Lady of Ashes (40 page)

The two men greeted one another.

“You both appear deep in thought,” George said.

“We’re just puzzling out who may have taken Susanna,” Violet said, turning over the notes she and Sam had been working on so George couldn’t see them.

“Ah, excellent, we’ve arrived at a propitious time. Four heads are better than two, as they say. Mary and I would be most pleased to assist you in sorting everything out. Tell us everything you know.”

Feeling trapped between her friend and this overly inquisitive man, Violet reluctantly shared the state of things with them both. With many interjections of “Yes, yes, I see” and “Most dastardly,” Mr. Cooke used up much of their precious time, while offering no truly helpful suggestions.

Violet hoped she hadn’t made a terrible error in talking to him.

 

Charles Francis felt no need to hide his own impatience. “You now say the girl’s kidnapping has nothing to do with the Morgan brothers? The Metropolitan Police seem to feel no urgency regarding the missing girl, and my conversation with Lord Russell leads me to believe he’s actually happy the girl is gone because it gives the queen something new to dwell on. How did I ever end up in such a position as this? Son, strike all of that last part.”

Henry scratched through several written lines on the page.

“Therefore, I see no need for you to continue pursuit of these kidnappers. I’m sorry for your personal feelings in the matter, Harper, but I need you to focus on commerce raiders and blockade runners.”

Several moments ticked by as Harper sat in a chair across the desk from Charles Francis, drumming his fingers on the arm of the leather chair without responding. Was he going to be difficult? His affection for the Morgan woman was making him blind to duty.

But Harper knew what was expected of him.

“I know of a suspicious shipbuilder focusing on small, swift ships,” he said grudgingly. “I’ll look further into him.”

“Excellent. Understand, Harper, that the priority here is to serve the United States, despite our personal discomforts. I no longer see how pursuit of the child serves our government’s aims.”

“Or yours,” Harper muttered. The cheek of the man.

“Report back to me when you know something.”

Harper rose to leave, but turned back at the door. “Presumably my free time is still that—free?”

“To do with exactly as you please, yes, so long as you don’t embarrass the government.”

Harper smiled as he left the room. Why did Charles Francis suspect he’d not heard the last of Violet Morgan’s troubles?

 

“Why, Sam, thank you,” Violet said, taking the yellow rose he offered and placing it on a table under Susanna’s picture. “It looks lovely there. How was your meeting with the minister?”

“More or less productive. I have an assignment to seek out more Confederate sympathizers working against the United States, but also have time to help you find Susanna.”

There was a knock at the door. Violet went downstairs to answer it, and found Harry holding an envelope. He’d recovered nicely from his mishap.

“Some mail came after you left, Mrs. Morgan, and I thought this one might be one of those, er, letters.”

Harry handed it over and left before Violet could confirm its contents. Why hadn’t he brought along the rest of the mail, as well? She shut the door and examined the envelope as she took it upstairs and held it up.

“Is it . . . ?” Sam asked.

She nodded and opened the envelope.

Suddenly, a whirl of things began arranging and rearranging themselves in Violet’s mind.

“I see,” she said.

Sam took the note and read it for himself. “You’re remarkably composed, Violet.”

“That’s because I’m finally beginning to understand what this is all about.” At least, what it might be about. She had to think.

There was actually a reason behind all of this, wasn’t there? And Susanna wasn’t just an innocent bystander, either. What was it the queen had said during Violet’s last visit? Something about the carriage of life. It was important, but Violet couldn’t quite remember what it was.

“Violet, what is it?” Sam asked.

She sank into the chair next to the table holding her rose. Sam went to one knee and took one of her hands in his.

“Violet?”

“Do you remember my talking about the bodies I prepared? The ones with the strange disease?”

“Yes, you worried there might be a possible epidemic starting.”

“I believe it’s an epidemic, but of murder, not disease.”

“What are you saying?”

“Give me the note.” Sam handed it to her. “Look at these two lines again. ‘You shouldn’t have noticed what I didn’t want you to.’ What I noticed were the peculiar signs of Mr. Young’s and Mrs. Atkinson’s demises.”

Sam frowned. “Even if that’s true, why would he kidnap Susanna?”

“It’s as you said, his goal is my agony, and so I am the dangling toad.”

Sam considered this. “What would you say was the manner of their deaths, then?”

“I think perhaps . . . I think they were poisoned with something caustic. An acid maybe? It could have been mixed inside food and given to the deceased. Both had been ill.”

“Who would do such a thing?”

“Well, the same doctor attended both of them and was noticeably detached when I suggested that there was something wrong.”

Sam shook his head. “The very idea is repulsive. Why would a man committed to healing people commit such an act? What benefit is there for him?”

“I don’t know,” Violet said helplessly. “But there’s also . . . what about . . .”

“Yes?”

“Sam, I hate to even utter the words, but don’t you think George Cooke has been particularly interested in this whole situation? It’s almost as though he’s trying to figure out what I know.”

“You’re right. There’s also the matter of his background. We know almost nothing about him, although we can be fairly certain he’s not the clockmaker he claims to be.”

Violet was silent. It was too distressing to even contemplate her besotted friend’s reaction should George prove to be a criminal. But if George had Susanna, where was he keeping her?

Oh no. No, no, no.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Sam, you don’t think . . . ?”

He understood exactly where her thoughts had gone.

“Impossible. Mrs. Overfelt loves you too much, and she’s virtuous in the extreme. She would never hide a kidnapped child, especially one belonging to her friend.”

Violet’s stomach was in somersaults. “But you’ve seen how enamored she is of Mr. Cooke. She believes anything he says, despite obvious evidence to the contrary. Who knows what he’s said about me?”

Sam rose from the floor and sat on a chair across from her, rubbing his chin. “I don’t know, Violet, I find it hard to believe Mrs. Overfelt would involve herself, even if George Cooke is responsible. It also doesn’t explain why he would want to kidnap Susanna. Distressing you doesn’t seem a good enough answer. As Slade said, children are a risky proposition for a criminal.”

“But Susanna isn’t just any child.”

“Of course we know she’s a special young sprite, but—”

“No, Sam, it’s not that. Susanna has been with me each time I saw one of these victims, and her reaction has been near paralysis. At first I thought she was simply horrified by the eaten flesh, but now I’m wondering if she hadn’t seen the condition before.”

“Seen it where?”

“I think perhaps on her mother. All we know about Susanna’s mother is that she died of some unspecified illness. Could she also have been poisoned?”

“But for what reason? And what do Susanna’s mother, Mr. Young, and Mrs. Atkinson all have in common that would make them targets for this murderer?”

Violet was too absorbed in her own train of thought to answer his questions. Her theory tumbled out in a rush.

“Is it possible that Susanna witnessed her own mother’s murder—which would certainly explain why she refused to speak at first, poor thing—and during one of our visits we met the murderer or he saw us from afar, recognized Susanna, and decided to silence her? Have I mentioned my findings to the wrong person, and so the murderer is now hinting that he wants me, too?”

Sam nodded. “Of course, this brings us around to George Cooke again, who has been engrossed by your opinion of these deaths, courtesy of Mrs. Overfelt.”

Violet closed her eyes and leaned back, trying to sort out what was true or not in her head. “Perhaps his initial interest in Mary was because we were friends. It’s all so difficult to believe.”

“Do you remember George Cooke at any of the homes you visited?”

“No, but I rarely see the entire family on my visits, and I talk to only a smattering of servants. It would be quite easy for someone to notice Susanna and me without being seen in return.”

“What do the victims have in common? Status? Age?”

Violet ticked off attributes on her fingers. “Mrs. Atkinson was middle-aged, Mr. Young was much older. Presumably Susanna’s mother was around my age. Mrs. Atkinson lived in a rooming house, Mr. Young had a large home and staff, and we can only assume Susanna’s mother was of some sort of lower background. The only commonality I can think of is that all three were sick before they were poisoned.”

“You mean they were sick because they were poisoned, correct?”

“No, each had a specific illness—or were at least complaining of various illnesses prior to dying. But from what I’ve seen, the manner of their deaths suggests their illnesses had nothing to do with their final moments.”

Sam shook his head. “That makes no sense. Why would anyone murder someone who is already sick?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that Susanna is in evil hands, and I have to figure out how to find her.”

“Well, I hate to say this, but I think your most likely suspect is George Cooke, which means our best approach is confronting Mary. At least we can take comfort that she probably wouldn’t hurt Susanna. In fact, Susanna probably has tinfuls of chocolates and armfuls of dolls to entertain her.”

“Maybe. Sam, I need your help. What do I do?” Without thinking, Violet reached over and touched Sam’s knee, a brazen move that sent a flush creeping up his face to his ears. She whisked her hand away, embarrassed by her own forwardness.

He cleared his throat. “We’ll go together to see Mrs. Overfelt. You know where she lives?”

“Yes, she has quarters above her shop.”

“Then Susanna is probably hidden up there. We’ll go now, and hopefully have Susanna home with you in under an hour.”

Brighter words were never spoken. Unfortunately, their optimism was misplaced.

V
iolet had never actually visited Mary’s living spaces before, as they always met more conveniently downstairs in the dressmaker’s shop. A set of rickety stairs behind the shop led to her rooms above it. The rear of the building was overgrown with vines, and the windows were smudged with dirt. The scrolled grills protecting the windows were rusted and rotting. Broken flowerpots were strewn about the ground, once-proud lavender and monkshood now reduced to dried up stalks in barren soil.

“I’m surprised Mary would allow her surroundings to deteriorate so much,” Violet said. “You’d think Mr. Cooke would help her with improvements.”

Sam made no response, merely guiding her to the base of the staircase and urging Violet to watch her step.

Mary’s eyes widened in shock when she opened the door to Sam’s insistent rapping. She was dressed as though about to go out, with gloves and a fancy hat that managed to tame her unrestrained gray hair well. A long shawl lay on a chair nearby.

“Violet, dear, why didn’t you ring at the shop door? I would have let you in that way. Come in.” Mary stood aside to let them enter, but remained near the door herself, fidgeting with a handkerchief in her sleeve.

“Are you just out visiting this evening?” she asked.

“Not exactly. Oh, Mary, how could you do it?” Drat the tears that always filled her eyes at the most inopportune moments.

“I’m sorry, dear, do what?”

“Hide Susanna from me.”

“Hide Susanna? What a crazy thought. Where did you get such an idea?”

“I think that George is behind the deaths of those people who died with mysterious holes in their skin. I believe he has now kidnapped Susanna and convinced you to hide her on his behalf.”

“What? Violet, that is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. I love Susanna; why would I do such a thing?”

“Because . . . because you love Mr. Cooke more. I think he fabricated some sort of inventive, believable tale for you, and since you are a woman in love, you eagerly believed it and agreed to help him. Please, Mary, give her back to me.”

Mary glanced nervously at the door. “Violet, I really have no idea what this is about, but this isn’t the best time for me, dear.”

Violet felt Sam place his hand at the small of her back, a warning of some kind.

“Susanna!” she called out. “Susanna, sweetheart, are you here?”

No answer.

Mary shook her head. “I believe your grief has rattled your mind. Susanna is not here, nor has she ever been.”

“Then you won’t mind if I search for her?”

Mary glanced at the door again. “Dear, I don’t know what has possessed you, but I must insist that we discuss this at another time. I’m expecting—”

Someone else was rapping at the door. Mary opened it, her face flushed with embarrassment, or was it relief?

“George, welcome. Violet and Mr. Harper just stopped by for a visit, isn’t that lovely?”

George Cooke was dressed as elegantly as Mary. The silk top hat that he swept off his head looked new, and the twinkling cuffs at his wrists were gold.

“Lovely indeed. How go your investigations, Mrs. Morgan?”

Samuel stepped in before Violet could respond. “We believe we’re very close to an answer. If you’ll excuse us, we can see that you both have an important engagement.”

He led Violet to the door. As she passed Mary, the other woman embraced her, whispering, “You don’t understand, dear, I think that tonight—”

Violet jerked away from Mary, repulsed by her touch and her excuses. In any case, she was already developing another idea.

 

Sam agreed with her plan, so they sat in a nearby coffee shop until they saw Mary and George walk past, arm in arm and laughing, on the way to whatever plans they had for the evening.

Violet and Sam returned to the rear of Mary’s building and climbed the stairs, and Sam pried away the loose grillwork on the window next to the door. It practically decayed in his hands. He set it down on the stoop and checked the window. They were in luck; there was no interior lock on the window. He climbed in, then helped Violet, who struggled over the jamb in her long skirts and crinoline.

Sam laughed quietly. “You look like a blackened brush being pulled through a dirty flue.”

Violet straightened her clothing. “Making you the chimney sweep.”

“Quite correct. Now, we must be quick and silent. We don’t dare light any lamps. It’s one thing to go unnoticed in the alley behind the shop, it’s another to flood her lodgings with light that can be seen from the street. You check up here; I’m going to go downstairs and inspect the shop.”

With that, Sam was off to find the right door that would open onto a staircase leading directly into Mary’s dressmaking shop.

Violet took a deep breath, terrified of what she would find here. “Susanna?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Sweetheart? Mother is here. Where are you? Make a noise for me.”

Violet continued to softly call out as she moved through the rooms. Much of the shop’s untidiness extended up here. Mary was storing bolts of fabric and boxes of trim in whatever available space she had upstairs. She really did need day help, although someone hiding a child wouldn’t want a maid poking around, would she?

Violet opened every door she could find, from armoires to cupboards. There was nothing, not even an indicator that a young girl was living on the premises. A seed of doubt planted itself deep inside her.
Was I wrong?

Sam’s return a few moments later confirmed it. “Violet, there is no one down there, nor does it look like there has ever been a resident in the shop. Except for dressmaking materials, the shop is empty. I even shoved aside a few loose pieces of furniture in the fantastical notion that there might be some kind of trapdoor leading to a basement. I found nothing.”

Violet shared her similar findings. “If she isn’t here, Sam, then where is she?”

“More importantly, if Mrs. Overfelt isn’t involved, can we assume Mr. Cooke isn’t either?”

They departed by the same window, with Sam adjusting the grill back into place afterward, and discussed what to do the entire way back to Violet’s house. Noticing for the first time Sam’s haggard face and bloodshot eyes, Violet invited him to sleep in the drawing room. He refused, unwilling to bring compromise to her already tenuous reputation, but promised to return early in the morning to escort her to the shop.