The Matchmaker's Lonely Heart

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  “I suspect the same,” Michael said. He sighed and stepped back. The sarcophagus remained standing, its deceased inhabitant held eerily upright.

  Winston glanced at the group in the parlor as Michael took a handkerchief Miss Hampton handed to him. He wiped his fingers, noting the bright red smudge left behind on the fabric.

  “Suppose you begin questioning the guests in the parlor,” Michael said to Winston, “and I’ll send a messenger to the Yard and to Dr. Neville.

  “Does St. Vincent’s cover Mayfair?”

  “It is irrelevant, thankfully. I trust his skill more than any other.” Michael stopped himself from returning Miss Hampton’s stained handkerchief, instead folding it and awkwardly putting it in his pocket. He lifted a shoulder in apology, but she waved it off.

  He finally took a longer look at her face and noted the pallor. He should have insisted she join the other guests; as much as she claimed she was his “colleague,” she was not, and it was his duty to protect the public, not indulge them in playacting.

  “Join your cousins in the parlor,” he told her. “It is unseemly for you to be witness to this.”

  Color slowly returned to her cheeks, and she lifted her chin. “I am certain it is, however I am not my aunt’s niece for nothing. I . . .” She swallowed. “I want to know who did this.” Her eyes darted to the sarcophagus and back to him.

  In his periphery, Michael noted Winston turning toward the parlor. He called to him over his shoulder, “Send me one of the Van Hornes, please.”

  Winston nodded and left.

  “Miss Hampton, I do not yet know exactly what we have before us. I have much to do, but I do wish to speak with you later. Earlier, you thought you saw a person outside the conservatory. You may have witnessed the killer making his escape.”

  She frowned. “I am more than a witness, though; I can help you. You ought to deputize me.”

  He blinked. “Deputize you?”

  She nodded. “Then I shall be able to assist you in an official capacity. Temporarily, of course.”

  “Miss Hampton, I do not have the authority to deputize you, nor would I, even if I could.”

  “Whyever not? Think of the benefit of someone walking behind you and taking notes.”

  Michael noted the surreal absurdity of the situation. To his back was a parlor full of anxious citizens, most of whom identified themselves collectively as a “cheery society,” while before him was a murder victim stuffed inside a sarcophagus. Next to him stood a lovely young woman whose rosy vision of life would unwittingly come to an ugly end if she pursued her current line of intent. He did not wish to see the spark leave her eyes.

  He stepped closer. “This is no business for you,” he said. “I appreciate your energy and your desire to help, but it would . . . it would change you, and I should hate to see that happen.” He touched her arm again, unable to keep from reaching for her. At the contact, he felt a sudden rush of desire to kiss her, but given the circumstances, the notion was foolish. He lowered his hand reluctantly.

  Her lips tightened. “Life changes everyone, Detective. If you do not require assistance, perhaps I shall offer my secretarial services to Detective Winston. Or . . . or I shall investigate this issue as a member of the press. I am a journalist.”

  “You write correspondence for the Marriage Gazette!”

  A large clock in the hall chimed the hour, as if reminding him time was ticking away while his victim continued to bleed out onto the parquet floor. Exasperated, he put his hand into his pocket, pulled out his small black notebook and pen, and thrust them at her.

  “Fine.” He lowered his voice. “Stay out from underfoot, do not say one word unless I ask it of you, and keep everything you learn in the strictest confidence.” He’d been on the brink of ordering her to remain naive and sweet, but that was a ridiculous command. Besides, he realized as he looked at her determined expression, naive and sweet as she was, she was also, in her own way, fierce.

  She nodded and firmly pinched her lips together, flipping open his notebook and uncapping the pen.

  He would never have admitted it aloud, but the thought of Miss Hampton at his side, taking notes in a hand that was guaranteed to be more legible than his was not a bad idea. He would be free to interview, and he trusted she could write quickly.

  Miss Ethel Van Horne appeared. “Detective Baker, your colleague informed me of your discovery. I insist you find the miscreant who stabbed our friend and buried him in our front hall.” Her eyes were red-rimmed but clear.

  He nodded. “I intend to, Miss Van Horne. Firstly, I must send word to my superior and the coroner.”

  “That has been arranged. Detective Winston sent two of our groomsmen on their way.”

  He nodded. “Where did you meet the man we know as ‘The Great Prospero’?”

  Miss Hampton began writing in his book, and when Miss Van Horne looked at her, she smiled but remained silent.

  “Miss Hampton is my scribe,” Michael said. “You may speak freely.”

  She arched a brow at Miss Hampton. “His scribe, are you?”

  “Miss Van Horne,” Michael interrupted before she could make an inappropriate innuendo. “Prospero?”

  The elderly woman sighed, clearly disappointed to be robbed of an opportunity for either gossip or matchmaking. “Margaret and I met the man two months ago. He was performing in a vaudeville act on Drury Lane and was quite impressive.” Her brows drew together, and she glanced at the puddle of blood on the floor. “He was a good lad. True, he was not Hungarian or a soothsayer or even a credible Medium. He has entertained our guests on multiple occasions, however, to great success because he possesses charm and humor. Tonight, he performed half as long as he customarily does, and he seemed . . . rattled. I have never seen him in such a state.”

  “Did he say why he was out of sorts?”

  Miss Van Horne shook her head. “I sent him for refreshments in the kitchen with the staff and told him I would speak to him later when Margaret and I paid him for his time. He was not there when the scavenger hunt began; we assumed he had left.”

  “Aside from being shortened, did his performance this evening seem different than others in the past?”

  “We had given him basic information on several of the guests—he had the memory of an elephant—but he used not even half of it. Also, his exchange with Mr. Radcliffe was odd. Cryptic, wouldn’t you say?”

  Miss Hampton nodded, but remained quiet.

  “Did he ever say where he was from? Where he had family?”

  “A little village called Wickelston, near the coast. I remember because my family vacationed there when Margaret and I were younger. It was smaller, then, and few people knew of it. It has only now begun attracting attention because a new rail line was installed last year.”

  Miss Hampton shifted her weight to one foot and then the other, catching his attention. Her eyes widened, but she still remained silent.

  “Yes?” he finally said.

  “I have a question,” she murmured.

  “By all means.” It took some effort not to sound sarcastic, and he was unsure of his success.

  “Miss Van Horne, please accept my sincerest condolences for the loss of your friend,” Miss Hampton began.

  “Thank you, my dear.”

  “I wonder if Mr. Prospero’s family was well respected? Something he said to Mr. Radcliffe caused me to wonder.”

  Michael reluctantly admitted it was a good question, one he’d planned to ask.

  Miss Van Horne frowned. “He did not divulge much of his early history to us, but I was always under the impression that he had struggled. I do not know anything of his family. When he is not using the alias ‘Prospero,’ he goes by the name of Jacob Stern.” She paused and bit her lip. “Went by the name of Jacob Stern.”

  “Thank you.” Miss Hampton nodded at M
iss Van Horne and then at Michael. She put pen to paper and began writing quickly in his notebook.

  Michael escorted Miss Van Horne back to the parlor, where she joined her sister, who was overseeing tea service. When Miss Duvall and Miss Caldwell approached the doorway, Michael realized Miss Hampton had followed close on his heels.

  At her cousin’s expectant expressions, Miss Hampton whispered, “I’ve been deputized.”

  “You have not been deputized!” His frustration with her was reaching new heights.

  Winston, who had joined the small group, regarded him with confusion.

  “I have not ‘deputized’ anyone,” Michael repeated. “Miss Hampton offered to take notes while I conduct interviews, and I consented.” He glared at her. “A moment of weakness I am coming to regret.”

  She made a motion of locking her lips closed with a pretend key and then throwing it over her shoulder.

  Nostrils flaring, he turned back to Winston. “What have you learned?”

  “Regrettably, not much, although Miss Caldwell finally managed to calm Mrs. Groot enough to learn that she saw the victim shortly after he finished his performance, and that he looked ‘very much concerned.’”

  Miss Hampton uncapped the pen and added to her notes. At her current pace, she’d have the thing filled up before the night was out.

  She must have read his thoughts, because she held up a hand and said to him, “Never fear, I have a dozen such notebooks at home. Would you find it useful for me to ask Miss Van Horne if they have a residential address for one ‘Jacob Stern,’ also known as ‘The Great Prospero’?”

  “Actually,” he conceded, “yes, that would save me the trouble.”

  Winston scratched his chin. “We have constables arriving soon who will gather such information.”

  “Miss Hampton desires to be useful, and I am happy for the assistance.” He was willing to admit, if only to himself, that he wanted her to stay with him.

  “You needn’t be patronizing.” Miss Hampton sniffed and looked up at him as she capped the pen. “I am well aware that you are happy to have me out from underfoot. Perhaps I shall undergo training to become a constable.”

  “Women aren’t employed as constables,” Detective Winston said, looking out the front windows. “Too dangerous.”

  “There was once a day when common opinion said a woman would never be a secretary or work in businesses or in factories.” Miss Hampton turned her nose away from Winston and made her way into the parlor. Her cousins still lingered at the door.

  “One wonders if she will continue to think of you as ‘Detective Witless.’” Michael watched as Miss Hampton approached the Van Horne sisters.

  “‘Witless’?” Winston’s lips rose in a surprised half-smile. “She calls me ‘witless’?”

  “It is certainly a good thing the American Pinkertons do not share your view of women and appropriate work.” Miss Caldwell eyed Winston with arms folded.

  “I . . . Miss Caldwell, I did not use the word ‘inappropriate.’ I said ‘dangerous.’” Winston looked at Miss Caldwell, confusion tightening his brow.

  “Apparently, that is irrelevant as it seems one can just as easily be murdered during a house party as anywhere else.”

  “Miss Caldwell, I meant no offense. I confess, I am baffled that my comment has been misconstrued as an insult.”

  Miss Duvall chuckled. “And Eva is the reserved cousin.”

  Michael rubbed the back of his neck and turned around to examine the crime scene again. He checked his timepiece and shook his head. “The constables will hopefully arrive soon—you did send word to the department?”

  “I did.” Winston nodded. “I also sent word to the photographer, but do not know if he will be available. He’s unpredictable with his schedule, that one.”

  “I am a photographer,” Miss Caldwell said. “I can fetch my equipment and be set up here in less than thirty minutes.”

  Winston studied her for a moment and then looked at Michael. “We may as well use available resources; after all, you’ve deputized that one.”

  Michael didn’t bother to repeat that he hadn’t deputized anyone. He looked at the two young women who eyed him expectantly. “Very well. I cannot guarantee what kind of scene you’ll be stepping into upon your return, however. The lighting is questionable, and the place will be full of police by then. Are you accustomed to working amidst chaos?”

  “Incidentally, I am,” Miss Caldwell said. “I do commissioned work for families, which often includes unruly children and sometimes pets.” She turned to Miss Duvall. “Will you help me with the equipment?”

  “Of course.” Miss Duvall looked at Michael. “We shall discuss payment for Eva’s services with your superior tomorrow, as tonight is much too fraught with chaos, and I would hate for there to be any miscommunication.”

  Michael’s mouth slackened, and as the two women turned to the cloakroom for their wraps, he looked at Winston. “What is happening?”

  Winston watched Miss Duvall and Miss Caldwell leave the house, and his widening grin became a chuckle. “The department pays our photographer for his services, on the odd occasion we can actually engage him, so it stands to reason another photographer would be equally compensated.”

  “I highly doubt Director Ellis would ever agree to the same amount. Miss Caldwell is not a man supporting a family.”

  “Seems rather inequitable, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Michael gave Winston a half-smile. “Detective, do I hear suffrage leanings despite your assertion about the dangers of police work for women?”

  Winston tucked his hands comfortably in his pockets. Sometimes Michael envied him his air of ease. “I may have a family member or two who are known to lead a charge. After a while, one cannot deny that reason is reason, and what’s fair is logical.”

  “But highly unpopular.”

  Winston smiled again. “That all depends on who is asked.” He looked over Michael’s shoulder at the grim reminder of why they still stood guard in the front hall. His smile faded, and he sighed. “Do you believe Radcliffe is responsible for this?”

  “Don’t you?”

  Winston nodded. “If we can find proof, perhaps that would be reason enough to force the exhumation of the late Mrs. Radcliffe.”

  Michael looked at the sarcophagus and the pool of red at the base, which was no longer growing in size. He hoped the crime was connected to Radcliffe, if for no other reason than he wouldn’t be forced to abandon his theory about the man’s wife. He feared his time justifying the effort was nearing an end.

  The danger of allowing women to enter a world better left to men cannot be overstated. The natural order of things will crumble, leaving naught but despair and ruin behind. The family will find itself reduced to ashes, children will run shoeless in the streets, and the evening meal will no longer find itself promptly served when the husband and father returns from his labors at the end of a tiring day.

  —“Evils of the Modern Era,” by Sir Joseph Chauvertier

  from The Gentleman’s Journal

  Amelie and her cousins returned home in the wee hours of the morning and dispersed immediately with different tasks. Amelie took Detective Baker’s notebook, typed the contents of the notes she’d taken into five sheets of useful content, organized by interviewee. She topped the whole of it with a timeline of the evening’s events, interspersing eyewitness accounts with approximate times and locations of each.

  Every moment in the Van Horne house was accounted for, as much as she could manage, from the moment they entered the front door until they left, which had been soon after the coroner’s office had bundled away the body. Notably absent from her typewritten analysis were the official comments from Mr. Radcliffe, who had left prior to the scavenger hunt, and from two kitchen staff, who had also left the house earlier than the rest of the servants.

>   Eva and Charlotte worked in the darkroom, developing the photographic plates of the crime scene. They produced several impressive images showing the aftermath of the Great Prospero’s unfortunate demise.

  Dr. Neville, the coroner from St. Vincent, had been an irascible fellow at first, but had warmed to the ladies throughout the course of the evening until he was quite taken—especially with Eva and her efficiency with the photographic equipment. He complimented her sense of spatial awareness and directives for better lighting and seemed particularly impressed with her exacting eye and insistence on capturing the smallest of details.

  When he’d mentioned to the detectives that his preferred autopsy photographer had taken ill, Eva immediately offered to stand in, and Charlotte, who would have enlisted to help anyway, had perked up at the word “autopsy.”

  Early the next morning, Amelie delivered the detective’s notebook and typed notes, along with several photos Eva had developed, to the Yard. She had written Detective Baker’s name clearly on the top of the sealed parcel. She was told he had not yet arrived, but she was welcome to leave the parcel with the constables in his department.

  She climbed stairs and followed directions to his office, marveling along the way at the rows of desks, file drawers full of mysteries, bookshelves of reference material, and office after office of lawmen going about their duties. She spied more than a few young constables who pecked at typewriters with two fingers; she wondered why the Yard hadn’t thought to employ women who’d been certified in office work and typing and were ten times as efficient. By the time she delivered the package and left, her brain spun with the possibilities.

  It was Saturday, and while she planned to join her cousins at St. Vincent’s for the autopsy, she wanted to locate an address first.

  Ethel Van Horne had supplied her a possible location for Jacob Stern’s—alias The Great Prospero’s—residence. It was farther east in Town than Amelie usually traveled. She had toyed with the idea of telling the detective about her mission, even wished for a moment that he was seated beside her. He would never have allowed it, however, and she did not wish to be forbidden from investigating on her own.