Murder between the Lines

by Radha Vatsal

“Dr. Flagg, a nerve doctor, said that her death was a result of studying too much. He said that overwork causes all sorts of disorders in girls.” She found herself blinking away tears.

  “Why are you crying?” Julian Weeks said gruffly.

  “I don’t know.” Kitty patted her eyes with a handkerchief. “I’m not really crying. I’m very upset. I don’t know what to think.”

  “You’re overwrought.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Let’s have some lunch then.”

  “I know the difference between being upset and being hungry,” Kitty said, annoyed.

  “Fine. Then I don’t think you should stop working. Who is this quack you consulted?”

  “He’s Mrs. Vanderwell’s physician. One of the best in Manhattan.”

  “You’re all worked up because one girl has died.”

  “Yes,” Kitty replied with force. “I am.”

  Julian looked at her silently. Then he brushed an invisible speck of dust from his trousers. “I think you should put this behind you.”

  “I can’t.”

  “We all must leave this world sometime, Capability. None of us are exempt.”

  “I know that, but not so young. Not for no reason.”

  “You know the reason. You may not like it, but you know it.” A hint of annoyance crept into his voice.

  “I don’t want to believe it’s true.”

  Julian Weeks sighed loudly. “You’re impossible… The best way to let go is to say our good-byes as best we can. Why don’t you pay a condolence visit?”

  It took a minute, but Kitty brightened. “Could I?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “Well, the funeral was just yesterday… But I’ll go,” she said, “if you’ll come with me.”

  Chapter Six

  Leafless trees creaked in the wind as the black Packard snaked through snow-covered Central Park with the Weekses in the passenger seat.

  “I’m only coming along,” Julian Weeks grumbled, “because I’m concerned about your health, and you are too young to pay a condolence call on your own.”

  “Thank you.” Normally, Mr. Weeks didn’t mind what other people thought, but in this case, Kitty was glad to have him with her. She wouldn’t have felt right going by herself to a stranger’s house at a time like this.

  The Packard emerged from the park, which separated the west side of town from the east, and pulled up, a mere half a block farther, in front of a town house between Fifth Avenue and Madison. A Christmas wreath festooned with ribbons and gold bells still hung from the bright-red front door. Ornate stone carvings framed the windows.

  A uniformed maid came to the door and took Mr. Weeks’s card. She returned in a minute. “This way please, sir.”

  Kitty first saw Mrs. Bright playing solitaire in a puffy armchair in the parlor. A rakishly handsome young man stood beside the crackling fireplace; he turned as the Weekses entered and ran a hand through his wavy blond hair. “I’ll be on my way then.” He nodded at the newcomers.

  Mrs. Bright snapped a ten of hearts below the jack and didn’t acknowledge his departure. The young man vacated the room with a casual backward glance at Kitty and Mr. Weeks.

  “I’m sorry. We don’t mean to disturb you,” Julian Weeks said, still standing.

  Mrs. Bright held on to her cards. “My maid tells me your daughter knew Elspeth?” She gestured vaguely toward the sofa. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.”

  “My daughter recently met Miss Bright,” Mr. Weeks replied. “And when she heard what happened, well, she was distressed and wanted to pay her respects. We won’t keep you long.”

  Mrs. Bright smiled wanly. “I’m tired. Otherwise, you could stay as long as you like. I have nothing left to do, and I’m in no hurry…” As if to illustrate her exhaustion, her words petered off. She placed her hands in her lap. There was something still about her, as though she was accustomed to waiting.

  A family portrait above the mantelpiece showed a younger Elspeth with her parents, sedate Mrs. Bright and an impassive gentleman with muttonchop whiskers. Two boys, twins about four or five years old, stood in front of them, both in little white suits with their hair neatly combed and parted to the side.

  Below the painting, two bouquets of irises flanked a more recent photograph of Elspeth in a silver frame. She stared dreamily off into the distance.

  Mrs. Bright caught Kitty looking. “She’s lovely, isn’t she?”

  “A beauty,” Kitty agreed. “I was impressed by her from the moment we met. She told me she wanted to go college.”

  Her mother smiled. “How did you meet my daughter, Miss—”

  “Weeks,” Julian Weeks replied.

  “I’m a reporter at the Ladies’ Page of the New York Sentinel. I met Miss Bright while I was writing a story about Westfield Hall, and then I met her again last week at Tipton’s.”

  Two spots of color appeared on the mother’s cheeks. “You did?”

  “I thought I might write a story about her. She would have cleared it with you first.”

  Mrs. Bright tilted her head. “I doubt it. If she wanted something, Elspeth would act first and ask questions later… May I ask what you spoke about?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid. We were interrupted by a mother of a school friend, a Mrs. Marquand. I had hoped to learn more about Miss Bright’s scientific studies and ambitions.”

  Mrs. Bright nodded. “The Marquands live down the street from us. She’s very nosy.”

  “That’s what Miss Bright said.”

  Mrs. Bright closed her eyes. She kept them closed for so long—at least five or ten seconds—that Kitty wondered if it was some kind of signal for them to leave, but then she opened them again. “You liked my daughter?”

  “I didn’t know her well, but what I saw, I liked very much.”

  “Can you be discreet, Miss Weeks?”

  Kitty glanced at her father. “I believe so. I hope I am.”

  Mr. Weeks shifted slightly in his seat but didn’t interrupt.

  “I could use your help,” Mrs. Bright said.

  Mr. Weeks turned to look at the woman squarely. “What kind of help, Mrs. Bright?”

  Elspeth’s mother picked up the deck and separated the cards into two piles. “Elspeth must have had something on her mind, something that was gnawing at her. She wouldn’t have walked in her sleep otherwise.” The cards whirred as she shuffled them in her lap. “She did it often when she was a child,” Mrs. Bright went on. “But we were assured she would grow out of it, and she did. But from time to time, whenever something troubled her, she would wander off into the night. This time, whatever was bothering her led to her death. And I need to know what it was.”

  “I’m sorry, I wish I could help you, but she didn’t tell me anything,” Kitty replied. “As a matter of fact, she seemed to me to be in very good spirits.”

  “She must have had something on her mind.” Mrs. Bright held on to the thought as though it were a life preserver. “I’m sure her friends would know.”

  “Then perhaps you should speak to them,” Kitty suggested gently.

  Mrs. Bright looked up at Kitty. “Perhaps you could ask them for me.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Kitty didn’t know how to respond. “I don’t think—”

  Julian Weeks intervened. “My daughter isn’t acquainted with Miss Bright’s friends, and she wouldn’t want to pry into her personal affairs.”

  “Miss Weeks wouldn’t be prying; she would be helping—and at my request. I’ve been torturing myself, wondering what was on Elspeth’s mind. And you know how young women are—they don’t tell us old folks anything.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not my daughter’s place.” Mr. Weeks sounded firm, and Kitty could tell he’d had e
nough.

  “It’s just one or two girls.” Mrs. Bright spoke with a hint of desperation. “Prudence Marquand and the head girl from Westfield, Georgina Howell. They were both here for dinner the night Elspeth died.”

  “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Bright. I’m very sorry for your loss. Now Miss Weeks and I must be on our way.” Julian Weeks stood.

  Mrs. Bright cast an imploring look at Kitty. “Thank you for visiting, my dear. It gives me some small measure of comfort to know that Elspeth had such a powerful effect on strangers.”

  “That she most certainly did,” Kitty said.

  Mr. Weeks waited until the door to the Brights’ home closed behind them. “I feel sorry for her, Capability, but she has no right to parlay any sympathy you might feel into the idea that you would do a favor of that sort for her. How can she imagine that you would be willing to poke around in her dead daughter’s business?”

  Kitty climbed into the Packard. “It’s ridiculous.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

  The car pulled away from the red door with the Christmas wreath. Kitty hoped that her father would take her silence to mean that she and he were in agreement.

  Chapter Seven

  “Have you discussed New Year’s Eve with Mr. Weeks yet?” Helena Busby inquired the following morning. “Will he allow you to go out?” She had scribbled notes on a copy of the day’s paper with headlines announcing MODIFIED CONSCRIPTION FOR BRITAIN and OUR RELATIONS WITH AUSTRIA ACUTE.

  “Oh.” Kitty’s hand flew to her forehead. “I’m sorry, Miss Busby. It slipped my mind.”

  “Slipped your mind, Miss Weeks? It’s the twenty-ninth already, and you are usually so chop-chop with things. Do you not wish to undertake this assignment?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not myself at the moment,” Kitty confessed.

  “Well, you better become yourself again, or I might have to rethink our arrangement.”

  Kitty took that to mean the arrangement that she and Miss Busby had come to in August, whereby she wrote the feature stories and interviews, and Jeannie handled the regular pieces like contests, advice columns, and so on.

  Miss Busby raised her eyebrows. “Do you have any ideas for next month?”

  “I thought perhaps I might interview Madame Alice Guy Blaché,” Kitty suggested. “She’s married, and I believe she owns her own film studio out in Fort Lee, New Jersey. She’s been making films since they were first invented.”

  “What is this fascination with cinema?” Helena Busby burst out. “Pictures, heroines, drama—do you girls ever think about anything else? For next month, we need something different. A piece that straddles tradition and originality, the old and the new—”

  “Could you give me an example?”

  “Well.” Miss Busby paused. “For instance, Mrs. Alva Belmont will be producing a suffragist operetta featuring all the best debutantes in the city.”

  “Now, that’s interesting.” Society ladies often put up tableaux or plays to raise funds for charitable causes. And the slate for the first months of 1916 included a Ball of the Gods, a pageant at the Astor, based on the premise that a sibyl had summoned the gods of Egypt, Hindustan, and Greece to the island of Cyprus; a black-and-white ball at Sherry’s; and for the first time ever, a photoplay—the old-fashioned term for what many now simply called the “movies”—enticingly titled The Flame of Kapur.

  Even society was modernizing its offerings, so why not Miss Busby? “Let’s interview Mrs. Belmont,” Kitty said.

  Miss Busby laughed. “You want to interview Alva Belmont?”

  “Is there something wrong with that?”

  “She’s a tyrant. Grown men have been reduced to tears in her presence. And she’s been divorced.”

  “Miss Busby, we can’t bridge the gap between old and new if we refuse to speak to divorcées.” Mrs. Belmont had parted ways with her first husband, William K. Vanderbilt, and married Mr. Oliver Hazard Perry Belmont, who had died, leaving her a wealthy widow. She had orchestrated the wedding of her daughter, Consuelo Vanderbilt to the Duke of Marlborough, a marriage that had been considered a great accomplishment but ended in separation.

  “I hate to say it, but you may be right.” Miss Busby sighed. “Times are changing, and we must make allowances. Some allowances,” Miss Busby added, in order to clarify that she wasn’t giving Kitty free rein. “There’s only one problem. I wouldn’t know how to reach her.”

  “Isn’t she involved with the Women’s Congressional Union?” The group was a suffragist organization, and—if Kitty recalled correctly—Elspeth Bright had mentioned at the tearoom that her mother was a member.

  “Mrs. Belmont is the Congressional Union’s most important benefactor.”

  “Leave it to me then.” Kitty was beginning to see a way she could use the confluence of interests to her advantage.

  Miss Busby stared at the mess of papers on her desk. “Divorced women remarrying, widows in the White House. It’s a struggle to keep up. Do you think me terribly old-fashioned, Miss Weeks?”

  “I think you run a very successful section of the paper, Miss Busby. You know what appeals to our readers. We attract the best advertisers. I’m proud to work here.”

  “Really?” The wrinkled face looked up at her.

  “Don’t doubt yourself now, Miss Busby. It will be a new dawn for the Ladies’ Page.” And as she said the words, Kitty realized she believed them.

  Chapter Eight

  “You’re back, Miss Kitty.” Grace opened the door to the apartment on West End Avenue.

  “Do we have visitors?” Kitty held out her arms, and the maid helped her off with her coat.

  “Mr. and Miss Lane. They’ve been here for the past hour.”

  “Is that you, Capability?” Mr. Weeks called from his study. “Come on in.”

  Hugo Lane and Mr. Weeks sat side by side in armchairs, smoking cigars, while Sylvia Lane graced the sofa opposite.

  “I hope you don’t mind the smoke,” she said to Kitty. “It’s Hugo’s bad influence on your father.”

  Kitty took a seat beside her. “I rather like the smell. So much nicer than cigarettes.”

  “How was work?” Mr. Weeks blew out a puff, evidently enjoying himself.

  “Fine, thanks.”

  “I think it’s wonderful that you work,” Miss Lane put in. “Every young woman should if she can.”

  Her brother laughed. “Don’t listen to Sylvia. She’ll have you up in arms, petitioning for the rights of women, if you give her the opening.”

  Miss Lane turned to Kitty. “Do you have any interesting assignments coming up?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” Kitty looked at her father. “I forgot to ask you—in a rare departure from form, Miss Busby wants me to do something risqué. She’d like Jeannie Williams and me to cover the New Year’s Eve revels in Times Square.”

  “I’ve heard about that!” Miss Lane clapped her hands. “Don’t they drop a ball?”

  “I don’t know, Capability.” Kitty’s father examined the tip of his cigar. “Those things can get boisterous quickly. Everyone will have had too much to drink. The young fellows will be out to have a good time.”

  Kitty had anticipated his objection. And to be honest, she didn’t care to be pinched or groped in the crowd. “I’ll ask Rao to come with us. And afterward, we’ll go straight back to the paper and write the story in time for the morning deadline.”

  “When would you come home?”

  “Two o’clock?” Kitty hazarded a guess.

  “Two in the morning! That’s beyond the pale.”

  “Oh, let her go,” Miss Lane intervened. “She’s only going to be young once.”

  Mr. Weeks stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray. “Suppose something goes wrong?”

  “I can take care of myself,” Kitty said. “And I won’t be
alone. I can bring Grace too—I’m sure she’d like to come along.”

  “Try to remember how you felt when you were her age, Julian,” Miss Lane added.

  Kitty noted Miss Lane’s use of her father’s Christian name and the ease with which she participated in what was a family discussion. “I have to tell Miss Busby by tomorrow.”

  “And I take it you don’t want to disappoint her?” Julian Weeks asked. “I fear I will live to regret this.” He looked away for an instant. “But you can go if you must.”

  “Wonderful.” Miss Lane smiled at Kitty. “I will want to hear all about it.”

  Kitty smiled back at her smartly dressed and unexpected ally. Miss Lane really did look attractive in the peacock-blue jacket that skimmed her narrow shoulders and unexpectedly complemented the coppery-red of her hair.

  She telephoned Mrs. Bright after the Lanes left and Mr. Weeks headed out to his club. Although she didn’t relish having to ask a recently bereaved woman for a favor, she thought it would provide a good cover if at some point she had to explain to her father why she reinitiated contact.

  “It’s Capability Weeks,” Kitty said when Mrs. Bright came on the line. “We met yesterday.”

  “I remember you.”

  “I wanted to say that I would be happy to speak to Miss Bright’s friends if that is still something you would like me to do.”

  “I would—but you must promise me something. I don’t want you to tell anyone else what you find out. Rumors spread. I don’t want to see stories about my daughter printed in the press.”

  “Oh no, Mrs. Bright. This is strictly personal, a favor to you.” And, thought Kitty, for Elspeth.

  “Thank you for understanding.” She gave Kitty Prudence Marquand’s address. “And as for Miss Howell, she lives at school, so speaking to her might be more difficult. She’s a scholarship girl, no parents. It’s why we invited her for Christmas.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Kitty said and then changed tack. “May I ask you something, Mrs. Bright? If this isn’t the right time, please let me know. It won’t in any way affect my decision to speak to Miss Marquand and Miss Howell.”