Things Half in Shadow (19 page)

V
iolet was so shaken by the table-tipping incident that I felt compelled to ride with her all the way back to the Willoughby residence. While it was a fair distance away from my own home on Locust Street, the state she was in prevented me from leaving her
alone. The normal color in her cheeks—drained at Bertie Johnson's party—had yet to return, and she shivered uncontrollably although the weather was quite mild.

We sat in silence, listening to the quick and steady clopping of the horses' hooves as Winslow guided the brougham down Spring Garden Street. When the noise changed from hooves on earth to those on wood, I knew we had come upon the wire bridge that spanned the Schuylkill River. The bridge's quartet of stone pillars passed our windows, connected by thick cable that drooped in the middle like a Christmas garland.

Beneath us, the river was a black ribbon that cut through the city. On its bank sat the Fairmount Water Works, its many-columned building more resembling a compound in ancient Greece than a water distribution plant. Rising behind it like a half-height Mount Olympus was the hill that housed the Fairmount Reservoir.

It was an impressive view—one that Violet took no notice of. Instead, she stared at her lap, focused only on the events of that evening.

“I just don't understand, Edward,” she said. “What we witnessed tonight . . . How was that possible?”

“It was Bertie and the others trying to frighten you,” I assured her. “Nothing more.”

Violet shook her head. “Bertie wouldn't do that. Not to me. I'm his oldest friend.”

“It was pure foolishness, just like I told you it would be.”

“The table
flew
across the room,” Violet said. “I saw it happen. We all did.”

“Which is exactly what Bertie wanted.” I took her hand, patting it gently. “It was a cruel trick, and I would box his ears if I knew he meant any harm by it.”

Violet seemed to believe me, although she had no reason to. We had both seen the exact same thing—that damned table flinging itself against the wall. While Bertie did have his hands on it before
it took flight, he certainly didn't throw it. I only said that to calm Violet's nerves. In reality, I had no idea what had propelled that table. It certainly wasn't the great Bertie Johnson. He'd need better skills than Magellan Holmes to accomplish such an illusion.

“If it was Bertie playing a trick, then I'll never forgive him,” Violet said. “Never, ever.”

“You'll just have to play a trick on him then,” I told her. “Something wicked.”

A flicker of a smile crossed Violet's face as she no doubt envisioned just such a vengeance, but it quickly passed. “It's not ladylike to play pranks on others. Mother would be appalled that I spent even a moment thinking about it.”

Our conversation seemed to have done a world of good, because by the time we arrived at her house, Violet was in much better spirits. I bid her a chaste good-bye on her doorstep, Winslow monitoring us from his perch atop the brougham. I promised Violet that I'd call on her the next evening before hopping back into the coach and letting Winslow drive me home.

Upon being dropped off at Locust Street, I found Barclay on my front stoop, smoking the corncob pipe he had purchased in Virginia during the war. I was there when he bought it at a dry goods store whose shopkeeper made no attempt to hide her contempt for Yankee filth like us. But she was more than happy to take Barclay's money when he bought that silly pipe. It should have been falling apart by now, but Barclay treated it as if it were made from the finest ivory. He cherished the thing, for reasons unknown to me. I wanted nothing to remind me of that time and place.

“Edward,” Barclay said when he saw me, the word pushing a puff of smoke from the pipe. “I was wondering when you'd return.”

“And I'm wondering why you're waiting at my door,” I replied, although I already knew the reason. He was there to talk about Lenora Grimes Pastor.

I invited Barclay into the house, but he insisted he was fine
talking outside. “It might be better,” he said, “considering what I have to tell you.”

“It's bad news, then?”

“The coroner has concluded his autopsy on Mrs. Pastor. It is his belief that she was purposely killed. An official investigation into her death has now been opened.”

This was stunning news, and most horrific. It was also, to my mind, extremely confounding.

“I don't understand,” I said. “How did she die?”

“She was poisoned,” Barclay said, puffing on his pipe as if that explained everything.

“But how is that possible?”

“During the autopsy, a small wound was discovered on her neck, a few inches below her left ear. It was a puncture wound. The skin was pierced, almost as if someone had pricked her with a sharp object of some kind.”

“With the intent of stabbing her to death?”

“Not quite,” Barclay said. “It was the kind of mark left by a vaccination.”

Having received a fair number of vaccinations during the war, I knew exactly what he was describing. Those wretched needles as thick as a hay straw. I had been stabbed and prodded by so many, I'm surprised I didn't have nightmares about them.

“The coroner thinks, as do I, that the puncture mark on her neck was where someone used a needle and a syringe to administer a toxic substance,” Barclay continued. “This poison caused her throat to swell and seize up, blocking the passage of air.”

Despite my extreme tiredness, my reporter's instincts sprang to life. A sea of questions flooded my mind, each begging to be asked first. I settled on the most obvious one.

“What kind of poison was used?”

“That's an interesting question,” Barclay said. “I wish I could provide an answer.”

“You don't want it to appear in the
Bulletin
, I suppose.”

Barclay puffed on his pipe, exhaling smoke as he replied, “Not particularly. Don't want to be giving other potential poisoners any ideas. But that isn't the reason I can't tell you. In truth, we don't know what kind of poison was used. The coroner has requested help from an expert on toxic substances in New York. He'll be arriving tomorrow morning.”

“That's unusual,” I said.

“It certainly is. But this was a most unusual murder.”

“But it can't be murder,” I said. “I assure you, no one laid a finger on Mrs. Pastor the entire time I was there. The first person to touch her was her husband, after the séance had come to its abrupt end.”

“Are you positive of this?”

“Of course,” I said, running through the events of the séance in my mind's eye. I once again saw Mrs. Pastor collapsed in her chair as the instruments floated about. I saw the wind, that startling and impossible breeze, rustling the skirts of her oversize dress. I saw the instruments fall around us like hailstones. Then Mr. Barnum's bloody head. Then the fire on the floor, springing to life. Then—

“I'm mistaken,” I blurted out. “There
was
a moment when someone could have touched her.”

I was referring to when I was trying to smother the fire. Although the room had been plunged into darkness, I saw someone approach Mrs. Pastor. I didn't see it for long. It was just the briefest of glimpses, forgotten in all the activity that happened afterward.

Barclay leaned forward, eager to hear more. “Did you see who it was?”

“I couldn't,” I said. “I was only able to see a darkened form. But the person went directly to Mrs. Pastor. I'm sure of that.”

“For how long?”

“A few seconds at the most. It wasn't long before I put the fire
out. Once I did, I saw Mrs. Pastor slumped in her chair. Dead, apparently, only we didn't know that yet.”

A stream of guilt trickled into my heart as I realized that, other than her killer, I was in all likelihood the last person to see Mrs. Pastor alive. I even could have prevented her death, had I known someone intended to do her harm.

“Is it possible that someone could have crept into the room while it was dark and killed her?” Barclay asked.

“No,” I answered. “The door was locked. Plus, we would have noticed it opening.”

“Even with all that activity going on?”

“Especially with all that,” I said. “The door would have let in light and let out the smoke. No, it was closed the entire time. I'm sure of it.”

“So someone in that room is the culprit.”

That seemed to be the case—a truth that unnerved me no end. I had been locked in a darkened room with a killer. A realization such as that would give the most stouthearted of men pause.

“Is there anyone under suspicion?”

“Several people, as a matter of fact.” Barclay lowered his pipe and offered me a look of earnest sympathy. “I regret to inform you, Edward, that you're one of them.”

So this was why he had come to my house. He wanted to tell me himself, instead of letting some low-ranking policeman do it. He had expected me to look utterly shocked, probably, although I was not. I was one of seven people in the room with Mrs. Pastor when she died. Of course I'd be considered a suspect.

Still, I wasn't pleased by the news. Not in the least.

“I see,” I said, frowning.

Barclay placed a hand on my shoulder, offering cold comfort. “You know I don't really think you could do such a thing. You said yourself you were putting out a fire at the time. Others present confirmed your story.”

“That right there should exonerate me, no?”

“And it will. Very soon. Just not at the moment. Someone at that séance committed the crime, and until I prove who it was, everyone present must be placed under suspicion.”

“When will this investigation become public knowledge?” I asked.

“I'm afraid it already has,” Barclay said. “There were a few reporters for the morning papers idling about police headquarters. I'm sure they're writing about it as we speak.”

I should have known that was a possibility. In fact, I should have been one of those very same reporters, hounding any policeman I saw for details. The news left me stunned. I stumbled backward, as if trying to stay upright in the face of a raging headwind. This would not only tarnish my reputation as a journalist, but also as a future member of the Willoughby family.

“Rest assured, Edward, that I will make every effort to clear your name immediately,” Barclay said.

But that wouldn't matter to those at the
Public Ledger
or the
Times
or even those colleagues at the
Bulletin
who had regarded me with such envy that very morning. I was certain every effort would be made to associate me with Mrs. Pastor's murder for as long as possible. There was no riper target for other men of the press than a fellow reporter shamed.

“What am I supposed to do in the meantime?” I asked, wincing at how helpless I sounded.

“Just stay home and out of sight,” Barclay instructed. “This will pass within a day or so.”

“That's easy for you to say. You're not the one accused of murder.”

Shifting his weight from one leg to the other, Barclay popped the pipe back into his mouth before placing his hands on his hips. When he sighed, smoke snaked out with it. He resembled an agitated bull, huffing and puffing. I would have found it comical had I not been so angry with him.

“Edward, no one has accused you of anything. You're about as likely to commit murder as I am.”

“Then announce my innocence at once,” I demanded. “Find those reporters and forbid them from mentioning that I had anything to do with her death.”

“You know I can't do that. For now, I need to treat you as I would any suspect.”

In truth, I had expected more from Barclay, and not just because I had saved his life all those years ago. I thought our friendship would be enough to make him mount an immediate and strong defense of my character, to cause him to rally around me. That he hadn't disappointed me greatly. Even though I knew he was only doing his duty as a member of the nation's oldest police force, I couldn't help but feel betrayed.

Without saying another word, I went inside, leaving Barclay alone on the street. I slammed the door—the only retort I could muster—and climbed the stairs, feeling only exhaustion.

The depth of my anger should have kept me wide awake.

In truth, the opposite happened. I was so weighted with concerns that my entire body wound down, like a tin toy that needed cranking. My legs got heavier. Not even toothpicks would have kept my eyes open. For a moment, I wondered if I'd even make it up the steps, let alone into my room. I did, but barely. And when I reached the bed, I collapsed onto it facefirst, immediately plummeting into sleep.

I
n the morning, I was awakened by sunlight yawning across my ceiling. I yawned right along with it, feeling more relaxed than I had in days. Tangled among my sheets, I enjoyed a blissful moment
suspended between sleep and wakefulness. It didn't last long, of course. There's no way it could have. Before I knew it, all my thoughts and worries crashed over me like ice water thrown from a bucket. I sat up, recalling everything from the day before. The pale man with no nose. The flying table. The fact that I was a murder suspect.

But the thought at the forefront of my mind, the thing that concerned me most, was the newspaper. I needed to get to it before anyone else in the household did.

I sprang out of bed, heart palpitating. Since I had spent the entire night in my clothes, I traded one foul-smelling, wrinkled suit for a clean and pressed one before running downstairs. Lionel met me at the bottom.

“Good morning, Mr. Clark. Your breakfast is in the dining room. I took the liberty of pouring your coffee.”

Food was the last thing on my mind, seeing how my stomach was knotted with worry.