Alice-Miranda In New York 5

by Jacqueline Harvey

  Lucinda leaned forward and hugged Alice-Miranda tightly. ‘I wish you were right. But I don’t think anything you say will ever change his mind.’

  ‘Come along, Lucinda.’ Jilly Hobbs picked up the girl’s backpack. Tears welled in the corner of the headmistress’s eyes too.

  Quincy and Ava embraced Lucinda.

  ‘Don’t forget to look across the road when you visit the Met. I’ll be in the window, like a canary in a gilded cage.’ Tears now streamed down Lucinda’s cheeks.

  ‘Lucinda, we’ll find a way to make your father see sense,’ said Alice-Miranda and hugged her again. ‘I promise.’

  The bell rang not long after Lucinda left Mrs Kimmel’s with her father. Mr Underwood’s class gathered at the back door, but instead of the usual chatter there was an uneasy silence weighing the group down.

  In two straight lines the girls walked the usual route to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Alice-Miranda, Quincy and Ava searched the upstairs windows of the Finkelstein mansion opposite, behind its ornate masonry and ironwork fence, but there was no sign of Lucinda.

  ‘Come on,’ Alice-Miranda smiled. ‘Things will work out. You’ll see.’

  But Quincy and Ava weren’t so sure. It seemed that Morrie Finkelstein was a champion at holding a grudge.

  Once inside the building, the class followed their teacher to a small lecture theatre, with tiered rows of seating and a small stage.

  ‘Girls, it’s important that you give our guest your full attention. I know you’re upset about what happened earlier, but I’m sure that Lucinda wouldn’t want you all moping around on her behalf.’

  Alice-Miranda was busy retrieving her notepad from her bag when a tall man with salt-and-pepper coloured hair entered the room.

  ‘Girls, I’d like to introduce you to our very special lecturer, renowned artist Mr Ed Clifton.’ Felix Underwood grinned and began clapping vigorously.

  Alice-Miranda looked up. ‘Well, that explains a lot,’ she whispered to her friends.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Quincy asked.

  ‘Mr Clifton helped me with my picture the other day. I hadn’t realised he was a famous artist. No wonder he had such good suggestions.’

  The class listened as Mr Clifton explained a range of techniques and ideas. He showed some slides of different paintings in the museum and the styles the artists had used.

  ‘And this is one of mine. It’s here in the museum if you’d like to take a closer look at some stage,’ Ed said with a smile.

  ‘Look Ava, it’s that painting we were admiring the other week. I told Mr Clifton it was one of my favourites and he didn’t even mention he painted it. I thought it was from the fifteenth century or something.’

  ‘Oh yeah. If I painted something like that I’d tell everyone,’ she confirmed.

  The class listened quietly to the rest of Mr Clifton’s talk and at the end Mr Underwood stepped forward. ‘Girls, please thank our special guest.’

  ‘Well, that was boring,’ Quincy complained as Mr Clifton received a stirring round of applause.

  ‘I thought he was great,’ Alice-Miranda buzzed. ‘I had no idea there were so many different ways to paint a picture.’

  ‘I had no idea what he was on about most of the time. Scraping, polishing, feathering; I thought he was talking about cleaning the house,’ Ava complained.

  Alice-Miranda giggled.

  ‘Okay, girls, please head out to the main foyer and I’ll meet you there in a minute,’ Felix Underwood instructed. ‘I’ve just got to find someone to shut off this projector.’

  The class made their way to the giant entrance hall. Alice-Miranda was thinking about the painting Mrs Oliver had recognised, next to the Degas, and wondering who she could ask about it when she spotted Mr Clifton outside the museum on the top of the steps. He was talking to someone.

  Alice-Miranda squinted into the light. ‘Hey.’ She nudged Quincy. ‘Can you see that man talking to Mr Clifton out there, the one with all the bags?’

  ‘Yeah, some homeless guy,’ Quincy said, pulling a face.

  ‘No, he’s not. Isn’t that . . . I’m sure it’s Mr Preston, from the train.’ Alice-Miranda scurried towards the doors.

  ‘Hey, Alice-Miranda, come back. We’re supposed to wait in here,’ Ava called after her.

  Alice-Miranda ran up to the unlikely pair.

  ‘Mr Preston!’ she exclaimed. ‘I thought it was you. Well, this is the funniest coincidence.’

  Callum Preston stared at the child, wondering where he’d seen her before.

  ‘You don’t remember, do you? On the train, last Friday. You gave me that drawing of the tamandua at the zoo – and I was in it,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Oh, of course. I beg your pardon, miss,’ he apologised.

  ‘And I enjoyed your lecture very much, Mr Clifton,’ said Alice-Miranda, staring up at the taller man.

  ‘You’re Alice . . .’ Ed began. He scratched the top of his head.

  ‘Miranda,’ she finished.

  ‘Of course, Alice-Miranda. The Degas girl,’ Ed nodded.

  ‘You didn’t tell me you painted that other picture I said I liked so much,’ Alice-Miranda chided.

  He looked sheepish. ‘You didn’t ask who painted it.’

  Alice-Miranda grinned. ‘How do you two know each other?’ Alice-Miranda asked.

  ‘Callum here was one of my best students.’ Ed Clifton patted the young man on the back.

  ‘Doesn’t say much at the moment, does it?’ Callum cast his eyes downward, staring at the stone steps.

  ‘I wish you’d come sooner. How long has it been?’ Ed asked.

  ‘Just a couple of weeks. But hey, there have got to be some advantages. I reckon there’s nothing I couldn’t tell you about the subway system. And there are some great spots in the park too,’ he joked.

  ‘So you really are homeless,’ Alice-Miranda whispered.

  ‘Yeah, not exactly proud of it.’ Callum’s hands tensed on the handle of his folio.

  ‘But that’s terrible,’ she said.

  ‘No, that’s life in New York City when you’re a struggling artist,’ Ed replied. ‘But I think we can work something out.’

  Callum swallowed hard. He wondered what his friend meant.

  ‘I think it must be fate, running into you today. My assistant’s just decided she’s going to spend the rest of the year in Paris so I need someone to start – today,’ Ed said happily. ‘And there’s an empty flat at the back of my studio.’

  Callum looked at him in shock. ‘Ed, wow. Really? That’s amazing.’

  ‘That’s fantastic,’ Alice-Miranda said, and grinned. ‘Where is your studio, Mr Clifton?’

  ‘Just across the street. Not far,’ he replied.

  ‘Oh, I almost forgot. Mr Clifton, you know that painting you love so much, next to the Degas? When I was here on the weekend, Mrs Oliver, who is our cook but she’s really a part of our family, well, she was over at the Egyptian exhibit while I was finishing my picture and so you didn’t get to meet her. But when she came back and you had gone – I think you really must be called Ed Houdini because you’re so terribly good at disappearing – well, Mrs Oliver looked at that painting and it took her a little while but she remembered that she had seen it somewhere before.’

  ‘Really?’ He looked at her, wondering where this was heading.

  ‘Yes, and can you believe that the place she saw it was my grandparents’ house?’ Alice-Miranda breathed.

  ‘Your grandparents?’ He tilted his head.

  ‘Yes, Granny and Grandpa Kennington-Jones. Of course, they died before I was born but they were Daddy’s parents and they lived in a huge place called Pelham Park, which Daddy never liked very much because he said that it was far too sad, but Mummy had it all done up an
d now it’s a wonderful place where old people live.’ Alice-Miranda finally drew a breath.

  ‘So you’re Alice-Miranda Kennington-Jones?’ Ed asked.

  ‘No, I’m Alice-Miranda Highton-Smith-Kennington-Jones.’

  He frowned.

  Callum Preston turned his head in the direction of the store. ‘You mean like Highton’s on Fifth Avenue?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, Mr Preston. Mummy and Daddy are here at the moment because they’re reopening the store next week and I’ve been going to school at Mrs Kimmel’s. But I was wondering, Mr Clifton; you adore that painting and I was hoping you might know how it came to be here. Mrs Oliver said that Grandpa Kennington-Jones wasn’t known for his generosity and Granny was killed in a terrible motor accident with my father’s older brother the year before the painting was donated.’

  Ed Clifton drew in a sharp breath but Alice-Miranda didn’t notice. She’d just seen her class lined up inside the foyer. Quincy and Ava were making extravagant hand gestures telling her to hurry up.

  ‘It looks like I have to go,’ she said. ‘Goodbye, see you again soon, and good luck with your job, Mr Preston.’ She waved at the two men and scampered away to rejoin her class.

  Ed Clifton stared at the tiny child as she disappeared through the doorway. ‘Xavier died,’ he murmured under his breath.

  ‘What did you say, Ed?’ Callum Preston asked.

  ‘Oh, nothing, Callum. Let’s get you over to the studio.’

  That afternoon, Mrs Oliver was waiting outside the school to walk Alice-Miranda home. Impeccable as always, her trademark brown curls were set in place against a rather stiff city breeze.

  Dolly greeted the child with a hug. ‘I’m sorry, dear, but your mother has had a very difficult day and your father has some worries of his own, so you’re stuck with me.’

  ‘I don’t mind being stuck with you one bit. I gather Mummy’s meeting with Mr Finkelstein didn’t go well,’ Alice-Miranda said thoughtfully.

  ‘How did you know?’ Dolly asked.

  Alice-Miranda explained about Morrie Finkelstein arriving at the school and removing Lucinda.

  ‘Oh dear me, your mother will be devastated.’ Dolly shook her head. ‘The man’s a beast.’

  ‘We must find out what happened all those years ago between Great-Great-Grandpa Horace and Abe Finkelstein. It’s so silly.’ Alice-Miranda shook her head. ‘You know, there’s a photograph of the two of them with a lady called Ruby Winters on the wall at the Armstrongs’ club. Granma Clarrie says that she remembers them – it was opening night and Miss Winters was the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen. Isn’t that amazing!’

  ‘Astonishing. Granma Clarrie must be almost a hundred,’ Dolly Oliver replied.

  ‘Not quite, but close, though you’d never know it,’ Alice-Miranda said.

  ‘She must be a remarkable woman to still be running a kitchen at her age,’ Dolly marvelled. ‘Now, your mother and father have given me instructions to entertain you for the afternoon. They’re both caught up for a couple of hours. Is there anywhere you’d like to go?’ Mrs Oliver asked.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I was rather hoping to spend some time at the New York City Library.’ Alice-Miranda winked at Mrs Oliver.

  ‘Oh dear, what are you up to, young lady?’ Dolly smiled.

  ‘I’m sure there must be loads of archived newspapers there and I wonder if we might be able to find out about Miss Winters,’ Alice-Miranda explained.

  ‘Shall we call Mr O’Leary?’ Dolly asked.

  ‘No, I know a much faster way to get there.’ Alice-Miranda took Dolly by the hand and the pair headed towards Lexington Avenue and the 77th Street subway station.

  Alice-Miranda and Mrs Oliver arrived at the New York City Public Library not really knowing where to start their search. A kindly young woman at the desk called Miriam asked what it was they were looking for. Alice-Miranda introduced herself in the usual way and explained that they were trying to find out about a lady called Ruby Winters who they thought may have been engaged to a man called Abe Finkelstein.

  Miriam said that it sounded like they should be looking at newspaper articles and if that was the case they would have to search the microfilm, which could take quite some time.

  ‘Do you know what year you’re looking at?’ she asked. ‘That would narrow things down.’

  ‘I think 1920 is the best year to start,’ Alice-Miranda replied. ‘Isn’t that when the Armstrongs’ club was opened?’ She looked at Mrs Oliver, who shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘I don’t know, dear,’ the older lady added.

  Miriam bit her lip. ‘We’ve just transferred a whole lot of the records into the database. I’m not sure if we’ll find it there but I could have a look. It might save a lot of time,’ she offered.

  ‘That would be wonderful,’ Alice-Miranda smiled. ‘I can’t tell you how exciting it would be to solve this mystery. You see, the Finkelsteins have had a grudge against the Hightons for so long and nobody seems to remember what it’s about at all. Great-Great-Grandpa Horace and Abe Finkelstein were meant to go into business together but something came between them and since then the Finkelsteins have hated us.’

  ‘Alice-Miranda, dear, not everyone’s as intrigued by this story as you are.’ Dolly Oliver smiled apologetically at the young woman.

  Miriam grinned. ‘It sounds intriguing to me, and I’m all for a bit of detective work. Until now the most exciting thing that’s happened to me today was discovering my husband had packed a cream cheese bagel for my lunch.’ The young woman turned to her computer and punched Miss Ruby Winters into the search field. She hit enter and the program began scanning thousands of documents.

  Alice-Miranda folded her arms on the countertop and rested her chin there.

  ‘Goodness!’ the young woman exclaimed. ‘This is a stroke of luck.’

  ‘What is it?’ Alice-Miranda asked eagerly.

  ‘Perhaps I should rephrase that. It’s a stroke of luck finding something but I’m afraid your Miss Winters wasn’t very lucky at all,’ said Miriam as she scanned the document.

  She turned the monitor around so that Mrs Oliver and Alice-Miranda could see the results.

  Emblazoned across the front page of the New York Times was the headline ‘38 Killed in Wall Street Bombing’. Further down, in the body of the text, the name Miss Ruby Winters was highlighted on the screen.

  ‘It seems your Miss Winters was one of the unfortunate souls who lost her life that day,’ Miriam said, frowning.

  ‘That’s terrible.’ Alice-Miranda was wide-eyed. ‘Does it say anything else about her?’

  ‘Hold on a minute. There are nine articles here with her name in them.’ Miriam was glad no one was queuing behind these visitors. There was something about this tiny child with her cascading chocolate curls and brown eyes as big as saucers that made Miriam feel terribly daring. ‘I’m not supposed to do this but I’ll print them off for you and then you can have a proper read,’ she said with a quiet giggle.

  Miriam glanced around the room to check that no one was watching before she hit the print button. The machine behind her whirred into life, spitting out a pile of paper, which she promptly handed to Alice-Miranda.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ said Alice-Miranda.

  ‘You will come and tell me what you discover, before you leave?’ Miriam asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Alice-Miranda grinned.

  ‘Thank you, dear,’ Dolly added. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

  The old woman followed Alice-Miranda as she skipped through the giant reading room in search of a vacant desk.

  Morrie Finkelstein sat at his desk. A triumphant smile was plastered across his face. This was going to be his year, Finkelstein’s year. The year that he proved he could make more money than any other store in the city. He would fi
nally be number one, exactly where he belonged.

  Everything was falling into place. He’d enjoyed seeing Cecelia Highton-Smith begging him to leave her suppliers alone. Not likely. Morrie had revelled in his game of Chinese Whispers. The Highton’s renovation had only ever been a couple of weeks behind but Morrie couldn’t help spreading some rumours that he thought they had ‘problems’. Highton’s couldn’t keep people locked into contracts for ever, could they? He’d made some interesting contacts in the past few months at City Hall too, and he couldn’t believe how easy it had been to convince that stupid builders’ foreman to make some extra cash. Morrie frowned as he recalled an uncomfortable moment earlier in the day; when he met Cecelia Highton-Smith at the store, that young idiot walked right up and said hello. The man was getting a little above his station, Morrie thought to himself. He needed to terminate that arrangement – and soon.

  Framed photographs of Morrie’s forebears lined the walls of his office. Abe Finkelstein would have had it all if Horace Highton hadn’t reneged on their deal at the last minute. Morrie unlocked his desk drawer and pulled out a small tin box with charred corners. He sat it on the desk and turned the tiny key. A faded scrap of paper was all that remained of Abe Finkelstein’s worldly goods. Morrie’s father and grandfather had passed it down through the family, their proof that the Hightons were never to be trusted.

  Morrie scanned the paper. Half of a letter, horribly smudged and torn down the middle. But Morrie knew what it meant.

  I cannot believe

  the events that have unfolded

  To have all that I have cared

  snatched away from me

  It is the ultimate act of betrayal

  and cannot be forgiven

  Horace . . . my trusted aide

  my friend and confidant

  never again . . . such evil

  It was Finkelstein family folklore that Horace Highton had signed the papers at the bank on his own, cutting Abe out of the deal. Morrie’s great-grandfather had been caught completely off guard and the poor man had a breakdown and spent a couple of months in a mental asylum. When he got out of the hospital, Abe found the land on Park Avenue and a wealthy backer, and started his own store. He had married a sturdy lass called Marjory Tannenbaum, had two children, and then died in a mysterious fire that tore through the store one evening. Rumours circulated that Horace Highton might have had something to do with it, but it was never proven. Of course, that just added fuel to the already bitter feud. The Hightons would always be the Finkelsteins’ enemies, no matter how many stunts Cecelia and her little daughter pulled.