Things Half in Shadow (27 page)

“I suppose you knew girls like that growing up.”

“Knew them?” Lucy replied. “I was one of them.”

“Did you start that early?”

“Oh, much earlier, Edward. And I was far better than Bettina. Her attempts to get you to notice her were downright embarrassing to watch.”

“Is that jealousy I detect in your voice?” I asked, only half joking. Her voice
did
contain a strange tone, as if she was trying too hard to sound nonchalant. “Because it certainly sounds like it.”

“Jealous?” Lucy replied, her eyes widening. “Of a mere girl? Don't be silly. If anything, she was jealous of
me
.”

“I didn't get that sense at all. She knew that you aren't my fiancée. In fact, you made it abundantly clear that you can't stand me. What could she possibly be jealous about?”

Lucy stopped and looked at me, head cocked. “Simple. She knew, unlike you, that I could have you wrapped around my little finger if I really wanted to.”

And with that, she stepped off the front porch. I followed, blinking against the setting sun. The entire street basked in the sun's warm glow, with the trees, the neighboring homes, even the air itself tinted gold.

Using my hand to shield my eyes, I saw a familiar coach parked directly in front of the Dutton residence. Standing outside it, the sun casting a halo of light around the top of his hat, was none other than William Barclay.

Damn it all. He had found us at last.

B
arclay wasn't happy, that much was certain. All his usual tics and habits were in full force as his coach rumbled toward the center of the city. He tilted his head to gaze at me in exasperation. He sighed like an idled steam engine. He tugged his mustache so frequently that I feared he was going to pull it clean off his upper lip.

“I'm disappointed in you, Edward,” he said. “Incredibly disappointed.”

“I've done nothing wrong,” I replied.

We were alone in the carriage, having parted ways with Lucy Collins and her brother outside the Dutton residence. As roughly and recklessly as Thomas drove, I have to admit I would have preferred to be with them and not in that slow police coach, caught in Barclay's red-faced glare.

“Oh, but you have,” he said as he rooted through his pockets, looking for his pipe. “You've only cast
more
suspicion on yourself, while I've been doing nothing but trying to clear your name.”

“You had the opportunity to clear my name last night,” I retorted. “You could have told those reporters that you were certain I had nothing to do with Mrs. Pastor's murder—”

“Edward, you know yourself it doesn't work that—”

I raised a hand to silence him. “Since you declined to do that, I have taken it upon myself to clear my own good name.”

Barclay, still fumbling for his pipe, said, “But don't you see that questioning the other suspects just makes you look guilty?”

“I suppose Mrs. Mueller told you about our visit, then.”

“She didn't need to. There were three teacups in her parlor yet she claimed to have been alone. It took just a small amount of cajoling to get her to admit the truth.”

Barclay at last located his pipe. While stuffing that rotten cob with tobacco, he said, “It didn't take long to deduce that you and Mrs. Collins intended to visit the other members of Mrs. Pastor's final séance. Since the Duttons lived the closest, I tried there first. And there you were. Caught red-handed.”

He lit the pipe, filling the coach with tobacco smoke. Despite having no interest in smoking myself, I enjoyed the scent. There was a sweetness to it that I found pleasing, especially when compared with my friend's sour mood.

“From the way you talk, Barclay, I think you're starting to have doubts about my innocence.”

Barclay exhaled. “You know me better than that, Edward. I don't doubt you for a moment. I never could. But your new friend, Mrs. Collins? Well, that's another story. She's not exactly a paragon of virtue. Which is why I hate seeing you getting mixed up with her.”

“She's not nearly as bad as you think.”

If my words surprised Barclay, I can assure you that they surprised me even more. Had our conversation taken place immediately after Mrs. Pastor's death, I would have agreed with him completely about Lucy's personality.

Yet I had spent so much time with her since then that my opinion had somewhat softened. Clearly, I was aware of Lucy's many faults—chief among them being greed, selfishness, and general untrustworthiness. But she also possessed a keen mind and a sense of
humor, both of which were admirable qualities. And as I thought about our afternoon of investigation, I realized that I had enjoyed myself far more than I expected.

Barclay's view of her, however, was more limited.

“I disagree,” he said. “Honestly, Edward, what possessed you to align yourself with someone like her?”

Since I couldn't tell Barclay that simple blackmail was the prime reason, I had to come up with another excuse. “Because I know she didn't kill Mrs. Pastor.”

Barclay lifted an eyebrow, which was barely visible through the undulating cloud of smoke coming from his pipe. “Are you certain of that?”

“Yes,” I said. “Mrs. Collins may be many things, but she is not a murderer.”

“How would you know? From what I've uncovered, Mrs. Lucy Collins didn't exist until a few years ago.”

Barclay sounded scandalized that someone would purposefully try to escape their old life by forging a new identity. Little did he know that Edward Clark, his dear friend and former brother in arms, had done the very same thing. That irony wasn't lost on me as I replied, “I don't find that very unusual.”

“I certainly do,” Barclay said. “She doesn't seem to have had any life at all before she arrived in Philadelphia, wed to one Mr. Samuel Collins. No old friends of the man seem to know anything about her.”

“Perhaps she lived a sheltered life before marrying him.”

“Or,” Barclay said, “she's hiding something.”

The names Declan O'Malley and Jenny Boyd leapt into my thoughts. I knew little about Lucy's life under her birth name, and even less about this mysterious Mr. O'Malley. But I assumed that Lucy, like yours truly, had a very good reason to change her identity.

“It sounds like you think Lucy Collins is the killer.”

“No,” Barclay said. “To be quite honest, I have no idea who could have done it.”

“That's disheartening.”

“I'm sorry, Edward. But please understand that I am trying.”

Barclay's apology didn't make an iota of difference to my situation. One more day of his not finding Mrs. Pastor's murderer meant another day spent under a cloud of suspicion.

“Do you know anything at all?” I said with a sigh that rivaled his greatest efforts.

Now it was Barclay's turn to avoid a question. He stuck his overturned pipe out the open window. With a few sharp taps, the still-smoldering tobacco left the cob and fluttered into the muddy street. Then, pipe cleaned, he shoved it back into his pocket. The whole display left me bristling with annoyance.

“I deserve to be told something,” I snapped. “Especially if I might have to spend the rest of my life as a murder suspect.”

“There's been a slight snag in our investigation.”

“What sort of snag?”

“Remember me telling you about that poison expert from New York? Toxicologist—that's his official title. He arrived this morning and immediately went to work.”

“That should be a good thing.”

“It would be, if he could deduce what kind of poison killed Mrs. Pastor. He spent all day considering the most common ones. Arsenic. Thallium. Cyanide salts. Brucine. Even morphine. He's convinced none of them killed Mrs. Pastor. So now he's looking into poisonous plants. Thus far, all he knows is that it wasn't deadly nightshade or hemlock.”

“Maybe she died of natural causes after all,” I said.

“But she didn't.” Barclay gave a sad shake of his head, immediately obliterating my naive hopefulness. “This toxicologist is certain she was poisoned. He's just not sure
how
. And until he learns that, well, it hinders the investigation.”

Had I suspected that Barclay knew anything else, I would have pressed him. But the pale blankness of his face told me he did not.

“Thank you for being forthright with me,” I told him.

“This will all pass quickly,” my old friend replied. “I promise you it will.”

“I hope you're right. My future depends on it.”

We had, at that point, reached Locust Street, and it was time to take my leave. With a tip of my hat, I exited the coach. The sun had fully set by then, turning the sky a light purple that made the surrounding houses soft and hazy. The streetlamps were already lit, their glow casting long shadows across the sidewalk and into the street. One such shadow fell across the coach, darkening its interior so that Barclay was all but invisible. Even though I could no longer see him, I heard his voice as the coach began to pull away.

“This time, please heed my advice,” he called to me. “Just lay low for a few days. And for the love of God, steer clear of Mrs. Collins.”

A
n hour later, I took the trolley west to dine at the Willoughby residence. The evening started off pleasantly, with a glass of spirits sipped on the front porch. We talked about the beautiful weather, the prognosis for this year's crops, and, of course, Violet and Mrs. Willoughby's new hats. Once we were at the dinner table, however, the conversation turned more serious. The first topic, discussed over cream of mushroom soup, was a recent bridge collapse in Ohio that killed scores of people. The next topic, served with a fish course of salted shad, was a series of grave robberies that had taken place across the river in Camden. When the entrée arrived—rare roast beef, maple-sugared carrots, and mashed potatoes—the conversation turned, unfortunately and inevitably, to the death of Lenora Grimes Pastor.

“I must admit, Edward,” Thornton Willoughby said, “that I'm concerned about this whole mess you've gotten yourself mixed up in.”

In addition to causing me immediate indigestion, the subject of Mrs. Pastor allowed me to witness the Willoughby family's round-robin way of communicating. For as soon as Mr. Willoughby was finished, Violet piped up with, “Father, I begged you not to mention that.”

“I believe your father is right to broach the subject,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “After all, it's been in all the newspapers.”

Jasper Willoughby, looking as wan as ever, skipped his turn, electing to take a few extra sips of wine instead. He gave me an odd look over the rim of his glass, one that was both accusatory and conspiratorial. I was reminded once more that we shared a secret, a situation that didn't exactly put me at ease.

“As a gentleman of the press, I can tell you it's not wise to believe everything you read in the newspapers,” I replied.

“Certainly not an account written by you.” Mr. Willoughby pointed his fork at me. A chunk of beef was impaled on its tines, dripping blood. “Your article about Mrs. Pastor's death failed to mention murder. That looks mighty suspicious to my eyes.”

Frustrated, Violet stomped the floor so hard the entire table shimmied. “Father, really! At the time, he didn't know it
was
murder. A subject, by the way, that isn't proper dinner table discussion.”

“We're not talking about the murder, my dear,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “We're merely discussing Mr. Clark's role in it.”

Jasper at last weighed in, still giving me that strange look as he said, “Perhaps Edward has no role in it whatsoever. Maybe he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was just doing his job. Weren't you, Edward?”

Under the table, I clenched my fists, waiting for him to mention Lucy Collins. In my head, I was already devising an excuse to tell Violet and her family. Something that would easily explain my arrangement with Mrs. Collins without giving away the fact that I was really the son of a notorious killer. Yet, to my surprise, Jasper
said no more. And while his words could have been an innocent statement, I took them to be a reminder that he knew more than he had let on to the others.

“But you
are
a suspect, are you not?” Mr. Willoughby asked me. “Surely the newspapers can't be lying about that.”

“No, but they can exaggerate the truth,” I said. “I am as much a suspect as everyone else who attended that séance.”

“But it doesn't mean the police really think he killed someone,” Violet added in my defense. “Why, Edward's very dear friend Inspector Barclay is the man investigating the crime. I'm certain he doesn't think Edward is guilty.”

“No, he doesn't, as a matter of fact,” I said.

“Is Mr. Barnum a suspect?” Mrs. Willoughby inquired. “After all, he was also there.”

Her husband, completely bypassing Jasper's turn to speak, stabbed another chunk of beef while muttering, “If you ask me,
he's
the one who did it. Any man who seeks public attention as much as he does is capable of anything, including murder.”

“Well,” Violet said, “Mr. Barnum is of no concern to us. But Edward is. To me, at least. And if the rest of you care a whit about me, then you must care about Edward, too. That means believing deep in your heart that he is completely innocent.”

“We do, my dear,” Mrs. Willoughby replied. “It's just, well, we're concerned about—”

Her husband sputtered in exasperation. “Just come out with it, Marjorie. It's Edward's reputation that concerns us. And how his being embroiled in all of this will reflect not only on you, but on the entire family. Think of how it will look to others.”

“Of course nothing can bring shame to the Willoughby name. We certainly can't have that!” Violet leapt to her feet and tossed her fork onto her plate, where it clinked and clattered before falling to the floor in a spray of carrots and potatoes. “God forbid your
daughter's happiness be more important than selling a few more stupid hats!”