A Ring of Truth

by Michelle Cox

  Henrietta smiled. “Did you know she calls me Daphne sometimes? It’s sad, isn’t it? I wish I knew what happened.”

  “I know a little,” he offered. “Mary told us one night in the kitchen before Mrs. Caldwell found us and broke it up as idle gossip.” He looked at her in the rearview mirror. “Apparently Daphne was killed by some Doctor McFarlen.”

  “Killed?”

  “On accident, it was. Seems this Daphne was walking on the side of Sheridan road between Highbury and town, Mary says, when the ole Doc comes racing through in his car on an emergency call. Didn’t see Daphne and hit her straight on. Mary says the car hit her so hard her boots flew off. They found ’em in the ditch nearby.”

  “Oh, my!” Henrietta exclaimed, horrified. “Poor Helen!”

  “Mary says she never really got over it. Went into some kind of a black depression. The Howards, to give ’em credit, called in all sorts of doctors, trying to help her.”

  “So what happened?”

  “She got a bit better as time went on, went back to workin’ in the kitchen, but she was never the same. Mary used to be her undercook, but they eventually sort of just changed places.”

  “What about the doctor? He must have been devastated, too.”

  “I ’spose so. Gave up practicin’ after that, I think Mary said. That or he moved somewhere else; I forget.”

  The conversation fizzled out then as Jack needed to concentrate more on navigating the heavier traffic. They had already reached Armitage, and Henrietta felt her stomach clench now that she was almost home, afraid of what awaited her there. The conversation about Helen and Daphne had distracted her from her woes regarding Clive as well as her family’s problems, but now that the building loomed in front of her, her anxiety over what might have happened to Eugene rushed to the forefront. Jack pulled the Bentley up to the curb and swiftly came around to open the door for her. The rain had stopped now, and the sky was a strange yellowish green. As she stepped out of the car, a wet mugginess in the air hit her as well as the unmistakable smell of nearly drowned earthworms that had sought refuge on the pavement, having escaped the temporarily flooded patch of mud and weeds surrounding the apartment building. She saw Jack look appraisingly at the building, which seemed all the more dirty and gray for being wet. She could only guess what he was thinking.

  “Not exactly Highbury, is it?” she asked ruefully.

  “Well, it’s home, ain’t it?”

  “Where are you from, Jack?” she asked, trying to delay having to go up but marginally curious as well.

  “Here and there,” he grinned. “Don’t matter much.”

  Henrietta reached out and took the carpetbag that he had gotten out of the car for her. “Thanks.”

  “Want me to carry it up for you?”

  “I think I can manage.” She smiled.

  “Want me to make a few inquiries at Selzers? Couldn’t hurt . . .” he suggested.

  “You wouldn’t mind?” Henrietta asked eagerly. “I wanted to myself, but I . . . I had to come home.”

  “Family troubles?”

  “You could say that.” She smiled tiredly.

  “I’ll keep my eye on ole Virg, too. When you get back I’ll give you the lowdown.”

  “I’m not sure when that will be, actually,” Henrietta said sadly, wondering what the future held for her and Clive, if anything.

  “I know one thing,” he said, his tone changing suddenly. “If you were my girl, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight for two minutes.” He said this last part almost to himself, and Henrietta was aware of how very close he was standing to her now. She hoped he couldn’t hear her swallow hard as she took a step back. She was amazed at how easy it was to talk to Jack, but at the same time, it always made her just a little bit uncomfortable. Perhaps it was his forwardness.

  “Thanks, Jack.”

  “Goodbye, Miss Von Harmon,” he said wistfully as he stood back to let her pass.

  Henrietta made her way up the dirty stairwell and paused on the landing outside her family’s apartment. It felt good in an odd way to be home, but as she climbed the creaky steps, she couldn’t help but compare their mean, nicked-up front door as it came in sight with Highbury’s grand entrance of thick polished wood and windows of leaded glass, complete with a servant just on the other side to be of service. What had she done? she thought miserably as she noticed, perhaps for the first time, the two broken spindles at the far end of the landing. She took a deep breath and determinedly opened the door.

  “You’re home, Hen!” came a shout from Jimmy as he looked up in surprise and hurled himself onto her.

  Henrietta burst into a smile as she held him tight, Donny and Doris crowding round her now, too. She looked about the room, even as she distributed hugs. Ma was sitting dejectedly on the stool by the fire, not even bothering to look up, and Elsie stood beside her, a relieved smile on her face.

  “Where’s Eddie and Herbert?” Henrietta asked, looking round.

  “Eddie got a job as a message boy,” Elsie said eagerly, “and Herbert’s burning boxes today on Milwaukee.”

  “Well! That’s encouraging,” Henrietta said as she unpinned her hat and hung it up beside the door, setting her nearly empty carpetbag down as well.

  She had sought out Edna before she left to ask for her old clothes and to tell her to be patient regarding the ring, that Mr. Clive was going to instruct Billings to investigate further.

  “Mr. Billings?” Edna had said, surprised. “He won’t do nothin’!” Edna moaned, dejected. “Oh, Miss, I think I’ll just give it back to Helen. It’s obviously hers, but I feel bad that Virgil’s out all that money. Doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

  “No, it doesn’t. But it’s out of my hands now.”

  “When are you coming back, Miss?”

  “I’m not sure, Edna,” she said sadly.

  “You didn’t have a fallin’ out with Mister Clive, did you?”

  Henrietta didn’t say anything.

  “’Cause I’m sure he loves you. Anyone can see that.”

  “But maybe not enough,” Henrietta said wistfully.

  “What do you mean by that, Miss?”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t know where my old clothes are, would you?”

  “I believe I do,” she said, thinking for a moment. “Mrs. Caldwell put ’em in the laundry, up on the shelf. I’ll bring ’em up to you.”

  She had dressed quickly after Edna had delivered them and had put the few personal items she had brought with her back in her old bag, which she had found sitting forlornly at the bottom of the wardrobe. She ran her hand along the beautiful things Mrs. Howard had bought for her and then quickly closed the wardrobe door. They didn’t belong to her, she thought; they belonged to Highbury, and she silently then left the room.

  Henrietta sighed now as she looked around the miserable room. The smell of potatoes frying in lard and the pungent odor of cabbage boiling itself into mush floated up from the apartment below, permeating their own apartment as it usually did. She felt close to tears, but then Elsie appeared by her side and embraced her tightly, holding her close. When she finally released her, she herself wiped a tear away and smiled up at Henrietta.

  “Oh, Hen! I’m so glad to see you. You look lovely!” she said with sincere admiration. “Jimmy, you take the twins out to play,” she said to Jimmy, who was still glued to Henrietta’s side.

  “But I want to stay and see Hen!”

  “You’ll see her later; go on!”

  “Awwww, gee!” he said glumly, as he grabbed the twins by the hands. “But I’m hungry!”

  “Here,” Henrietta said, picking up her handbag and opening her coin purse. She put a whole quarter in each of their hands. “Go on and buy some sweets!” she said.

  “Oh, Hen! Thanks!” they squealed and dashed off down the stairs, racing and pushing each other in delightful glee to be the first to the bottom.

  Henrietta’s smile faded as she turned back to Elsie then and
took hold of one of her hands. “What is it, Els?” she said, looking from her to her mother. “How come you’re not at Dubala’s on a Saturday afternoon?”

  “Oh, Hen! Eugene’s in jail!” Elsie whispered, giving a little cry.

  “Jail? What do you mean?” Henrietta said nauseously, making her way over to where her mother sat, forlornly, like the old carpetbag at the bottom of the wardrobe. She had been bracing herself for something bad, but not this!

  “Yes! He’s in jail!” her mother spit out. “He’s been there for three days now, while you’re off gallivanting at Highbury!”

  “Oh, of course this is somehow my fault,” Henrietta said bitterly, surprised by how quickly she and Ma were back to arguing. It was as if she had never left. “Wait a minute . . .” she asked, a thought suddenly occurring to her. “How do you know Clive’s home is called Highbury?”

  Henrietta studied her mother closely, and within seconds, the hard, bitter lines dissolved into anguish as she buried her face in her hands and began to sob. “Oh, Henrietta! What are we going to do?” Henrietta noted that she didn’t answer the question, but she let it go in favor of concentrating on Ma’s evident distress, something Henrietta rarely saw.

  Elsie went and knelt beside her mother, putting her arms around her. “Don’t worry, Ma! We’ll think of something . . . won’t we, Hen?” she asked, looking back up at Henrietta.

  God in heaven! What were they to do? Henrietta thought as she began to pace now around the room. She paused in front of the window and rubbed her forehead. The sun was just beginning its long descent.

  “What happened?” she asked, turning back toward Elsie. Her mother still had her face buried.

  “He . . . he was staying at the rectory . . .” Elsie said hesitantly.

  “The rectory?”

  “With Fr. Finnegan . . .”

  “Why?” Henrietta asked, incredulous, but a nagging suspicion was forming in her head.

  “Because the old fool convinced Eugene that he’s got a vocation!” Ma suddenly said, coming up for air. “Told him it’s a sin to fight it, that he would be less a burden to us as well.”

  “A burden! He could be out earning money!” Henrietta exclaimed. “Instead Herbert’s out burning boxes all day for a few cents! He’s only eight!”

  “It’s just on Saturdays, Hen,” Elsie said cautiously, inclining her head ever so slightly toward Ma as a warning not to say too much.

  “So how did he end up in jail, then?”

  “We don’t know the whole story. Just that he apparently stole some very valuable candlesticks from the rectory,” Elsie continued.

  “And Fr. Finnegan called the police?” Henrietta asked, disbelieving.

  “Apparently so,” Elsie said with a sad shrug.

  “Has anyone spoken to Eugene?” Henrietta asked, pacing again.

  “Stanley went down to see him, but he’s not saying much. Says he doesn’t want to talk about it.”

  “Did he ask him if he really did steal them?”

  “Henrietta! What a thing to say! Anyway, he didn’t need to,” she added sadly. “The police found them on him when they picked him up.”

  “Good God!” Henrietta said and looked over at her mother, who was staring absently into the empty fireplace again, her face blotched and red.

  “What are we going to do, Hen?” Elsie asked anxiously, pulling her eyes from Ma to look questioningly at Henrietta.

  “I don’t know!” she said, annoyed, twisting her hands as she walked up and down.

  “Do you . . . it’s just that Stanley thought maybe . . . Mr. Howard might . . . you know, being an inspector . . . that he might be able to help is all. What do you think?”

  As soon as she had heard what the nature of the trouble actually was, Henrietta had had a sinking feeling that it was going to come to this. But how could she telephone Clive now? After all that was said between them? She moaned loudly and buried her own face in her hands.

  “I know it’s very shameful, Hen,” Elsie said quietly, “but we don’t know what else to do.”

  Henrietta looked up, knowing she had no choice in this matter. She would have to ask for his help; there was no way around it. She had already humiliated herself in front of him countless times, it seemed; why stop at one more? “Yes, of course, I’ll telephone him,” she said, forcing a smile. “I’ll pop down to Kreske’s and try him. He was planning to be out for the afternoon, but perhaps he’s back now.” She walked back toward the door and pinned on her hat. “Is there something you can make for supper?” she asked Elsie.

  “I was going to make soup,” Elsie suggested.

  “I’ll buy some bread while I’m out,” she said, feeling as though she might be sick, the hard reality of her life at home hitting her full force. Again she had to fight back tears as she realized that her brief respite at Highbury, her time at the ball, as it were, was really over now, and she was back to being Cinderella.

  When Clive arrived, it had already gone dark. Henrietta met him at the door and felt a nervous fluttering at the sight of him. Tentatively she tried to read his face. It was set hard, but his eyes looked at her with such love and compassion that she wanted to go to him now and fiercely embrace him. She forced herself to stay where she was, however, and pulled her gaze from his face down to the large, expensive-looking suitcase he was holding.

  Without stepping inside, he gently set the case down just inside the door and politely removed his hat. “You forgot your things,” he said deliberately, as if he had rehearsed his words. “I thought you might need them.”

  Henrietta stared at him, trying to decipher his meaning. Did he intend, then, for her to never return to Highbury, giving her the clothes as some sort of goodbye gift? She supposed it wasn’t fair to assume this was his intention, but hadn’t she herself left them behind for that very same reason? Clive was looking at her now, though, with such longing . . . surely this was not his intent?

  “May I come in?” he asked.

  “Oh! Of course! I’m sorry! I’m . . . I’m not myself, I suppose,” Henrietta said, opening the door wider for him and gesturing for him to enter.

  “No, you wouldn’t be, I’m sure,” he said, stepping in. “Perfectly understandable.” Once inside, he glanced quickly at the assemblage in the room.

  “Mrs. Von Harmon,” he said, addressing Ma, who was sitting stonily at the table now. “Good evening. I’m very sorry to hear the news. I’m sure there’s some perfectly good explanation,” he said encouragingly.

  Ma merely nodded, expressionless. Elsie came over from the corner where she had been standing with Stan, who had annoyingly dashed over after his shift at the electrics to “comfort them in their distress,” was how he had put it . . .

  “Gee whiz, Hen!” Stan had said when he first saw her upon hurrying up the apartment-building stairs. She had just come in from Schneider’s, where she had gone after telephoning Clive from Kreske’s, and she and Elsie stood in the kitchen putting away the staples, along with a few luxuries she had bought, Elsie exclaiming every now and again as she examined each thing, saying that this or that would have been particularly enjoyed by poor Eugene. Henrietta had bought as many groceries as she could carry, having absconded Clive’s money from Ma, who finally admitted that she had stashed the whole lot in a coffee can in the broom closet. She had wanted to chastise Ma severely for not using it, choosing to nearly starve the lot of them instead, but she knew it was not the time for another argument. They had enough to deal with as it was.

  “You look so much older,” Stan said as he stared at her, the disappointment in his voice both obvious and irritating.

  “I haven’t even been gone a full two weeks, Stan!” Henrietta said, her back to him.

  “I think it’s the hair,” Elsie said, smiling. “You’ve done it a different way.”

  That must be it, thought Henrietta, though she wasn’t about to share that Mrs. Howard’s maid had taken to doing her hair in the latest fashions each day.


  “Well, still,” Stan had said. “I’m not sure it suits you,” he added with a sniff.

  “Stanley!” Elsie had exclaimed.

  “Good thing it’s not up to you, then,” Henrietta retorted and worried that she still saw a tinge of adoration, to put it mildly, in Stan’s eye regarding herself.

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” Stan said, puffing out his chest. “With Eugene gone and, well, Elsie and I . . .”

  “Stanley!” Elsie blushed, “Not now!”

  “Well, anyway, I’m sort of the man of the house for the time being,” he said proudly. “You know, to watch over you and all . . .”

  Henrietta regarded him for a few moments, contemplating whether she should crush his fantasy or just leave him be. In the end, she had decided to leave him to his delusion, but she did wonder what he had meant by “Elsie and I”? Surely Elsie hadn’t engaged herself to him already? she worried, as she slowly tucked the bread into the breadbox.

  “Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Howard,” Elsie said now to Clive as he stood there among them.

  “Not at all, and, please, call me Clive.”

  “All right,” Elsie said, blushing slightly, “Clive.”

  Stan let out a little cough.

  Clive glanced over at him. “I see you’re here, too. Stanley, isn’t it? Why am I not surprised?” he said, arching his eyebrow. “I believe you spoke to Eugene; is this true?”

  “I did,” Stan answered with a little nod.

  “What’s his version?”

  “He won’t say nothin’. I asked him why he did it, and he just shrugged. Quiet kind of a fella, you see.”

  “Has he seen a lawyer yet?” Clive asked Henrietta, who was standing near him.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Right,” Clive sighed. “Before I left the house, I telephoned Jones to see what he could dig up. He’s being held at precinct fourteen. No one’s been assigned to the case yet, so that’s good. Fewer toes to step on that way. I’m headed there now, but I just wanted to see if there was anything else you could tell me to shed any light on the situation.”

  “I can’t think of anything, Mr. . . . Clive,” Elsie said. “We know very little about it ourselves. Could you . . . could you bring him some things?”