Things Half in Shadow (20 page)

“Where's the newspaper?” I asked.

“Which one?”

Like any journalist worth his salt, I read several newspapers, morning and evening editions. I paid a neighbor boy to bring them around twice a day.

“Any of them,” I said, flustered. “Or all of them.”

“Mrs. Patterson took the
Inquirer
,” Lionel replied. “You know how she likes the—”

I didn't wait for him to finish, instead hurrying to the kitchen, where I found Mrs. Patterson slicing carrots to make a soup for lunch. A pot bubbled on the stovetop, and I felt exactly like the soup it contained—simmering with anxiety.

“The newspaper?”

Mrs. Patterson waved her knife in the direction of the small table where she and Lionel had their meals. “It's over there. But I haven't had time to read the—”

Again, I didn't listen. Instead, I ran to the table and grabbed the
Inquirer
, which had remained untouched. The front page contained the headline I was dreading to see:
MEDIUM WAS MURDERED
.

Holding my breath, I scanned the article, stopping when I saw my name in print.

Chief among the suspects is Mr. Edward Clark, a writer for the
Philadelphia
Evening Bulletin
. Just yesterday, Mr. Clark wrote grandly about having witnessed Mrs. Pastor's demise, never once mentioning that foul play was involved or that he would be implicated in this heinous deed.

Of course, I hadn't expected a rival newspaper to make an attempt to spare my reputation or give me the benefit of the doubt. Still, it made me furious. I stormed to the stove, opened it up, and tossed the newspaper inside, taking great satisfaction in watching it turn to ash.

“What in heaven's name are you doing?” Mrs. Patterson shouted. “I wanted to see the—”

I marched out of the kitchen and into the dining room, where two more newspapers sat on the table next to my untouched breakfast. Taking them in hand and returning to the kitchen, I threw those into the fire as well. Satisfied that every newspaper in the house had been destroyed, at least until the evening ones arrived, I departed for the offices of the
Bulletin
.

Mr. Hamilton Gray, whose copy of the
Inquirer
I was unable to toss into the fire, of course had read the article that practically accused me of murdering Lenora Grimes Pastor. In a rare display of journalistic ethics, he announced it wouldn't be proper for me to continue writing about her death. He then suggested, much like Barclay had, for me to “hide under a bushel” until the police could uncover her real
killer. I had no choice but to heed his advice. I was, at least for the time being, no longer employed at the
Evening Bulletin
.

I took my time walking home, shuffling over the sidewalk, a man shamed. In a single morning, I had gone from the toast of Philadelphia to the talk of it. It was humbling, to be sure.

During my walk, I made an attempt to ponder the bright side of the situation, which did exist, luckily. I knew that money wouldn't be an issue, no matter how long it took for this to blow over. The fortune amassed by my parents and inherited from my aunt sat safely inside Girard's Bank. Quite honestly, I didn't need to work another day in my life.

And that was the problem. I enjoyed work, toil, using my hands and my wits to make an honest living. I looked at men of the carriage class—men such as Bertram Johnson—and felt superior because I knew I was a cog in the machinery that kept Philadelphia running. There was value in that.

But now I didn't even have a job to call my own. Without it, I had no purpose. Days, perhaps even weeks, of boredom stretched before me, full of solitary dinners and evenings confined to my bedroom. I imagined becoming so bored that I'd seek employment from Violet's father, overseeing a squalid workroom of laborers constructing Willoughby hats—a dreadful prospect. Even death would have been preferable to such a fate.

By the time I reached home, lunch hour had arrived. Since I knew Lionel and Mrs. Patterson would be eating in the kitchen, I tiptoed through the front door and tried to make my way upstairs, too ashamed to face them. Their name was only as good as their employer's, and at that moment, he was being thoroughly dragged through the mud.

In the foyer, I passed a small table that contained a vase, a lamp, and a silver tray. Sitting on top of the tray was a white envelope. A calling card, addressed to me. Whoever it was from, I didn't want to see them or anyone else. Not for a very long time.

Sneaking to the main staircase, I got as far as the first step before overhearing Lionel, his voice rising from the kitchen. It was clear they already knew about Mrs. Pastor's death.

“It's a disgrace, no doubt about it,” Lionel said. “Doesn't surprise me, the crowd he keeps company with. Those coppers coming by at all hours to take him to one corpse or another. I'll wager seeing all those murder victims pushed him off his rocker.”

“He ain't been found guilty yet,” Mrs. Patterson replied. “There's nothing for him to be ashamed of.”

“If
I'm
ashamed then he better well be. I wanted to work in a respectable house, with respectable people. Now I find myself working for Edward Clark, the butcher of Locust Street.”

Instead of continuing up the stairs, I pressed against the wall and inched closer to their conversation. Yes, I was blatantly eavesdropping, but not just because I was the topic of discussion. Their voices sounded strange in their informality—cocky, boisterous, unrefined. It made me wonder if Lionel and Mrs. Patterson often discussed me when I was gone and, if so, that this was how they always sounded.

“That Pastor woman was poisoned,” Mrs. Patterson said. “Mrs. Brill, the new cook at the Douglas place, told me so this mornin'.”

“So he's the
poisoner
of Locust Street. It still makes us look bad.”

“I worry about Miss Willoughby. Such a lovely girl. This is going to be hard on her. That engagement of theirs won't last much longer, I imagine.”

“I could have told you that before this even happened,” Lionel said. “What with that Collins woman now barging in here all the time.”

My eyes widened at the mention of Lucy Collins, who to my knowledge had been here only once. Yet Mrs. Patterson's response—“What did she want this time?”—told me how wrong I was.

“She wouldn't say,” Lionel said. “Just demanded to see Mr. Clark. After yesterday, I was ready for her. No way was I going to
let her knock me down and search the house twice. I told her to leave a card, like a real lady would do.”

I inched my way back toward the table in the foyer and removed the envelope from the silver tray. Taking great pains to open it as quietly as possible, I looked inside and saw a handwritten note.

I must see you. Christ Church Burial Ground.
Two o'clock. Come alone.—Lucy

According to my watch, it was already one
.
Part of me knew I needed to stay home and ponder what I was going to tell Violet and her family later that evening. Yet another part of me insisted, quite rightly, that it would be torture to remain cooped up inside while the servants gossiped downstairs. Certain I wouldn't be able to stand hearing Lionel call me the so-and-so of Locust Street one more time, I slipped out the front door, as silent and invisible as a ghost.

C
hrist Church Burial Ground was a patch of land between Arch and Market streets, slightly northeast of the Pennsylvania State House. I passed that building, which in a few years would be renamed Independence Hall, on my way to the cemetery. As usual, it was a lively area, crowded with visitors lining up to touch the Liberty Bell, on display in the Declaration Chamber.

The cemetery was the complete opposite, as silent and still as the dead buried there. Mrs. Collins's coach was parked outside, with Thomas at the reins. While the horses shared a sack of oats, he occupied himself by puffing on a pipe as large as his fist.

I considered greeting the boy, but thought better of it. It wasn't inconceivable of him to dump the pipe's smoldering contents atop my head. So I hurried through the cemetery's wrought-iron gate, seeing Lucy standing before the grave of Dr. Benjamin Franklin. She wore a dress of black and white stripes, a black hat circled by white ribbon on her head. The dual colors made her look simultaneously festive and somber—a woman only partially in mourning.

The sight of her caused my heart to beat just a little bit faster. It was similar to the way any man's pulse quickened at the sight of a beautiful woman, yet also different. For while Lucy Collins was indeed a ray of light in the otherwise somber cemetery, I had a feeling the slight racing of my heart had more to do with anticipation. I didn't know what she wanted or what she was going to say, a fact that left me both eager and fearful.

Yet she smiled when she saw me. A good sign, I thought, considering our last conversation.

“You came,” she said. “I wasn't certain you would.”

“I wasn't certain I
should
,” I said.

“Yet here you are.”

“Indeed. Now, would you mind telling me
why
I'm here? It was my assumption we were never going to meet again.”

“Our circumstances have changed, wouldn't you agree?”

Lucy took my arm and led me deeper into the cemetery. We traversed the path that bisected it, not stopping until we reached its end, near the back wall. Lucy only spoke once we traded the path for grass, the verdant blades swiping the hem of her skirts.

“Your friend the police inspector paid me a visit this morning,” she said. “He told me that Mrs. Pastor was murdered.”

“It's true. Poisoned.”

“Inspector Barclay also told me, in no uncertain terms, that I am suspected of the crime. From the way he spoke, I get the sense that I'm his
only
suspect.”

She said this with such indignation that it was clear she didn't see the logic of it. Yet how could she not? She was a fake medium who visited a competitor who later died. Now, knowing Lucy as I did, I couldn't put the idea of murder past her. Yet I also knew that at the moment of Mrs. Pastor's death, Lucy had been trying to stanch the flow of blood from P. T. Barnum's head. She was certainly not the figure I saw approaching Lenora Grimes Pastor in the darkness.

“Don't worry too much about that,” I said. “I'm a suspect as well. So is everyone else who was with us in that room.”

“I could care less about them. I'm concerned about myself.” Lucy paused before swiftly adding, “And you, of course.”

“I had assumed this wouldn't affect you very much.”

“Your assumption was wrong,” she said. “I'm a businesswoman, aren't I? My business lives or dies by my reputation. And with my reputation gone, there are far too many other mediums in this city who will take my lost business. Oh, if only the rest of them would drop dead as well!”

Being in her presence again reminded me of how vibrantly annoying she could be. Beneath her veneer of properness, she was as
rough as sandpaper running against the grain. Take, for example, how she leaned against the nearest gravestone, insouciant as a schoolgirl.

“You're violating someone's final resting place,” I told her.

“But he's dead,” Lucy said, removing herself only long enough to read the name etched into the stone. “I doubt Commodore Thomas Truxton minds. If I were under there, I'd be all too happy to let the good commodore lean on my grave.”

My patience, already worn thin, all but evaporated when Lucy resumed leaning on the gravestone and said, “I blame
you
for all this.”

“Me? You're the one who wanted to visit Mrs. Pastor.”

“We wouldn't have been there if you weren't determined to expose mediums in the first place.”