“This area isn’t open to the public, Miss. You shouldn’t be back here without permission.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs.—”
“Augusta Dussainte. I am in charge of these records. And you are?”
“My name is Josephine Mann. I just…I was looking for some information, and I hoped perhaps I might find it in the archives, Mrs. Dussainte.”
“Miss Dussainte. I never did find any man I was willing to give up my name for.”
“Miss Dussainte, then. I have a most pressing matter that needs clarification.”
“What is it you are looking for?”
“I need to know more about a man named Clarence Smythe.”
She tsked. “You don’t need the archives for that, child. Everyone knows that name.”
“I don’t, or I wouldn’t need to ask about him.”
Shaking her head with a sigh, she turned and began shuffling back the way she’d come. I was at a loss until she looked back over her shoulder.
“You coming, or what?”
I hastened to follow her.
“I didn’t know there were any women working at this newspaper.”
“I’ve been here a long time, Miss Mann.” She chuckled. “I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that little upstart Tommy Greenstreet has completely forgotten I’m here. Still, it’s a roof over my head, and I don’t need a whole lot to get by.”
She led me through a warren of deep bookcases, high shelves rising to the rafters with neat rows of bound books about two feet high. The bookcases were interspersed with odd cabinets just over a foot wide with funny square drawers. Except for tiny paths between the bookcases, there was very little floor space. There must have been decades’ worth of newspapers filed away in these archives. How would anyone find anything in such a labyrinth?
At the rear of the maze was a five-foot-square cleared space with a small roll-top desk and two chairs. To the right side of the desk were a pair of racks containing long wooden spindles bearing newspapers. Those must have been the more current editions. Behind the racks, in the shadows, was a table with a relatively empty surface. To read the papers on, perhaps?
To the left of the desk was a piece of furniture that reminded me of the podium that Father O’Malley used to use for his Bible. It held one of the books from the cases opened to a page of newsprint. So, that was what the books were for.
The desk was neat as a pin, cubbyholes neatly labeled in a spidery script. In the center of the desk was a square machine made of brass. There was some sort of glass window in the top of the machine, and a set of keys not unlike those on my new typewriter.
She plopped herself down in the chair behind the desk and gestured to the other.
“Have a seat, dearie.”
I did as I was bid.
“Now, child. Tell me more.”
Where to begin? How much should I reveal?
I’d always been told to begin at the beginning, so I did. When I finished, she shook her head once more.
“Well, it’s no secret why Mr. Smythe would want the convent. I’m surprised you don’t know about this fellow, Miss Mann. He’s quite the entrepreneur—at least, the press says so.”
She stood and moved briskly down a branch of the path, cocking her head in front of a row of bound newspapers. Running her fingers along the shelf, she pulled a single volume from the array and brought it back to the desk. Then she turned to one of the strange little cabinets and pulled open a drawer about halfway down it. There were neat folders inside, and she flipped through them quickly, finally choosing one and bringing it to the desk as well.
She placed the folder on the desk, opening it to a clipped article and placing her finger on it.
“See, Mr. Smythe is a real estate mogul. He buys and sells land and buildings, always looking to make a profit. Read over this while I look for something else. If you want to see the context, the full paper is in that book there.”
I did as she instructed, skimming quickly through the article. The piece in the paper described a man who was well-respected in the community and donated heavily to charities. He had built an immense personal fortune and was well on his way to being one of the leaders of the bon ton—at least, according to this newspaper.
The article had no photographs, although I checked the page in the bound volume to make sure that nothing had been separated from the article when it had been clipped for the folder, but there was a description of Smythe that sounded like it could be the blackmailer. If so, what was he after? Surely the convent wasn’t worth enough to be of interest to a real estate mogul…was it?
Anyone with any sense would know that Bridget had no control of its disposition anyway. It belonged to the Church, and that august body was not known for giving away their properties.
Miss Dussainte sat down beside me at the desk. She pushed a button on the side of her machine, and the glass window lit up with a white glow. Her fingers flew over the brass keys, and images began to flicker across the window.
“Where did that contraption come from?” I asked in awe.
She winked. “Just something I’ve been tinkering with. I call it the News Service.”
Was everyone in the world an inventor but me? It was becoming annoying. Still, once I finished my steam iron…
“Here,” she said at last. “This is why Mr. Smythe might be willing to go outside the law for that convent of yours.”
She turned the machine toward me, and I saw the image of an entire newspaper page captured in the window. Her device was most fascinating. Alistair would love it! I would have to ask her for more details later. Now, however, I kept my mind on the business at hand, and read through the relevant article on the screen.
The story detailed a plan to make use of a strip of land to build some fashionable homes for the elite, to create a neighborhood in the heart of the city for the rich. The convent sat squarely in the middle of it.
“But the convent is the property of the Church, and it has been used for one purpose or another for almost two hundred years. Why on earth would this Smythe think that Mother Mary Frances has anything at all to do with its disposition?”
“I sincerely doubt the gentleman is really cognizant of the ins and outs of the Church, my dear. He doesn’t strike me as a good Catholic.” Her eyes twinkled with amusement.
“You have a point,” I conceded with a laugh. “So, now we know the why…but what is there to do about it?”
“That is your concern, Miss Mann,” she said with a sigh. “All I do is collect the newspapers—and archive them in those books and folders. Then, I add them to my News Service here when I have the time.” She turned off the machine, rose to her feet, and picked up the folder lying on the desk. “And now I have work to do.”
I recognized dismissal and rose as well.
“Thank you for the information, Miss Dussainte. I really appreciate the help.” I reached into my reticule for a tip.
“Lord, child! Don’t you dare pull any money out of that bag of yours. I didn’t help you for any remuneration. You brought me an interesting question. That happens rarely these days. And I don’t get many opportunities to show off my handiwork.” She patted the top of the machine.
“Well, I will definitely come back if the situation arises,” I answered with a smile, surreptitiously dropping five dollars on the floor beside the desk. Alistair was paying me a more than ample wage—I had already vowed I would get back the money for the typewriter from him—and I was sure she could use the money, despite her protests.
There was also something I believed would compensate her for her time that would be far more to her liking.
“Miss Dussainte?” I called after her retreating form.
“Yes?”
“Would you like to see an invention of my own?”
All right, I know that was stretching things a bit, but I had helped to build Phaeton—at least in some slight way—and explaining his entire parentage would take more time than necessary.
“Well, I suppose I could spare you a few more minutes.”
“Wait here at the desk,” I told her, and went to fetch Phaeton.
He had a bit of trouble navigating the narrow pathways between the bookcases without bringing the bound shelves of newsprint crashing down about our ears, but we made it back to the desk without incident.
“Augusta Dussainte, may I present Phaeton? Phaeton, this is my new friend, Miss Dussainte.”
He took her hand gently and bowed over it. Her mouth hung open in wonder.
“Oh! Miss—may I call you Josephine? And you must call me Augusta. This is the most marvelous man…what is he made of?” She began rattling off questions at a mile a minute. Most of them, I had absolutely no clue how to answer.
Luckily, Phaeton did, and he proceeded to do so. I believe I learned quite as much as she did!
At one point, I left them at it and popped next door to the café where Alistair had officially become my employer to purchase sandwiches and lemonade. I don’t think they even noticed I was gone.
All in all, it was a delightful diversion, and it was with great reluctance that I finally called a halt to the proceedings.
“I am terribly sorry, Augusta, but, like you, we have other business we must attend to. I will be sure to look you up again next time I am in the neighborhood.”
She sighed. “I’m sorry to see you go, Josephine. I haven’t had this much fun in a very long time. Bring back my gentleman caller here next time you come.” She winked again, and then led us to the doorway.
Impulsively, I hugged her. She looked like she could use a hug.
“Thank you, dear,” she murmured in my ear, before shooing us out the door and locking it behind us.
More time had passed in the dusty office than I’d realized. It was nearing sundown when we exited the building. I stood for a moment contemplating options. I could make another trip to the convent, but it was almost time for evening prayers, and what I had to report could wait until morning.
“Let’s go home,” I told my companion.
“Yes, Mistress Jo.” He took a step in the right direction and then turned back to me. “I am supposed to give you this.” He held out his hand. It held a five-dollar bill.
I shook my head in despair of ever understanding the human psyche and went home to my cat.
~*~
When we arrived at the boarding house, I sent Phaeton back to the laboratory and filled Ma in on all the events of the day. She deserved to know what was going on. Besides, she was a fellow Catholic, and might be able to see nuances to the situation that were eluding me.
“At least ya’ve some idea what the gentleman is after now,” she said with a frown. “It all makes a bit more sense. Still, if this gent’s as rich and powerful as ya say, he should know better! It’s bad business tryin’ to steal from the Church. What is tha man thinkin’?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know, Ma. It’s all ridiculous. There isn’t any way the archdiocese will ever concede to giving up the property, no matter what this Smythe person does to Mother Mary Frances or her reputation.” It was all so frustrating!
Ma crossed herself.
“It’s not somethin’ ya should be involved in, Josephine Mann. Yer friend should tell tha bishop at once what’s goin’ on and let him decide what to do next. Especially since there’s no truth to the allegations he plans t’ spread.”
“You have a point. I’ll mention it to Brid—Mother Mary Frances first thing tomorrow.” I stifled a yawn behind my hand. “It’s been a long day, and it’s just barely sundown. I’m going to go to my room and cuddle my cat.”
“You do that, luv. I’ll bring ya up a tray with soup and sandwiches in a few minutes.”
“That sounds good, Ma. Thank you.”
All the walking around town and the emotions of the day were catching up with me. I opened the door of my room with a sigh.
“Priss…where are you, baby?”
There was a plaintive little mew from the direction of the bed.
“Priss?”
I put my reticule down on the table and went down on my knees beside the bed. I lifted the counterpane and found Priss lying on her side, panting.
“Sweetie? What is it?”
She blinked, and emitted a tired little sigh.
“Priss…?”
A sad meow was my only answer, and then she went back to panting, her sides heaving like bellows.
“Ma!” I yelled. “Ma, help!”
She came pounding up the stairs and burst through the open door.
“What on earth is wrong, Jo?”
“It’s Priss. Something is wrong with her,” I sobbed, my face damp with tears.
She knelt beside me and peered under the bed.
“Oh, luv, it’s just her time.” She sat back on her heels with a laugh.
“Is she dying?”
“No, dear. She’s having her kittens.”
“Oh…” I blinked. “Oh!” I repeated as all the ramifications struck me. “What should I do?”
“There’s a crate behind the back door. Go and fetch it. And bring some rags from the bin. Put a pot o’ water on tha stove t’ boil fer tea.” She reached under the bed and stroked Priss’s side. “It’s going to be a long night.”
I dashed down the stairs to collect the things she had sent me for. I was not prepared to be a grandmother!
Still, by the time it was all over, and Priss was nursing her four new babies, I was very much looking forward to the prospect. They were all such beautiful kittens. One was a fluffy orangey-yellow butterball I had already resolved to keep and name Butterscotch. Another was a gray-and-white shorthair with a darling pink nose like Priss. The third was solid black, and the fourth a tricolor tabby.
“We can’t keep them all…can we, Ma?”
She shook her head with a tired smile.
“I think it best we not, Jo. Cats are a handful, as y’know. The more ya have, the harder they are to take care of. Ya can keep the red one, since he’s obviously caught yer fancy so, but I think we have to find homes for the others. Didn’t you say Mrs. Estes would like a wee cat?”
“Oh, yes! And perhaps Alistair’s sister Catherine would take one. She was so disappointed when Priss turned out to be mine.”
“There you go. We’ll find a home for tha third one, I’m sure.”
I ran a fingertip along Butterscotch’s tiny head.
“Maybe Bridget would like one to help keep down the rats at the convent. There were always rats in the storerooms and basement.”
“That sounds like a wonderful idea.”
“Of course, that presumes there will be a convent that needs help with the rats.”
“Don’t talk like that, Josephine Mann! You will save the orphanage. I have every faith in you.” Ma pushed to her feet. “Now, ya go to bed. They’ll be fine till mornin’, and you’ve a big day tomorrow as well.” She patted me on the shoulder.
Good advice, I thought, face splitting in a yawn. Tomorrow will be quite a day.
Saturday evening, Amy found herself chatting with one insipid male after another as she stood with a glass of champagne in one hand and her eye on Phineas Forrest as he held court over the soiree.
Constance had wangled Amy an invitation as her guest. It had gotten the wannabe detective into Forrest’s brownstone, so that she could see about getting a look at that safe.
She didn’t expect to get into the safe, but if she could get a look at it, perhaps it would tell her something.
-- Garrett Goldthwaite
Analytical Amy and the Case of the Covetous Cad
Chapter 12
I was awakened much too early the next morning by odd little mewling, chirruping sorts of noises. For a moment, I was disoriented—and then I remembered the events of the previous evening. The kittens!
I bounded out of bed and went down on my knees beside the crate. The li
ttle darlings were blindly exploring the limits of their surroundings. Ma had explained to me that it could be as long as a week, or even more, before they opened their eyes. Poor dears!
I ached to pick Butterscotch up and cuddle him, but Ma had also told me that Priss wouldn’t like it when he was so young. It might even make her reject him, and that was the last thing I wanted to happen. I couldn’t resist stroking his little head with a finger, though. He was so incredibly soft. Even softer than the velvet of my new coat.
I still could not fathom exactly how Priss had gotten herself into this predicament. I had always been very careful not to let her out, especially after she had been catnapped by Alistair’s nephew. Still, Ma figured it must have been about the time of the chaos surrounding Phaeton’s troubles that Priss had gotten herself in the family way, and I knew she had escaped twice in those few days. I would have to question Vanessa and see if anything untoward had happened when we’d had to leave her in their care.
I was tempted to just send round a note to Bridget detailing what I had discovered at the newspaper office, but it could be considered sensitive information. I owed it to her to pop in myself.
I was just so tired…
Nothing for it. I dressed for visiting and stepped across the street to beg the use of the carriage. If I kept hailing cabs, I would quickly burn through what funds I had managed to save, at least until Alistair repaid me for the typing machine! Besides, I had promised I would go nowhere without either Phaeton or Roderick, and I hesitated to take Phaeton to the orphanage unless absolutely necessary. The children would love him, the nuns…not so much.
Vanessa opened the door at my knock.
“Oh, Miss Jo! Was Mrs. Emily expecting you this morning?”
“No, Vanessa, but I was hoping Roderick might be available for a trip uptown.”
“I’ll run out and ask him. The missus had a bad night. She slept very poorly, and I hate to disturb her if unless absolutely necessary.”
The Nearly Notorious Nun Page 8