Lies That Comfort and Betray

by Rosemary Simpson

  “Did you get the name of the late first class passenger?” Geoffrey asked.

  “That’s another thing that’s unusual. My source wouldn’t tell me. He’s not the kind who frightens easily, but he was clearly at pains to hide the name from me. I didn’t press him.”

  “Slattery will kill again, if he’s really the one. He won’t be able not to.” Ned thrummed his fingers against the arm of his chair as Josiah escorted Bill from the conference room.

  “I don’t like it when a case gets away from us,” Prudence said as Josiah returned to stack cups and saucers. She followed him to the outer office, sipping the last of her coffee as she went.

  “It hasn’t gotten away from us,” Geoffrey said. “All but the last act.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Kevin was with us when Alice Nolan was attacked. Her brother was dead by then. We’ve known for a while that someone has been having us followed. If we had men watching the docks and the train station, he might have been interested, also.”

  “The way those families operate, the sons follow in the father’s footsteps or else,” Ned said. “I saw a lot of it while I was a copper. Dominic Pastore may have been willing to take a chance on getting out while Nora was alive, but not after she was killed. He had to make a decision. And maybe by then it was a choice he welcomed.”

  “Slattery won’t make it to Ireland,” Geoffrey predicted.

  CHAPTER 34

  Neil Slattery stayed on deck until the USS Augusta passed by Lady Liberty, sailed out of the mouth of New York Harbor, and entered the Atlantic Ocean where Sandy Hook Lighthouse had guided mariners into the New World since before America was born.

  He’d been six years old when his mother dragged him and his sister Bridget aboard the Utopia. Sailors shoved them down into the bowels of the ship where they languished in the dark and the rancid smell of sickness for two weeks until the vessel made port in New York Harbor. He’d never smelled air as sweet or seen light as bright as when he stumbled up onto the deck to stare openmouthed at his new country.

  America. Where life had been brutally hard until the respectable widow Slattery turned her hand to saving young women from the stigma that had driven her from home and family and all hope of a decent life.

  Twenty-five years. He’d done the best he could after Bridget and then their mother died. But it hadn’t been enough. He’d come too close to getting caught to be able to stay. He didn’t belong anymore. He never found the dream all of them in the Utopia’s fetid steerage hold had talked and sung about.

  Neil had always known he’d go back, though his mother laughed at him whenever he asked about Ireland. She made fun of him because what he thought were memories were fairy tales. The grandfather he’d never met wouldn’t allow him to set foot on the farm, being the bastard that he was. And the grandmother, the aunts and uncles, the cousins—none of them would welcome him with open arms. Not a single one would offer him a cup of tea.

  She was wrong, his mother. He had money in his pockets, and as long as you had coins to hand out, you were welcome anywhere. But he wouldn’t go to the farm right away, not until he was as rich and grand as everyone expected someone coming home from America to be. He’d set himself up in Dublin or Cork, open a nice little tailor shop on a quiet street in the kind of neighborhood where girls were likely to need his services. He’d wear his string, tied as tight as he could bear it. Not just at night when the dreams exploded in his head and the heat of them poured out of his body despite the string. In the daytime, too, but perhaps not as tight. He’d throw away his special knife, never use it again. Fling it into the ocean when they were well out at sea. Late at night when the decks were empty.

  Eight days at sea before they reached the port of Queenstown. He would eat and sleep and plan for what lay ahead. Most importantly, he would keep to his cabin and only venture out when other passengers were unlikely to be on deck. He hadn’t been able to bear the thought of steerage again. The clerk whose sister’s reputation he’d saved had assured him that there were a few other Irish on the second class passenger manifest. But in the clerk’s opinion, steerage would have been a better place for Neil to conceal himself, if that’s what he was trying to do.

  Neil had kept his intentions to himself.

  *

  The second class steward pocketed Geoffrey’s bribe and set about supplying him with as much information as he could gather. Only one name on his corridor began with an S. He hadn’t been sure whether it was Sullivan or Slattery; the clerk who’d filled out the manifest had bunched some of the letters together and it was hard to make them out. The gentleman in question, Mr. Slattery it appeared, never left his cabin; the steward brought him his meals on a tray and deposited the tray outside his door. When he came to pick it up, the food was eaten and there was always a generous tip, but the passenger himself remained invisible.

  There was no night steward in second class, so the mysterious Mr. Slattery certainly could go for a stroll on deck without anyone knowing, but that was discouraged. The decks were slippery with spray that wasn’t mopped up until morning. A passenger might lose his footing, even be thrown against the railing. Much better to take one’s daily exercise when everyone else on board did.

  From after dusk until well past midnight, Prudence and Geoffrey took turns watching the doorway through which Slattery would have to step to reach the second class promenade deck. Prudence insisted that their hours on guard be equal; she wouldn’t allow it to be any other way. Geoffrey protested, and only reluctantly agreed when she argued him into submission. She flushed with pleasure when he told her she would make a splendid advocate in a court of law, but didn’t weaken in the slightest. Fair was fair.

  Four nights out, their steady observations finally paid off. At a little past midnight, as Prudence was on her way to relieve Geoffrey, Neil Slattery stepped out of his cabin and made his way quietly along the corridor toward the open deck. Prudence heard his footsteps before she saw him; she stepped into the shadow of a metal staircase and remained there until he had passed, Geoffrey following not too closely behind.

  “He’s carrying something,” Geoffrey whispered in her ear. “It’s wrapped in dark cloth, so I can’t tell what it is. He may intend to throw it overboard.”

  Their plan was a simple one. Wait until Slattery left his cabin, then pick the lock while he was on deck, let themselves in, search the place, and confront him when he returned. From what the steward had told them, their prey couldn’t be induced to open his cabin door to anyone. This was their only hope of getting inside. There was always the possibility they would find nothing incriminating or that Slattery would turn on his heel and call for help when he spied them in his cabin, but it was a chance they had to take.

  “Wait,” Prudence murmured. “Let’s make sure he’s doing more than stepping outside for a quick breath of fresh air.” She listened to the sound of retreating footsteps, straining to hear them through the crashing of the ship’s hull against the waves. When all was silent again except for the sea, she squeezed Geoffrey’s arm. But instead of setting off toward the doorway, he turned to face her, pressed his body against hers, and laid a hand over her lips. She froze.

  Whoever else was out on deck with them was approaching so stealthily that only a Pinkerton trained ear could have heard him. He glided by the unlit space where Geoffrey had covered Prudence with his bulk, paused for a moment as if sensing he wasn’t alone, then moved on.

  The moon passed from behind a cloud, bathing the deck briefly in brilliant white light. The last time Prudence had seen that face had been beneath the Carousel in Central Park. Despite herself, she trembled. Geoffrey laid a hand on the back of her head and pressed her face gently against the strength of his chest. Gradually the quivering ceased. What was Dominic Pastore doing here? Had he followed them? Or had he had his own sources of information all along? It flashed through her mind that Geoffrey might have known the man was aboard and not told her. If so, it was a
deception she couldn’t deal with now.

  She pushed to signal she was all right, and Geoffrey released her.

  No question what they would do next. They followed behind Pastore as he paced silently and steadily in Neil Slattery’s wake. His gloved hands hung loosely at his sides and a brimmed hat hid his face. He looked back over his shoulder just once as they passed through a ray of light coming through a porthole. One glance and then he continued on his way. Prudence had no idea whether or not he had seen and recognized them. When Geoffrey stepped into a patch of moonlight and no longer hunched his shoulders to conceal his height, she realized that Pastore knew perfectly well they were there. He probably even knew their cabin numbers, Prudence thought. Settle down. Settle down and concentrate on what you’re going to have to do next.

  Slattery had reached the starboard bow as far forward as the second class railing would allow him to go. He seemed to be waiting for the moon to show itself again as he gazed upward at the thin clouds obscuring the stars. Just a peaceable passenger unable to sleep, breathing in the fresh tang of the salt air.

  Dominic Pastore moved quickly, but as he lunged for Slattery, the tailor whirled and slashed out with a broad bladed knife that flashed a dazzling silver beam.

  “No!” screamed Prudence. Before Geoffrey could stop her she hurled herself between the two men, pushing Dominic backwards as Geoffrey bounded forward and reached for her.

  As his arm snaked around her waist, Slattery brought the knife down with ferocious strength. It slashed through the thick wool of Geoffrey’s coat sleeve; blood that was black in the moonlight sprayed out and onto the deck. His wounded arm fell to his side and Prudence felt Slattery pull her against him. The knife was at her throat.

  “Don’t move, either of you,” he snarled.

  Geoffrey swayed on his feet. Dominic stood close to catch him if he fell. Neither man said a word.

  Prudence thought frantically. What could she say, how could she convince this madman to let her go? To let all of them go. What guarantee would make him believe one of them wouldn’t persuade the captain to have him ambushed by too many sailors to fight off? Could she promise to stay with him in his cabin until they landed? Accompany him down the gangplank?

  He was breathing rapidly and heavily, occasional sobs breaking through the labored respiration. “If you take one step toward me, she’s overboard,” Slattery promised. “If I go, I’ll take her with me.”

  “No one wants to hurt you,” Geoffrey soothed. Using his uninjured hand and his teeth, he’d managed to tie his handkerchief around his arm above the knife wound. Thick black liquid continued to ooze out onto his sleeve, but it was no longer the heavy stream it had been.

  “Who’s the other one?” Slattery asked, nodding toward Pastore.

  “I’m the man who’s going to kill you,” Dominic promised smoothly. “You murdered my Nora. Your life is forfeit, now or in the future. There is no escape from me. I’ll come upon you at a time and in a place where you least expect it. Bastardo! Bastard!”

  Prudence stared at Pastore, willing him not to continue, imploring him with her eyes to allow Geoffrey to talk this crazed killer into submission. He could do it, she knew he could. Geoffrey could persuade anyone to do anything. But it took time to work his magic, and she was afraid Dominic would rob them of that.

  Step down hard on his instep. Jab your elbow into his stomach. Go limp so he has to hold you up. Use your knee where it will cripple him. How many times had Geoffrey gone over the ways a woman could save herself? Dozens, Prudence thought, ever since she had decided they would be equal partners taking equal risks. Being on a ship in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean changed everything. She was barely keeping her balance on the deck that was now thinly coated in Geoffrey’s blood as well as the treacherous sea water.

  “Andiamo,” Pastore said.

  Geoffrey didn’t waste time answering.

  Both men were on them before Slattery could react. The knife flew out of his hand and clattered onto the deck, but his arm around Prudence’s waist tightened. She could hardly breathe. Her feet were lifted into the air as Slattery pressed them both against the rail, bending her backwards so the spray coming from below soaked her hair.

  “I’ll take her with me!” he screamed. “Throw me over and she’ll go, too.”

  If there was a moral choice to make, Geoffrey didn’t debate it, not for a fraction of a second. He fought his way past Pastore, who seemed determined to destroy Slattery no matter the danger to Prudence. With the small knife he pulled from where it was strapped inside his boot, Geoffrey stabbed Slattery in the arm that imprisoned his partner. Over and over again, until the arm loosened and Prudence fell free.

  And almost over the railing.

  Geoffrey held on to her as she flung her arms around his neck and struggled to bring her upper body to safety and her feet to the deck again. She staggered against him as he dragged her away from the railing, both of them near collapse.

  An agonized shriek made them turn. Dominic Pastore, with what had to be the superhuman strength of pure rage, had lifted Neil Slattery above his head.

  There was time to reach them, time to try to wrestle Slattery from Pastore’s deadly grip, but neither Geoffrey nor Prudence moved to stop it. This was justice in its purest, most elemental form. They would never breathe a word to a living soul of what they knew was about to happen.

  He was alive when Dominic Pastore hoisted him over the railing and threw him into the Atlantic Ocean. Alive and screaming. But no one heard him over the roar of the waves and the wind, the pulsating clamor of the ship’s engines.

  For a few moments Neil Slattery was a white face bobbing in a dark sea.

  Then he was nothing.

  EPILOGUE

  “I wouldn’t wish London in the winter on anyone,” Prudence said, climbing into the carriage Kincaid had warmed with hot bricks wrapped in layers of soft wool.

  “But the sea voyage home wasn’t too bad, I hope.” Josiah floated a Clan MacKenzie tartan blanket over her knees.

  “Geoffrey walked the decks every day while the rest of us cowered in our staterooms or the card parlors.”

  “The seas were rough?”

  “We sailed into gale force winds,” Geoffrey explained. “The deck chairs had to be stowed and ropes were strung along the railings and passageways.” He flashed a smile of pure delight.

  Josiah stared at him in horror. Any body of water larger than the placid seven-foot-deep lake in Central Park filled him with dread.

  “There were times Geoffrey chose to be on deck when even the sailors only ventured out if they had to.” Prudence touched her partner’s arm lightly. “I told him he should have been a naval officer instead of a Pinkerton.”

  “I’m assuming everything was quiet here,” Geoffrey said. He’d expected a torrent of telegrams from their often excitable secretary, but Josiah had been remarkably silent during their month-long absence.

  “Tim Fahey is back on Staten Island. Agnes Kenny wrote a note to you, Miss Prudence, which I opened as per your instructions. Just in case they needed anything. She said Tim is fishing again and mostly healed from the beatings he got during the third degree. You’ll be glad to know that the Kenny family is continuing to take care of Windscape.” He wondered if she’d ever feel comfortable in that childhood summer home that held so many sad memories of her mother.

  “Did she mention anyone else?” Prudence asked.

  Dominic Pastore had disappeared as swiftly and completely as Neil Slattery. They’d caught a glimpse of someone who might have been him descending the gangplank when the ship docked at Southampton, but nothing definite. It was as though what had happened that night in mid-Atlantic vanished with him. There was no report of a missing passenger. When Geoffrey gained access to Slattery’s cabin, it had been cleared of all his belongings. The steward wasn’t sure he remembered him.

  Prudence didn’t doubt that Pastore, too, had returned to Staten Island. Like Tim Fahey, he followed the
path he’d been born to walk. If he and Nora had ever made plans to escape into a new and different world, that future had evaporated with her death. He had sealed his fate when he took the vengeance his culture expected him to exact.

  “Detective Phelan has been promoted,” Josiah said. “He’s Chief Byrnes’s fair-haired boy now.”

  “We could have predicted that.” Geoffrey’s experience had taught him that recognition and reward often had nothing to do with competence.

  “Mr. Hayes had a setback, but Tyrus reports that he’s on his feet again.” Josiah wasn’t sure how Miss Prudence would take his next bit of news. “Kevin Carney and his dog are sleeping in the stables. Kincaid says the horses love her. Blossom, that is.”

  Prudence’s peal of laughter filled the carriage. “I told him they were always welcome. Blossom saved our lives, Josiah.”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “What about our friend in the saloon business?” Geoffrey asked. Like everyone else who talked about him, he avoided using Billy McGlory’s name.

  “They’re closing in on him, Mister Hunter. The reformers have him in their sights and I’m not sure he’s going to be able to walk away this time. I’ve saved the papers for you.”

  “A month of newspapers to get through?”

  “I did some clipping.”

  “Much appreciated, I’m sure.”

  “What about the Nolans?” Prudence asked.

  “The house is for sale. Miss Alice is taking to convent life like she was born to it, but the rumor is that Mr. and Mrs. Nolan have separated.”

  “Geoffrey, do you believe madness can be inherited?” Prudence asked.

  “I’ve seen it run in bloodlines,” he answered. “In the South, before the war, a woman could be hidden away in an upstairs room, tended by a slave day and night, and kept quiet by laudanum. The men drank too much, shot at anything that moved, rutted like hogs, and generally lived short, vicious lives. That was a kind of madness. People believed it came from cousins repeatedly marrying cousins, but I’m not sure it’s entirely due to our peculiar marriage customs. Victims frequently grow up to be abusers. I think it likely Francis Nolan was more responsible for his son’s madness than we’ll ever know.”