him to read my notes and he’ll understand everything.”

  That business about it being a matter of life and death sounded ridiculous, he thought as he bounded down the steps and into the carriage again. Like something out of a penny dreadful. But he hadn’t been able to come up with anything else that conveyed a sense of urgency. And really, it didn’t matter what the copper thought as long as he delivered the letter and the notebook to Mr. Hunter.

  Josiah had never done anything this rash before, but he knew Miss Prudence was determined. She wouldn’t be dissuaded no matter how foolhardy he tried to convince her she was being. His heart pounded, blood roared in his ears, and he thought it highly likely he’d pass out any minute, but he wasn’t about to let her ride into danger alone.

  And she was right about one thing. They had to keep Danny’s cab in sight.

  CHAPTER 25

  The policeman on duty at Madame Jolene’s front door was used to frantic pleadings from the public. Most of the time he paid little attention. Officer Jenkins shoved the money into his pocket before one of the coppers pacing up and down the sidewalk saw the wad and demanded his share. He debated thro
wing the note away, but it was freezing cold outside on the stoop and he was perishing for a cup of hot coffee. Every time he cracked open the door to peer inside he caught a whiff of something baking and heard voices coming from the kitchen. That’s the way it always was. If you walked a beat, you could expect chilblains on your toes, arthritis in your fingers, and chapped, raw skin all over your face. Winter wasn’t a patrolman’s favorite season.

  He didn’t see the point of making such a fuss about another whore getting killed; it was the kind of thing that happened every day. But he’d known something was up when the leather curtain of a hansom cab was pulled back and he caught a glimpse of Chief of Detectives Byrnes himself sitting inside. Ten minutes later Phelan got out and the cab rolled off toward Mulberry Street. The body was gone, but Phelan was still inside the house, and nobody had bothered to explain why he was spending so much time with an ex-Pinkerton and a former detective with ties to at least one of the saloon keepers the reformers were after.

  Maybe it was a good idea to see that the note got delivered after all. And someone might offer him a cup of coffee. At least he hoped so.

  *

  Kevin and Blossom heard voices in the kitchen long before they climbed the steps to eavesdrop on what was being said. Blossom was for going inside to lie down in front of the fireplace on the braided rag rug that had her smell on it, but Kevin shook his head no. He’d sneaked out of the sick room without a word to anyone, and he had a feeling Miss Brenda might still be mad about that. Women liked it when you told them where you were going and why. He’d rather not have to argue with her if he needed to leave again. He signaled to Blossom to sit and lean her body against the wood door for a touch of the warmth seeping through from inside. They could hear just as well from out there as they could if they were sitting at the table, but out there no one would tell them to go away. Mr. McGlory was always happiest when Kevin had secrets to tell him.