Things Half in Shadow (52 page)

Then I heard a sound. Sharp and quick, it was muffled by the water in my ears and the hum of the machinery. But there was no mistaking what it was.

A gunshot.

Drops of blood fell into the water around me, blooming into crimson clouds. Above me, Corinthian Black's expression changed once more. His eyes widened and his mouth opened with a surprised howl. His once-tight grip loosened around my neck as he slumped sideways, knocking against the waterwheel before being pulled beneath it.

I sat up, gulping in air while shaking the water from my face.

Standing in front of me was Lucy Collins. Her drenched hair had come loose and now hung over her shoulders in soaked tendrils. The tunnel from the Pastor residence to the waterworks had left streaks of mud on her skirt. And in her hand was the pistol that she had promised to use only in the event of an emergency.

I
'm afraid I can't adequately describe how I felt upon seeing Lucy. I've now spent countless hours trying to summon the right words to express the relief, disbelief, and utter joy I experienced. But, in this case, words have failed me.

Instead, I can only tell you my actions following Lucy's surprise rescue.

I stood, my legs wobbly, and stumbled toward her. Lucy rushed to help me, the skirt of her dress swirling in the water around her. When we reached each other, I fell against her, overcome with gratitude.

“Thank God,” I whispered. “Thank God you were here.”

“Actually,” Lucy said, “it's
me
you should be thank—”

She didn't have time to finish her sentence. I wouldn't let her. Cupping her flushed cheeks in my still-trembling hands, I silenced her with a kiss.

Her lips were as soft as I expected them to be, and her kiss was both tender and forceful. And the longer it lasted, the more I became lost in it. I didn't exactly know why I was kissing her. Nor did I care if we would ever kiss again. All I knew was, in that moment, it felt like exactly the right thing to do.

The regret came later, once we broke away from each other, both of us short of breath and me quite dizzy.

“I'm so sorry,” I quickly said.

Lucy looked at me, head tilted in a way that left me wondering if she was either confused or disappointed. “You're
sorry
?”

“I have no idea why I just did that.”

“You don't?”

“Well, I—”

My mind, churning as fast as the machinery all around us, struggled to come up with an excuse. In truth, there wasn't one. I had kissed Lucy. Whether it was out of gratitude or desire, I truly didn't know. Not then. Not even now.

Fortunately, I didn't need to explain any further. For at that moment, Inspector William Barclay and a dozen policemen swarmed the waterworks.

They seemed to come from all directions, splashing through the water and running across the catwalks over it. When I caught sight of Barclay, he was at the very same spot where I had come face-to-face with Corinthian Black.

Peering down at Lucy and me, he said, “Are either of you hurt?”

“No,” I replied. “What about Stokely?”

“Mrs. Pastor's butler? He's badly hurt, but alive,” Barclay said. “A doctor is stitching him up as we speak.”

I exhaled a long sigh of relief. If Stokely had perished, I never would have forgiven myself for leaving his side.

“I'd like to see him, if I could,” I said.

“Later,” Barclay replied. “First, could one of you please tell me what in tarnation happened here?”

Explaining the situation to Barclay was easier said than done, although Lucy and I certainly tried. I started off by giving him a tour of the waterworks and the two corpses that rested within.

Corinthian Black was first, found wedged between the waterwheel and the stone wall behind it. Lucy's single shot had struck him in the back of the neck, killing him within seconds.

I felt no remorse about his death. He had ordered the murders of two people and tried to kill me, as well. His ultimate punishment was justified. If I felt anything while staring at his lifeless body, it was regret that I would never know how he was familiar with both me and my mother. Corinthian Black's secrets died with him.

Next on our morbid tour was the bee colony hidden in the upper reaches of the waterworks. More insects had made their escape through the hole in the roof, although quite a few still crawled over Claudia's corpse. Enough of her flesh was exposed to reveal the full extent of her wounds. Her entire body was pockmarked with stings.

As we left that strange and secret hive, I took one last look at Claudia's corpse. I doubted she had found the glory she was expecting. In fact, I doubted it ever existed in the first place.

I didn't tell Barclay much about why Claudia and Corinthian Black wanted both Sophie Kruger and Lenora Grimes Pastor dead. Since it was hard enough for me to fathom, I didn't think it wise to try to explain it to him. I simply told him the basic truth—that Claudia had confessed to both murders, stabbed Stokely then brought about her own death via the bees. As for Mr. Black, I told Barclay that he had confessed to coercing Claudia into committing the murders. I left out any mention of the Praediti, my opinion being that the less Barclay knew about them, the better off he would be.

After that, it was back to Lucy's house, where we found Leslie Dutton in police custody and her husband and stepdaughter consoling each other. Everyone was still present, from P. T. Barnum to Mrs. Mueller to Jasper Willoughby.

“What in heaven happened to you?” he asked, clearly surprised by my sorry state. “You look half dead.”

I looked down at my clothes, seeing them stained by water, mud, and blood. When I ran a hand through my hair, I felt a wild patch of wet and untamed locks. Dirt was still streaked across my face and Stokely's blood continued to color my hands.

“That's better than fully dead,” I said. “Which is what almost happened.”

Before I could elaborate, a policeman pulled Jasper away to be questioned with the others about what had occurred during the séance at Lucy's house. As everyone who had been present—Lucy included—was ushered into another room, I couldn't help but notice the queer looks they sent my way.

No doubt, they were as confused by the events of the séance as I was. Not only had Mrs. Pastor spoken from beyond the grave, but the speaking had been done through
me
. I didn't know why or how, but it left me with a worried feeling that everyone's strange expressions only amplified. Watching them leave the room, I feared that whatever had happened in Lucy's séance room would happen again. If it did, I'd have yet another secret to suppress.

I would have continued to dwell on that fact had Barclay not grabbed my arm and led me from the room. At first, I thought he was taking me to join the others for a thorough questioning. Instead, he guided me out of Lucy's house entirely and into a waiting police coach.

“Where are we going?” I asked as the coach started to roll.

“I'm taking you home. Your day has been long enough.”

“But what about Stokely?” I asked. “And Mrs. Collins?”

I longed to speak to them both, but especially Lucy. My actions in the waterworks required at least some form of explanation, even though I still hadn't come up with one.

Yet it wasn't to be. At least not on that night.

“They'll be there in the morning. Besides, I have something I need to tell you.”

“Which is?”

From the way Barclay shifted uncomfortably, I knew an attempt at an apology would soon follow.

“I just want you to know,” he said, “that I understand how difficult this past week was for you. While I never for a second doubted your innocence, I didn't make it any easier for you. I'm truly sorry about that, and I hope you can forgive me.”

I looked out the coach window at the city gliding by. It was a clear night, the stars bright and glistening. Below them, Philadelphia was hushed and calm, rare for a place so bustling and crowded during the day. It was a city of people colliding with one another, arguing with one another, killing one another. So many inhabitants, and yet I considered very few of them my friends. Barclay, for all his annoying habits, was one of them. The knowledge of that put me in a generous mood.

“You're forgiven,” I said. “You were only doing your job.”

Barclay harrumphed. “Not very well, seeing that you're the one who found out who killed Mrs. Pastor and Sophie Kruger. You even exposed a murder I didn't know existed.”

“In a strange way,” I said, “I suppose we owe a debt to Mrs. Dutton.”

It was clear that, despite her malfeasance, Leslie Dutton had been of valuable service. Her attempt to kill the already-dead Mrs. Pastor had left behind the puncture wound that pointed to murder in the first place. Without it, no one might ever have known that Lenora Grimes Pastor was poisoned with bee venom. She ended
up unwittingly exposing two murders when it would have appeared there were none.

“She's still a murderess,” Barclay said. “And she will be punished as such.”

Bettina Dutton entered my thoughts just then. The poor girl, still coping with the loss of her mother, now had to deal with the fact that it had actually been murder. It would be hard for her. I knew that from experience. But I hoped, unlike my situation, it would bring her and her father closer. Judging from the way they had been embracing at Lucy's house, I suspect it already had.

“That must have been quite a performance you put on during that fake séance of yours,” Barclay said. “You had everyone in the room convinced it was real.”

Again, that was another thing he was better off knowing little about. Not that I could explain it with any coherence. Besides, I was all too happy to pretend it was a grand ruse, expertly performed.

“Perhaps there's a bit of showman in me,” I said. “But it wasn't just all my doing. I had a good deal of help from Mrs. Collins.”

“Now that this is all over, do you still plan on associating with her?” Barclay asked.

Alas, that was a question for which I had no answer. Lucy saving my life and my subsequent reaction to it certainly complicated matters. Complication—that seemed to be her specialty. I thought about how uncomplicated my life had been before we met. Less than a week later, everything about my world was now askew. And while some of it was undeniably enjoyable, I was also eager to settle back into my old, run-of-the-mill existence.

“I suppose I must,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “She did save my life, after all. I owe her some form of thanks. I think I'll start by trying to convince you that she didn't kill Declan O'Malley.”

Barclay gave me a quizzical look. “How much do you really know about all that?”

“Nothing,” I lied.

My old friend didn't believe me, as evidenced by the irritated sigh that followed my response. Still, he said, “I suppose it's no concern of mine. The police in Richmond can do what they want. As for me, I consider that particular case to be closed.”

“I think,” I said, “that's the best course of action.”

It was past midnight by the time we reached Locust Street. Despite the late hour, I invited Barclay inside for a drink. I wanted to raise a toast to celebrate the solving of Mrs. Pastor's murder. But when the coach stopped in front of my house, I saw another one waiting there.

Inside was Mr. Hamilton Gray, who yelled at me from the coach window, “Well done, Clark! Very well done!”

Seeing my former editor, Barclay said, “It seems you have company.”

“Yes,” I replied. “Unwanted company.”

I left Barclay's coach and stood beside Mr. Gray's. He leaned out the coach window, so excited that I detected traces of pink in his usually colorless cheeks.

“You've made our newspaper proud, Mr. Clark,” he said.

“I thought I was no longer a respected employee of the
Evening Bulletin
.”

“After what happened tonight,” Mr. Gray said, “consider yourself our most respected employee.”

“How do you already know about tonight's events?”

“I have my ways,” Mr. Gray replied. “One of which is paying a policeman a small sum to inform me if something exciting happens. He told me all about your adventure this evening. Now you must write the whole thing down. Get in and I'll discuss it with you.”

Reluctantly I climbed into the coach, Mr. Gray not caring that I
was dirt covered and damp. He was too busy presenting his grand plan to notice how mussed and weary I truly was.

“Much like the article you wrote after Mrs. Pastor's death, we would like you to write a first-hand account about how you solved her murder,” he said. “It's quite a story, I'm sure. Our rivals will be positively sick with jealousy.”

So, after practically firing me, the
Bulletin
now wanted me back, all because I had solved a few murders. It made me so angry I had half a mind to tell Mr. Gray to take his carriage and drive it straight into the Delaware. Yet one of the things I had missed terribly during my time under suspicion was being a reporter. I knew I could have gone to the
Public Ledger
or the
Times
, but that wouldn't have been nearly as much fun. At the
Bulletin
, I now had leverage.

“I'll do it,” I said, “on one condition.”

“Anything,” Mr. Gray replied.

“When this is finished, I want to go back to my old job, writing about crimes in the city.”

Mr. Gray heartily agreed and instructed me to report to the
Bulletin
office bright and early the next morning.

I did as I was told, returning to that dim tomb on Chestnut Street for what felt like the first time in ages. I took great pleasure in sitting down at my desk and writing how, after witnessing it, I had come to solve the death of Lenora Grimes Pastor.