Murder between the Lines

by Radha Vatsal

  She flipped through the pages, and a note fell out, written in a neat schoolgirl script.

  Dear Miss Weeks,

  I know you are a reporter and that it’s your job to find the truth. So please tell us this: Who are Georgina Howell’s parents? Don’t you wonder why Miss Howe-Jones chose her to be the head girl? Howe-Jones and Howell—I think those names sound similar. What is your opinion?

  Kitty stared at the words. Virginia must have written this. Seeing her come out of the principal’s office a second time suggested that she was a girl who regularly got into trouble. If so, perhaps she was trying to fan the flames of mischief and pay back the headmistress for humiliating her in front of Kitty before the holidays. Schoolgirls loved to make a mountain out of a molehill, loved intrigues, loved to make up stories. And as much as Kitty’s teachers, the Misses Dancey, had tried to maintain a calm atmosphere, they couldn’t keep envy, jealousy, or rumors at bay. How much harder that would be at Westfield Hall, where girls were openly punished and allowed to take nasty jabs at one another in the yearbook.

  She telephoned Mrs. Bright while Mr. Weeks dressed for dinner in his rooms.

  “You really shouldn’t be calling, Miss Weeks,” Mrs. Bright said.

  “I was wondering whether Georgina Howell was staying with you.”

  “Why would Georgina be here?”

  “Well, she mentioned she would be in town, so I thought perhaps, since she doesn’t have any family…”

  “She isn’t with us,” Mrs. Bright said stiffly. “I don’t know what’s going on with that school, letting its students roam about.”

  “Would you happen to know anything about Georgina’s parents, Mrs. Bright?”

  “Oh.” The line went quiet. “I believe they died years ago in a boating accident.”

  • • •

  Lieutenant Charles Cooke, commander of the E-2 submarine, testified before the Naval Board of Inquiry that on September 9, 1915, he had requested, in writing, hydrogen-detecting apparatus for the E-2 because he believed that “the possible danger to be apprehended in the use of the Edison battery is an explosion of hydrogen.” His letter was never answered.

  Kitty read the morning papers in bed, feeling sniffly and slightly feverish after yesterday’s open-air drive.

  Lieutenant Cooke also testified that he had requested individual voltmeters to be installed on each one of the cells of the E-2’s batteries. The recommendation was turned down by the department and by the Edison Storage Battery Company. In fact, Mr. Hutchison, Mr. Edison’s chief engineer, told him those safety measures weren’t required. Lieutenant Cooke also said that the tests underway at the time of the E-2’s explosion had been made at the request of the Edison staff.

  “Lieutenant Cooke, youthful in appearance, alert, and expert in matters pertaining to submarines, was the only witness appearing before the court yesterday afternoon,” the article said. “He answered all questions in carefully measured words. It is doubtful if a clearer-speaking witness ever appeared before a naval court. Not once was he at a loss for an answer for any question.”

  Kitty sipped her tea and took a bite of Mrs. Codd’s homemade scone. She couldn’t understand how the commander of the submarine, who was not a scientist, had suspected the possibility of danger when no one else appeared to have been worried by it. The story didn’t provide an explanation for his suspicions. And in light of all the death and destruction the explosion had caused, it was alarming to think that when Cooke alerted the authorities, no one paid attention.

  She dragged herself out of bed and dressed for work. The graze on her cheek had almost faded.

  “Not feeling well enough to take breakfast with me but well enough to go to the Sentinel?” Mr. Weeks said as she passed him on her way out.

  Kitty inclined her head and said, with what she hoped sounded like regret, “Nothing like that. I just woke up late.” She sucked on a lozenge.

  He nodded and returned to his coffee while she left for the day, not enjoying the tension between them but believing that avoidance would be better than a quarrel. They hadn’t spoken much over dinner the previous night.

  As Rao drove her downtown, Kitty fingered Virginia’s note in her pocketbook. She still didn’t know what to make of it. Kitty closed her eyes and pictured Miss Howe-Jones and Miss Howell side by side. She was struck by the similarity of their names, but it was hard to judge the similarity of their looks: Georgina’s youthful face was sweet and open; Miss Howe-Jones’s mouth seemed perpetually puckered in disapproval. If there was a family resemblance, it wasn’t readily apparent.

  • • •

  “We should have a room coming available at the boardinghouse next month.” Jeannie and Kitty sat side by side at their desks in the front of the hen coop. “If you want it, you should hand in a deposit soon.”

  “I’m not certain that I’m ready to take the leap quite yet,” Kitty replied. “But I will keep it in mind.”

  “Is something the matter at home?”

  Kitty picked up her files. “No, no.” She made her way to Miss Busby’s alcove.

  “Mrs. Belmont read your story yesterday,” the editor said. “And I’m pleased to tell you that it passed muster.”

  “So it will print in Saturday’s Page?”

  “That’s correct.” Miss Busby flipped through the papers on her desk. “Along with a photograph of Mrs. Belmont, Miss Maxwell, the actresses, and the debutantes. It’s going to be quite a departure for us.”

  Kitty smiled. “Actresses on the Ladies’ Page—”

  Miss Busby finished the sentence for her. “What is the world coming to? By the way, Mrs. Belmont informs me that the ladies of the Congressional Union plan to meet the president when he’s in Manhattan, and they’d like us to join the press that will cover the event.”

  “It’s an event?” Kitty pulled up a chair. “Where does it take place?”

  “At the Waldorf Hotel. Mrs. Belmont and her friends from the Woman’s Congressional Union plan to press him on the urgency of a constitutional amendment giving women the right to vote.”

  “And you approve of this, Miss Busby?”

  “We’ve stayed out of politics for all these years… Quite frankly, I’m of two minds, Miss Weeks. But Mrs. Belmont isn’t an easy person to say no to.”

  Kitty was dying to write the story. Finally, she’d be treated like a member of the press corps, but she didn’t want to do it just because her editor hadn’t been able to resist Alva Belmont’s influence.

  “Would it be good for the Page?” she said.

  Miss Busby bit her lip. “Mrs. Belmont is persuasive.”

  “Mrs. Belmont doesn’t run the Ladies’ Page, Miss Busby. You do.”

  “You’re right, Miss Weeks.” The editor sighed. “It’s just that I used to feel I could exert my will over what we print, but nowadays, it seems the world exerts its will over me. Mark the day in your calendar in any case. It’s the twenty-seventh. Kaiser Wilhelm’s birthday.”

  “I will, Miss Busby.” Kitty hid her smile. Only Herman Musser could have supplied Helena Busby with a fact like that.

  • • •

  Although she was exhausted, Kitty asked Rao to drive her to see Amanda—she had been so busy, she hadn’t had time to think about her friend’s return, something she had longed for from the day Amanda kissed her on both cheeks and sailed for England. New York would be a better place now that Amanda Vanderwell was back in town. Even a small dose of her breezy social commentary could lift Kitty’s spirits. The buildings’ shadows would seem shorter, the days brighter with Miss Vanderwell’s contagious smile and charming—but astute—observations. In a different time and place, Amanda could have made something of herself. She could have been a general leading troops into battle, Kitty thought, or a prime minister charting her nation’s course through stormy seas. She had a knack for drawing people to her, a
nd somehow, they ended up doing what she wanted.

  “Capability,” Mrs. Vanderwell called from the parlor as soon as Kitty set foot inside the brownstone. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Is everything all right?” Kitty said, surprised that mother and daughter weren’t together.

  “Amanda’s upstairs in her room.” Mrs. Vanderwell’s soft features quivered. “She has changed so much. I barely recognized her. Go see for yourself. Maybe you can cheer her up.” She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

  Kitty dashed to the second floor and knocked on the second door down the darkened landing—another instance of the Vanderwells saving on electric bills.

  “Come in,” a voice called.

  Amanda sat curled in an antique slipper chair beside the fireplace, a silk blanket over her knees.

  Kitty rushed over to give her friend a hug. Amanda, one of the prettiest girls in the city, had lost about ten pounds, her face was gaunt, and her eyes had lost their luster.

  “I look a mess, don’t I?” Amanda summoned a smile. “While you look radiant. In the very pink of health.”

  Kitty laughed. “That makes me seem like a ruddy farm girl.”

  “Not anymore. Good health is all the rage. Ask the men who have lost arms or legs or eyes… They’re never going to be what they once were. They just settle for being alive… What a life.”

  “Was it so bad?” Kitty pulled a chair up beside her.

  “Bad? It was awful! I can’t begin to tell you, Capability. That’s why I didn’t write.” She ran both hands through her hair. “Men falling like flies—and those were the ones who hadn’t already died on the battlefield. I’ve seen so many men injured. So many maimed. The nurse said I would grow accustomed to it, but I never did.”

  Kitty had never heard Amanda talk like this.

  “I can’t tell you what I saw, Capability. Skin charred like a crackled pig. Bleeding lungs. Dark hollows where eyes should be. Ears blown off. And then I come home, and I hear that the president wants us to prepare. For what?” She held Kitty’s arm so tightly that Kitty thought her sleeve might rip. “To see all our young men shot to pieces?”

  “I’m so sorry, Amanda.”

  “Don’t feel sorry for me. You made the right decision not to attend the training.” Amanda had tried to convince Kitty to leave the Sentinel and join her as a nurse last summer.

  “Only because I’m a reporter at heart,” Kitty replied. “I don’t have any special powers of intuition.”

  “Well, I wish I had been something at heart and never gone. What I’ve seen and heard can’t be undone. I will never stop having nightmares.”

  Kitty clasped her friend’s hand, and the two girls sat together for a few minutes in silence.

  “So distract me, Miss Weeks. What have you been working on lately?” Amanda said presently.

  Kitty told her about Mrs. Belmont.

  “Ah, Alva, Alva, Alva.” Amanda’s lips curled upward.

  “Have you met her often?”

  “Not so much. She’s been busy with her suffrage work ever since I’ve come of age, but I feel as though I know her well. One reads about her constantly.”

  Hearing the hint of lightness in Amanda’s tone gave Kitty hope. “There’s something else,” she said. “Something mysterious. At least, I think it’s mysterious; no one else seems bothered.”

  Amanda slowly rose and took a turn about the room. “I don’t think I can hear it. I don’t have the stomach for any more horrors.”

  At that moment, Kitty felt as though she’d lost both her best friend and a trusted confidante.

  “I’m sorry, Capability.” Amanda turned to the window and looked out.

  “No, I’m sorry that I brought it up. In your condition—it was very thoughtless of me.”

  The fire crackled in the hearth. Kitty wracked her memory for some diverting anecdote. Amanda might be amused by stories of Miss Lane, but Kitty wasn’t ready to joke about her yet.

  Amanda looked over her shoulder. “Is it very important to you?”

  “Oh no, not at all.”

  “I may not be myself”—Amanda managed a grin—“but I can still tell when you’re lying.”

  Kitty didn’t deny it.

  “All right, tell me about this mysterious case.”

  “Are you sure? There’s sleepwalking and a death. Schoolgirls and submarines.”

  “Now I am intrigued.” Amanda settled into her chair as Kitty launched into her account of Elspeth Bright.

  “Where to begin,” Amanda said when Kitty finished. “First, Westfield Hall—my aunt Felicia went there. And she always said Miss Howe-Jones was an excellent headmistress but kept her students on a very short leash, which is why Mummy never sent me. She thought I wouldn’t survive. And she was probably right. You know me. I’m a wreck without home-cooked meals.”

  Now she was beginning to sound like the Amanda of old. Kitty pictured Mrs. Vanderwell sending daily hampers to Amanda at the boarding school—Miss Howe-Jones would throw a fit.

  “Second, I’m sorry to hear about Elspeth. I knew her when she was younger. She used to come around sometimes. I’m not surprised to hear she had a scientific bent… Lastly, I have some experience with sleepwalkers.”

  “You have? When?”

  “Half of the men at the convalescent home had some form of disturbed rest. Some cried out; others muttered in their dreams. The ones with legs walked around. Once, when I was on night duty, one of the fellows opened the door and went outside. I had to bring him back, but I wasn’t allowed to wake him—that would have been too distressing in his fragile condition.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I lightly placed my hand on his shoulder and led him in the direction that I wanted him to go.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  “You just led him along, and he went where you wanted?”

  “That’s right.” Amanda nodded.

  “And he didn’t wake up?” Kitty felt the flickering of an idea.

  “No.”

  “Do you think it could work in reverse? I mean, could someone who was prone to sleepwalking somehow be urged into getting up and going out without being aware of it?”

  “Oh. I haven’t given that any thought… I suppose it might be possible. But you said she was wearing a coat and boots. That would be harder to orchestrate, I think, without waking her up. It’s a very trancelike state, you know. There’s almost something mystical about it.”

  Kitty took a deep breath. “There’s something else. One of the girls who was there that evening has gone missing.” While Kitty described the details surrounding Georgina Howell’s disappearance, Gilbert the maid brought tea and muffins and waited, nodding with approval as Amanda took a bite. Kitty sensed that Amanda hadn’t been eating well, so she told the story with care, being sure not to leave out a single detail, and kept one eye on the tray, watching Amanda slowly make her way through two of the little cakes.

  “You must find her,” Amanda said after Kitty had completed her account. “It’s clear she admires you and that she wants to become a newswoman. You should help her.”

  “And you don’t think I’m meddling?”

  “Of course you are meddling, but that’s your job. If you don’t want to meddle, you should go back to judging contests and reporting on who was wearing what, when, and where. But as far as I can tell, if you want to write something that counts, you’re going to have to be prepared to ruffle some feathers.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “I know I’m right. You can’t make omelets without breaking eggs.”

  “I have to get my hands dirty.”

  “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.” Amanda laughed.

  Kitty hugged her friend. “I’ve missed you. I’m
so glad you’re back.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Kitty telephoned Westfield Hall from home that afternoon, but Miss Howe-Jones, sounding tense, told her that there was still no news of the missing head girl. Kitty then called the Sentinel and asked to speak to Mr. Mills.

  “Would you do me another favor?” she said. “Would you speak to your contacts at the police department and find out if a young woman, about seventeen or eighteen years old with dark hair, has been brought in or”—Kitty hated to say it—“a body matching that description has been found?”

  “Sooner or later, you’re going to have to tell me what this is for,” the reporter replied. “And I think you should tell me now.”

  “I promise, I will, Mr. Mills. As soon as I understand it myself.”

  “The Ladies’ Page won’t print this, Miss Weeks. It’s going to have to be a news story—and in that case, I’m sharing the credit.”

  “Absolutely. Thank you, Mr. Mills.” Kitty hung up the line. She didn’t care about credit. All she wanted to know was where Georgina was—and why.

  She needed to start looking for the Westfield Hall girl at once. A young, friendless girl in Manhattan would probably seek shelter in a boardinghouse.

  In a burst, Kitty’s recent exertions caught up with her. Her throat felt sore and her head hot. Sucking lozenges all day had kept her going, but now, she lay in bed—for just a minute—and woke up, still fully dressed, the next morning.

  Grace brought her breakfast and the newspaper. “Mr. Weeks said you must be tired, Miss Kitty. You slept for fifteen hours.”

  “I feel refreshed.” Kitty had showered, spritzed some eau de cologne on her wrists, and changed into a clean set of clothes, but she didn’t say no to eating in her room so that she could pore over the latest E-2 stories without being asked questions.

  The Naval Board of Inquiry had warned Mr. Edison’s representative, Miller Reese Hutchison, that the Edison Company was an “interested party” in the inquiries and that he must not make any statements to the press that might prejudice the public’s opinion as to why the explosion occurred.