“Then I’d say we’ll never locate the photograph, ma’am.”
“Are we presuming, Mr. Taylor, that the person I observed that morning was also Mr. Smith’s killer?”
“I reckon we might be.”
She tried to recall precisely how long it had taken her to walk from this building to Mr. Smith’s boardinghouse. “However, the killer would have had to travel from Mr. Smith’s lodgings to this office in the time between when Mr. Smith fell to his death and when I arrived here to leave him a message. Not much time, it seems to me.”
“Mr. Smith’s keys are missing from his room, ma’am. The fellow could’ve just let himself in and locked the door behind him.” He nodded toward the entrance to the office, the bustle of the street beyond a constant buzz of noise. “Wouldn’t have needed to take time picking the lock or anything. Would’ve gotten inside like that.” He emphasized his comment with a snap of his fingers.
Furthermore, Mr. Smith had already been deceased for several minutes by the time she reached the scene outside his lodgings.
“I have a proposal, Mr. Taylor,” said Celia. “I suggest that we time how long it might take to see if our theory is feasible.”
• • •
“Thank you for seeing me again, Mrs. Loveland,” said Nick, standing just inside the door to her set of rooms. He removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. He needed to visit the barber.
“I expected, Detective, that you might return,” she replied. Today, she wore a plain brown dress with a prim lace collar. Maybe the bloomers costume was only brought out for special occasions. Such as when she’d anticipated a visit from the police.
Which she must not have that precise day, despite expecting him to eventually return.
“You could’ve refused to answer the door,” he said.
“I wouldn’t ever be that ill-mannered.” She gestured at the parlor to her right. The curtains had been drawn against the midday sun. Her songbird hopped about and trilled. “You’re welcome to sit, if you’d like.”
“I just have a few more questions about that séance,” he replied. “Won’t require any sitting down.”
“I honestly can’t help you any further in your search for who murdered that investigator, Detective,” she said, folding her hands at her waist.
“You might be able to,” said Nick. “After the séance, Dr. Brown began to receive letters that contained either threats or some sort of attempt to blackmail him. Because of the timing, it’s my belief that one of the people at that séance is responsible.” Because I’m not buying the story Brown is trying to sell about some unhinged stranger as their author.
“Perhaps you think I sent these letters and killed Mr. Smith because he’d found out,” she said.
Maybe. “I’ve learned that Mr. Smith himself came to a séance here . . . last week? And that you wouldn’t have been happy he was here.”
She scoffed. “Do you enjoy people coming into your office and deriding the work you do?”
“No, but I’ve gotten used to it.”
“I told you he’d asked me questions about the séance Dr. Brown and the others attended. My happiness or unhappiness over the disruption he caused is irrelevant,” she said. “And no, I did not send any sort of letter to Dr. Brown. Threatening or otherwise.”
“Do you recall anything peculiar about Miss Kimball?” he asked. “I’ve heard she was strangely interested in the Browns. Chased after them when they rushed out of here that night.”
“A sad, distressed woman,” she said. “I can give no cause for her interest in the Browns. She did, however, speak for some time with Mr. Emery. A very animated conversation. She departed after talking with him.”
Well, well.
“Was your good friend Mr. Griffin interested in the Browns?” he asked. “I’ve tried to get him to tell me, but he doesn’t like to answer questions. And now he’s gone and vanished. Maybe you know where he is.”
Her brows rose. The corners of her lips followed. “So that is why a policeman has been parading back and forth on the sidewalk outside. Acting like I shouldn’t take notice.”
Damn. “Please tell me where to find Mr. Griffin, Mrs. Loveland.”
“If he is not at his place of employment, then I have no idea where he is.”
“Were you aware that he’s a criminal? A swindler with a lengthy history,” he said. “He’s a dangerous fellow to have regularly attending your séances, don’t you think? A criminal looking for a mark among vulnerable people.”
“That is not the man that I know, Detective Greaves,” she replied. “Mr. Griffin is a seeker, not a wrongdoer.”
“I have a different idea, and it goes like this,” he said. “Griffin tries to extort money from your clients, Mrs. Loveland. I can imagine how easy it would be. Folks come to you, hoping to hear from a loved one they miss who’s gone to the great beyond. Some of them are driven to want to speak to the spirits because they feel guilty. All the various sins we commit in our lifetimes. Some little and some not little in the least.” He drew in a breath, his attention no longer focused on her face. “And suddenly a friend, a loved one dies and you’ve lost your chance to beg forgiveness. Until you find a notice in the newspaper advertising a spiritualist’s skills in contacting the dead, and you think you might get that absolution you so desperately want. Secrets are spilled in the quiet and the dark, the burning incense making your head spin so you don’t know what’s real and what isn’t. You say things, admit things you wouldn’t breathe aloud under any other circumstance.”
A crease developed between Mrs. Loveland’s eyes. “She doesn’t blame you, Detective.”
Her words cut through him like the blade of a freshly sharpened knife. She was guessing. He was certain of it. She couldn’t know about Meg. She couldn’t be aware of the guilt that crushed him. That he’d failed her, his beloved sister.
“Tell me what was revealed that night, Mrs. Loveland,” said Nick. “I’d hate to have to arrest you for being Griffin’s accomplice. After all, who better to tell him when a vulnerable rich target was going to be attending one of your séances than you?”
The crease on Mrs. Loveland’s skin smoothed, disappearing along with her pity. “You can throw me into one of your jail cells, Mr. Greaves, but I won’t be forced into confessing that I cheat those who come seeking my help. I would never violate their trust.”
Her voice was firm, her gaze steady. The woman was unflappable. A necessary trait, if she was conspiring with Griffin.
“Something had to have occurred that evening that led to Mr. Smith’s death,” said Nick. “If you want me to believe you’re innocent, tell me what it was.”
She drew in a hasty breath. She looked over at her bird, which ceased its frantic movements in its cage as if she’d willed it to stop. This place and this woman made Nick uneasy; pretty soon he’d be as jumpy as Taylor.
“Help me out, Mrs. Loveland,” he said. “A man’s dead. A man you probably didn’t like. A man Mr. Griffin didn’t like either, for numerous reasons, it seems. Maybe nobody Smith questioned liked him. Fine. But I have to find out who killed him.”
When her gaze returned to his face, she was calm.
“I don’t know who killed Mr. Smith, Detective Greaves, but I shall tell you this,” she said. “While we gathered to prepare for the séance, someone left a note on my chair. There was no signature, and I did not see who’d set it there. Its message was brief. The author instructed that I was to say one name aloud in the presence of all in attendance.”
“Which you did without wondering why?”
“I thought there would be no harm.”
“What was that name, Mrs. Loveland?”
She peered at him. “You already know, Detective Greaves. The name was Etta.”
• • •
“What exactly do you mean us to do, Mrs. Davies?” asked Mr. Taylor, standing alongside her.
Celia stared up at the investigator’s fifth-floor room. Its window was firm
ly closed and the thin checked curtain drawn closed.
“We must time how long it would take for someone to push Mr. Smith out of that window there, steal his keys, race to his office, let himself inside, and retrieve Miss Brown’s case papers, Mr. Taylor,” she answered. “Do you know how long Mr. Smith had been on the sidewalk before you arrived with Mr. Greaves?”
Her memory of the sight of his body, sprawled and bleeding, flashed. His death had likely been immediate, however.
“Not sure, ma’am,” he said. “I was walking down the street with Mr. Greaves when a cop came running our direction, headed for the nearest station telegraph, and we figured out what had happened.”
“Enough time had passed for him to have been summoned, assess the situation, then attempt to contact assistance,” she summarized. “Five minutes, perhaps?”
“As good a guess as any, ma’am.”
“Let us begin with that number, then,” she said. “Let us discover if we can complete the steps I mentioned in less than five minutes.”
“And if we can’t?”
Celia looked over at him. “Then we might presume that the person I saw inside Mr. Smith’s office was not the same person who shoved him out the window, Mr. Taylor, because he hadn’t time to get there.”
“Nobody I spoke to that day noticed anybody suspicious running away from here, though.”
“If a man had just fallen to his death and a crowd was collecting to gawk, I expect everyone was more interested in catching a glimpse of Mr. Smith’s body than in noticing who might be running where,” she said. “I would offer to charge down the steps from his room, Mr. Taylor, but I expect my presence inside a men’s hotel would cause too much of a disturbance.”
“I don’t know that you’d cause that much of a disturbance, ma’am,” said Mr. Taylor, chuckling. “I’d guess they’re used to females.”
She returned his smile. “Nonetheless, if you do not mind, you will be faster than I would be in my dress.” And her petticoats and confining corset. “Do you have a watch?”
“I do, ma’am.” He tapped his policeman’s coat right above the location of his inner pocket.
“Here is what I propose,” she said. “Stand outside Mr. Smith’s room for a minute, allowing the time it might have taken for a quick search for his keys, then proceed to his office. I do not believe you’d even need to run, Mr. Taylor. Then let, oh, two minutes pass to accommodate a search for the documents of interest and to retrieve them.”
Was she estimating too short a time? Mr. Smith’s files had been clearly labeled, though; it would not take long to locate any that the thief may have wanted.
“Yes, ma’am.” He vanished inside the building.
“What’re you doing?” a young voice called from above Celia’s head.
Two stories up, a boy no more than seven or eight years of age sat on a window ledge of one of the corner rooms of the neighboring boardinghouse. His legs dangled outside.
She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the sun. “Please be careful. I would not want you to fall.”
“Me fall? Not gonna happen.”
Which you and I both hope. “Nonetheless.”
“Are you lookin’ for this?” He drew his legs inside and disappeared into the room. He was back quickly. “That fellah dropped it.”
He leaned through the open window and held out a rectangle of paperboard.
Just then, Mr. Taylor burst through the front door of the men’s hotel, his watch in his hand, and dashed down the street.
The boy’s gaze tracked him. “What’s he doing?”
“Police work,” said Celia. “What have you there?”
“It’s a photograph,” he announced. “Ma says I should throw it away, but I expect he’ll be back for it and give me some money as a reward.”
Gad. Could they be so fortunate? “Can you bring it down? I would like to look at it. If you do not mind.”
“I don’t mind.” He popped back inside, the curtains flapping, and in seconds appeared outside.
He ran over to her. He had freckles and a cowlick that stood like a truncated exclamation point above his head. She was tempted to rub her hand over his auburn hair to tame it.
“Might I see that photograph?” she asked.
He clutched it to his chest. His woolen coat was missing buttons and its sleeves ended inches shy of his wrists. “The fellah who dropped it is gonna want it. Ma thinks he came back yesterday to hunt around for it, but I think she’s just telling me that so’s I’ll get rid of it.”
Celia found a silver half-dime in her reticule and held it out. “I will make certain the rightful owner gets the photograph. But for now, the police may be interested in it.”
“The police? Wow!” He plucked the coin from her palm and handed over the carte de visite.
The image was of two people—a man and a younger woman—posed on a shaded patch of lawn beneath the overspreading branches of a tree. The woman was seated upon an iron bench and wore a white gown, her waist nipped in tight. She was very young. The man at her side stood stiffly, as if reluctant to have his image captured, and leaned upon a silver-headed walking stick.
She flipped over the photograph. The ink was smeared, but she could make out the words. It was the name she had anticipated. Arthur Brown. That was all. Neither the identity of the woman nor a date had been included.
“Where did you find this?” she asked the boy.
“Right there.” He pointed at a spot not far from where Celia stood on the pavement. “The fellah dropped it. He was in such a hurry he didn’t notice it had fallen out of the newspaper he was carrying underneath his arm, but I did. I got sharp eyes. That’s what my ma says. Sharp eyes.”
The photograph had been here, at Mr. Smith’s lodgings? “Did this occur on the Fourth?”
“Yep. When the parade was going on. I was sitting on the sill there and saw the whole thing,” he said. “I guess nobody else noticed because of the celebrations and the parade. And that fellah fallin’ out of the window and everything. But then not many folks would care about somebody’s missing picture, would they?”
The person who’d taken it may still have gone to Mr. Smith’s office to search for more incriminating evidence. Only to have lost what could be the most important piece.
“Could you describe the man who dropped the photograph? As you have such sharp eyes.”
“Yep, I can,” he said, grinning. “He was sorta small, and he wore a straw hat with a wide brim and long coat that went awful far down his legs.”
Which did not sound like the robust fellow both Jane and Owen had described Dr. Brown to be. “Did he also have a red plaid waistcoat? A red vest?”
“I can’t say, ma’am. His coat was buttoned up tight,” he said. “He ran fast, though. Just like the cop you’re with. That fellah went the same direction, too.”
Chapter 13
“Thank you for escorting me home, Mr. Taylor. I expect it was not necessary, but Mr. Greaves will be appreciative.” Celia halted at the street corner. “You need not accompany me further.”
“But Mr. Greaves—”
“My house is in view. I am perfectly safe from here.” She handed over the carte de visite. “Give this to Mr. Greaves.”
“Lucky that kid found it.”
“Very lucky,” she replied. “Also, tell him we proved that our murderer could have fled the murder scene, arrived at Mr. Smith’s office, and rifled through his files in less than five minutes.”
Four minutes and twenty seconds, to be exact. Possibly connecting a killer to the person she’d observed through the chinks in the blind. If only she’d been able to see the man’s face . . .
“Will do, ma’am.” He gazed in the direction of her house, perhaps hoping to spot Addie out on the porch.
“On second thought, Mr. Taylor, perhaps you should escort me the rest of the way.” Where he could spend a minute or more with her housekeeper.
“Sounds like a good idea, ma�
��am.”
Mr. Taylor took her elbow as the delivery wagon from the butcher’s shop rattled past. The driver tipped his cap.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Davies,” he said, with his usual broad grin. “Is Miss Ferguson at home?”
“I . . . uh . . .” Blast. The fellow could not have picked a worse time to drive by.
Mr. Taylor grumbled under his breath. “I’ll be going, ma’am.” He stomped away.
Blast.
“No, I am afraid Addie is not at home,” Celia said to the deliveryman. “I will tell her you asked after her, however.”
“Thank you kindly, ma’am,” he said and tipped his cap again. Snapping the reins, he drove off.
After a glance at the departing—and dejected—Mr. Taylor, she headed for the house. Her neighbor’s dark-haired youngest son peered at Celia over the railing of his porch. “Good afternoon, Signora Davies,” he called out, waving.
“Good afternoon, Angelo.”
“Is Signorina Barbara home?”
“She will return soon, Angelo,” she said, hiking her skirts to make the climb up the stairs.
“Good,” he said. He was a handsome child, one of five boisterous siblings, whom she’d been required to tend to many times. “When she home, I tell Signorina Barbara of the man. He give me dime,” he said in his halting English.
Celia halted on the top step. “What man gave you a dime, Angelo?”
Angelo’s expression crumpled into an uncertain frown of worry that he’d done something wrong. “The man. With the . . .” He waved his hands over his chest. “Panciotto rosso.”
“Rosso?” Did he mean some piece of red clothing? “Red? Do you mean red?”
“Yes. He says I am good. I am quiet to . . . to see him in the . . .” He scrunched up his face and pointed toward the yards behind their homes.
“Did you see this man behind our houses here?”
“Sì.”
“Which house? Your house?” She pointed at the rear yard, visible through the narrow passage between the two houses. “Behind my house?”
No Quiet among the Shadows Page 14