Things Half in Shadow (23 page)

“Yes'sir. I ain't never heard her say one word since she got here.”

“How long has she been here?” Lucy asked.

Although the question had been posed to Stokely, Claudia answered it by holding up an index finger.

“One year,” Stokely said, clarifying.

“How does she communicate?” I asked him.

Stokely gave me yet another one of his shrugs. “She don't. We just tell her what needs done and she does it. Sometimes she nods, but not much.”

“Well, this is wretched,” Lucy said. “How can we possibly get her to answer any questions when all she can do is nod?”

Hanging on the wall directly behind her was the slate listing household needs. A piece of chalk, tied in a loop of twine, dangled from a corner of the frame. Hanging from the other corner was a small felt eraser. Quickly, I wiped away the reminder to buy potatoes, flour, and tea. Then I lifted the slate from the wall, pushed it into Claudia's hands and said, “Do you know how to write?”

The maid grabbed the chalk and scrawled three letters onto the slate's surface.

yes

“Very good,” I said. “Do you think you'll be able to answer a few questions for us today?”

Claudia, unaccustomed to being the center of attention, appeared unsure of how to respond. It took an encouraging word from Stokely to get her to answer. When she did, it was by pointing to the word already on the slate.

yes

“How old are you, Claudia?”

She cleared the slate and wrote down
18.

“Did you work for anyone else before coming into Mrs. Pastor's employ?”

Instead of using the slate, she shook her head.

“How did you come to work for Mrs. Pastor?”

Stokely answered for her, saying, “Same way as me, almost. I done found her beggin' outside last winter. Coldest, stormiest, snowiest day of the year. I brought her inside to get her warm. Missus Pastor told me to take her upstairs and give her a place to sleep for the night. The next mornin', I woke up and saw Claudia in the kitchen, cookin' and cleanin' away.”

The more I learned about Lenora Grimes Pastor, the more I was convinced of her innate goodness. Only the most kindhearted of Christians would take in two complete strangers and give them employment.

“Why were you out begging in the middle of a storm?” I asked Claudia.

hungry

“Do you have any family?”

no

“Where were you living at the time?”

orphanage

“Where was this orphanage?”

On the slate, Claudia wiped away the identity of her home and
replaced it with an equally expected location.
fishtown.
One of the poorest parts of the city.

This continued for the next several minutes, with me posing questions and Claudia writing her responses on the slate. For the most part, she gave one-word answers, such as writing
loved
when I asked how she felt about Mrs. Pastor. Other times, her responses were more expansive. After I asked what she thought about Robert Pastor, she took a while to write down
did not trust him.

“Why not?” I asked. “Was he a mean man?”

no
greedy

“Did you approve of the séances that took place here?”

Claudia erased half of the slate, leaving only the word
no
.

“Why not?”

scared

“You were scared of the séances?” I asked.

“She don't like the noise,” Stokely said. “All types of noise came from the sittin' room. Voices and music. I got used to it, but Claudia here never did.”

“Stokely told me the other people here Saturday night had been here before,” I said to Claudia. “Did you know them, too?”

The girl added a
yes
to the slate.

“Did you like any of them?”

mrs dutton
. Claudia then erased the first word and replaced it with
mr.

“So you like both of them?” I said, getting a nod in reply. “What about Mrs. Mueller?”

no

“You don't like her?”

Claudia tapped the slate twice and underlined the word for emphasis.

“Why not? Was she unkind to you?”

Claudia wiped away the answer and spent a few minutes with the slate held close to her chest, scribbling at length something the
rest of us couldn't see. When she finally turned the slate around to show us, I saw she had written a full paragraph. The words, running together without punctuation, filled the entire surface of the slate.

she is a mean woman i heard her say mean things just cause i cant speak dont mean i cant hear

Lucy turned to Stokely. “Do you know what this is about?”

“Yep, I reckon I do,” he said. “Missus Mueller came by one day last week to talk to Missus Pastor in private, see. Claudia here done served them some refreshments. I s'pose she heard Missus Mueller carryin' on 'bout somethin'. That woman ain't right, if you ask me.”

“How so?”

“Touched in the head,” Stokely said, tapping his own skull. “Flightier than a bird, that woman is.”

“Can you write down some of what you heard?” I asked Claudia.

It took a moment for her to erase the epic response she had given earlier, all those words being wiped away slowly but steadily. By the time the slate was cleared, her hands had turned white with chalk dust. She seemed not to notice as she filled it again with new ones.

she asked mrs pastor why her husband never spoke said she paid good money to talk to him
said she suspectin mrs pastor of stealin

“What day last week was this visit?”

“Thursday,” Stokely said.

The household, it would seem, had been very busy in the days before Mrs. Pastor's death. Mrs. Mueller stopped by on Thursday, followed by Mrs. Dutton on Friday. Mr. Dutton, presumably, was there Saturday morning.

“Did anyone else visit Mrs. Pastor recently?”

While Stokely shrugged one last time, Claudia cleared her slate and wrote down
yes a woman.

“When did she visit?”

saturday morning

“Was Mr. Dutton here at the time?”

Claudia looked to Stokely, seeking guidance. He replied with, “You can go on an' tell them if you saw him here.”

Soon after, the word
yes
appeared on the slate.

“Do you know the identity of this woman?”

Claudia nodded. Then, quite unexpectedly, she pointed right at Mrs. Lucy Collins.

T
en minutes later, Lucy and I were in Fairmount Park, having retreated there for privacy's sake. I had been too angry with her to speak coherently in the Pastors' kitchen and didn't wish to get into an argument in front of their servants. But there, in the open air of the park, I could speak freely.

“It would have been nice of you to tell me you paid Mrs. Pastor a visit on Saturday!” I all but shouted. “Or did the fact that you talked to her the morning of her murder simply slip your mind?”

“I knew this would make you angry,” Lucy said. “Which is why I didn't tell you.”

“Oh, is that the reason? I assumed it was because you didn't want to cast more suspicion on yourself.”

Lucy feigned shock, something she had tried before with me. For all her abundant skills, that one needed practice. “
More
suspicion? It's not nearly as sinister as you're making it out to be.”

“Then why the secrecy?”

“I wasn't being secretive,” Lucy said. “I didn't think it was relevant.”

“It is relevant!” I snapped at her.

We walked vigorously—some would even say angrily—down the path that led to the waterworks. To the right of the columned pump building was a wide promenade that jutted over the
Schuylkill River. We crossed to the promenade's edge, where I gripped the railing and looked out at the water.

It was a lovely afternoon, warm and bright, with the faintest kiss of a breeze. To my left, the sound of steam engines and rushing water emanated from deep within the waterworks' marble walls. In front of me, the Schuylkill rushed over a small dam that stretched its width. The sun winked off the turbulent surface, as brilliant and clear as a crystal chandelier.

Yet despite all the lightness in the park, my mood was as dark as a winter's night. Learning about Lucy's earlier visit to the Pastor residence had left me feeling foolish and betrayed.

“Why did you go to see Mrs. Pastor?” I asked.

“It was simply a friendly visit, from one medium to another.”

“Was this before or after you came to my house?”

“After,” Lucy said. “I was in the process of choosing which medium to expose first.”

“You were sizing up your competition.”

“That's exactly what I was doing,” Lucy said, adding the caveat: “In part.”

A honeybee landed on my arm and began to crawl up my sleeve. I smacked at it, the insect alighting briefly before landing on my other sleeve. It was like Mrs. Collins in that regard—always coming back to pester you once you thought it had gone. With this comparison firmly in my thoughts, I took great pleasure in removing my hat and swatting the insect away.

As soon as I returned the hat to my head, the bee decided to take refuge there. Rolling my eyes upward, I saw it march along the brim on bristled legs, its wings vibrating.

“What's the other part?” I asked Lucy, swatting at the bee a third time.

“For heaven's sake, stop that,” she snapped.

“Would you prefer that it sting me?”

“If it means the end of this inquisition, then yes.”

“This is far from over,” I said.

It took one final swat to make the bee leap off my hat. It buzzed around my head a few times before retreating in the direction of the waterworks.

“As I was saying—” Lucy began.

“Saying or avoiding?” I asked. “Because it seems to me you were doing the latter.”

Lucy, pretending not to hear me, continued. “I was there to make Mrs. Pastor an offer. My plan was to warn her about your newspaper's quest to expose the city's mediums in exchange for information from her.”

I had no doubt what sort of information Lucy wanted. After being so easily and thoroughly exposed by me the previous night, Lucy had been in search of more tricks of the trade. And who better to get them from than the city's most famous medium?

“So Mrs. Pastor knew who you were and what you did for a living when we arrived at the séance,” I said. “I assume she didn't agree to your plan.”

“She refused to even consider my offer,” Lucy said. “She answered the door herself and sent me away at once. That maid, Claudia, must have seen me out the window.”

“Is that the moment you decided Mrs. Pastor would be the first medium to go?”

“Of course,” Lucy said. “In my mind, she had it coming.”

Her words prompted a chill to rattle down my spine. I couldn't tell if she meant that Lenora Grimes Pastor deserved exposure or death. Possibly, she intended both meanings. Either way, it served to remind me that no one had a greater motive for wanting Mrs. Pastor dead.

“I suppose we should pay a visit to both Mrs. Mueller and the Duttons,” Lucy said, changing the subject. “I took the liberty of obtaining the home addresses of both parties.”

“How on earth did you find out where they live?”

“I told you, Edward, I know some very helpful people.” Lucy produced a scrap of paper from her silk purse and squinted at it. “The closest is Mrs. Mueller, who lives just north of the park. Thomas will take us there.”

I, however, was still preoccupied with Lucy's earlier statement. Although I didn't truly think she had killed Mrs. Pastor, it wasn't the first time she had been associated with someone's murder.

“Who was Declan?” I asked.

“I know of no such person,” Lucy answered, in what was clearly the least convincing lie she had ever told.

“He spoke to you during the séance,” I said. “If I am to continue this investigation with you, then I need assurances that you can be trusted.”

“You want to know my secrets, in other words,” Lucy replied.

I nodded. “You certainly know plenty of mine.”

My request prompted a moment of consideration on Lucy's part—I sensed the wheels turning in that scheming brain of hers as she compiled the pluses and minuses of such a confession. The positives must have outweighed the negatives, because she eventually said, “His name was Declan O'Malley. I knew him when I was very young.”

“How young?”

“Fifteen,” Lucy said, her voice dropping to a whisper.

“And what happened to him?”

“I find it ridiculous that we must even talk about this.”

I let out a sigh that would have made Barclay proud. “Just answer the question.”

“He was a mean brute of a man who took advantage of a young girl and then he died.”

“How?”

“A stomach ailment,” Lucy said. “Which, apparently, he has decided in the afterlife to blame on me. I don't care one way or the other. The important thing is that he's dead and I'll never have to see him again.”

“Why did he call you Jenny?”

“Because that was my name when he knew me.”

“Your real name?” I prodded.

“Yes,” Lucy snapped. “Jenny Boyd. I grew up in Virginia, which is where Declan and I met.”

“Why did you change your name?”

Lucy leveled her gaze at me, those emerald eyes of hers flaring with anger. “For the same reason you changed yours. Now, that's all you'll ever know about me, so I hope you're satisfied.”

To be honest, I wasn't. My trust of Lucy Collins had, at that point, run out. Yet if I learned anything from our visit to the Pastor residence, it was that Lucy couldn't control what others said. If she was hiding more information from me, perhaps I'd find out from my fellow suspects. I knew I could question them just as easily without Lucy. But with her present, I would be able to gauge her reactions to what was being said and draw my own conclusions. For that reason alone, I chose to stick by Lucy's side.