Louisa and the Missing Heiress (26 page)

So the windows in the downstairs hall had fallen victim to a temper tantrum, it would seem. But what, exactly, had caused the actress’s wrath on that occasion? I sensed that Miss Mendosa’s display of jealousy was a performance, based not on true affection for Mr. Brownly, but on a whim to frighten, to amuse, to keep at bay any sense of reality. Katya Mendosa’s entire life was a play filled with lies.

But smashing windows was too much. Let her playact all she wanted; I did not think it suitable to endanger horses below in the street. I would end this latest temper tantrum.

“I saw your old friend a few days ago,” I said quietly, steadily staring her down. “Mr. Wortham. He sends his regards.”

Katya Mendosa turned red and then white. Her nostrils flared. She looked covertly at Edgar Brownly, who was still on his hands and knees fetching pieces of lunch from under the furniture. He had not heard my comment.

“It is time for you to leave,” she whispered. Her manner became almost polite.

So Edgar Brownly did not know his mistress was acquainted—very well acquainted—with his brother-in-law, Preston Wortham.

That knowledge might prove useful. But it seemed wise to end the interview at that point, so I rose.

“I’m sorry your lunch was spoiled,” I said, and for one of the few times in my life I was completely insincere. “There is still marzipan, of course,” I said, pointing to the tin.

“I hate marzipan.” Edgar Brownly pouted. “That was a gift from Wortham. He must have assumed I would enjoy it because my sister enjoyed marzipan. He’s a stupid fellow.”

My heart raced. The marzipan had been brought from France by Preston Wortham? Digby must have confused the presents and thought Dorothy had brought a box of bonbons for me. Relief flooded through me. Of course Dorothy would never wish to harm me.

The relief was short-lived.

Who had Mr. Wortham intended to be the recipient of that box of marzipan now down at the police office, waiting for the chemist’s test? Or perhaps my imagination was racing, and there was no connection at all between the marzipan and Mr. Mapp’s death?

“I would not eat the candy,” I told Edgar and Katya. “I think it has gone off. In fact, you should discard it.”

“Take it!” Katya shrieked, flinging the box at me.

Back in the dark stairwell, with the door slammed resoundingly upon my departure, I remembered I had not left the invitation I had come to deliver. Well, I would not go back in there just then, for with my ear to the door (yes, dear reader, I admit it: I eavesdropped) I could hear Edgar and Katya quarreling viciously. The voices rose and fell and Katya repeated over and over, “You do not love me! You never send me love letters, never!” and Edgar protesting, with some indifference, it is true, that she was the light of his life.

I wondered if Edgar would have the sense never to put his declarations in writing for her. Such a woman would not be above using them when he grew tired of her, and a lawsuit could well follow, publicity of the worst sort.

Written declarations.

Why had I not thought of it sooner?

AS FATE WOULD HAVE IT, one Mrs. Giles Milton was passing by the door of Edgar Brownly’s studio just as I was leaving. I could tell it was Mrs. Milton by the extravagant number of daughters in her carriage—eight, at last count—and by the booming voice with which the older woman greeted me. Mrs. Milton was a woman who never spoke softly but always yelled, since she herself was hard of hearing and refused, out of vanity, to use an ear trumpet.

“Louisa! Is that Miss Alcott!” Mrs. Milton roared.

“Oh, Mama, it is!” roared back her daughters. “And isn’t that where Mr. Brownly keeps his studio?”

There I stood, unchaperoned, blushing, and carrying a box of sweets that, at that moment, could have been confused as a gift from a gentleman.

I wished for a miracle: that the fog would suddenly grow so dense that I would disappear in it, that there would be an earthquake to swallow me or that Mrs. Milton’s horses would take fright and bolt . . . without harming any of the children, of course. After a few minutes in company with Katya Mendosa, I was weary of hysterical women who insisted on misreading situations.

“Why, Louisa, my dear, I didn’t know you were on intimate terms with dear Mr. Brownly,” Mrs. Milton gushed so loudly that the other passersby turned and stared.

The fog did not grow denser. The earth did not tremble. The horses did not bolt. Mrs. Milton, the worst gossip in Boston, would have to be faced. Hastily I donned my hat, which I had removed despite the rules of calling attire for the afternoon. I put my shoulders back, thrust my hands deep into my pockets, and strode over to the carriage.

“Why, Mrs. Milton, what a surprise,” I said, which was the only greeting I could think of that would not be an outand-out lie. Certainly it was not at all nice to see her. “Whatever brings you to the wharves?” I asked, hoping to distract her from asking the same question of myself.

“Mr. Milton is suffering the gout today and we were expecting a shipment, so I drove down,” the woman gushed. “Oh, how hard I am worked! How hard! Girls, do stop giggling. . . .” Mr. Milton owned a dry-goods shop that carried items from England, and so he spent some time at the harbor, checking on stocks in his warehouse.

“Indeed, you are hardworking,” I agreed. “Well, I must be on my way. Good day, Mrs. Milton.” And I turned away, moving with such alacrity that I estimated the fog would render me invisible in half a minute or so.

“Louisa! Miss Alcott! You have not said . . .” Mrs. Milton called after me. “You are here alone, unchaperoned?”

Alone. Quite. Looking, well, you know how women look when . . . I knew Mrs. Milton would say such things about me all that day and the next. For Mrs. Milton was a woman of considerable energy, and even her many children did not quite expend her resources. What strength was left she devoted to gossip.

I walked on without responding. It was none of Mrs. Milton’s business what my visit to the Brownly heir had been about. But I knew it would be all over Boston by the next morning that I had been walking—and visiting—alone, and that simply was not done. I frowned and whistled as I walked, feeling even more rebellious because of those stupid rules that so stringently dictated what young women could and could not do with their free time.

And because I was in a bad temper, and because harm had already been done, I decided,
In for a dime, in for a dollar
. I would visit, unchaperoned, the Wortham mansion on Commonwealth Avenue as well. Digby, as a rather powerful member of the servant class, since gentlemen’s gentlemen ranked in the top of the downstairs hierarchy, might have some leads on positions for Queenie. And he might have some answers about Preston Wortham as well, if I could pry them out of him.

By this time there was no choice about taking a public coach, since the city horses had been stabled for the rest of the day; otherwise the coaches would be knocking into each other and pedestrians, the fog had grown so thick. Only an extremely stout hater of exercise such as Mrs. Milton would risk a horse and carriage in such a pea souper.

So I walked north through the drizzle, pondering what could drive a person to murder another human being, much less a sweet and loyal human such as Dorothy. I had come to the realization that the guilty party must be either Mr. Wortham or Mr. Brownly, and that money had to be the catalyst for the crime. Yet both men were well housed, well clothed, and well fed. What need had they of more money? It was true what Father often said, that the wealthy never had enough.

I had begun to suspect, though, the true reason why Preston Wortham was already out of funds, and I would now confront Digby with my suspicions.

Half an hour later I rang the bell at the Wortham mansion.

When Digby came to answer my ring at the door, he was less obnoxious than upon my first visit immediately following the murder. He was, in fact, deferential and even solicitous.

“Miss Alcott! Out in such weather! Will you come in?”

“Thank you, Digby, I will,” I answered, stepping over the threshold. The house seemed eerily still, as if it were waiting for something. Gone was that atmosphere of days past, of illicit gaiety upstairs, the creaking floorboards and hushed whispers of a waiting unseen companion.

“However, Mr. Wortham is not at home,” Digby stated gravely when I took off my sodden coat, indicating I would stay at least a few minutes.

“I know, Digby. He has been incarcerated. Let us go into the parlor, shall we? I wish to speak with you.”

Digby started to say something, then closed his mouth, thinking better of it. Somewhat meekly, he followed me into the parlor, the place of my last visit, the place of Dorothy’s tea parties.

All had been set in order in that room. No more shawls and assorted women’s garments draped themselves over the parlor sofa. No scent of cheap perfume hung in the air.

In fact, the room was almost empty. The settee, table, and several chairs were gone, and all of the paintings, fairly good Turner imitations of seascapes, had been taken down from the wall, exposing darker squares of red flocked wallpaper where the sunlight had been blocked.

“Is Mr. Wortham relocating?” I asked.

“I couldn’t say, miss,” the servant answered. “His banker was by yesterday, and ordered the removal of the missing items.”

“Well. I’m sure you are busy,” I began, sitting in one of two remaining upholstered chairs, “but there are some questions about Mr. Wortham I would like to ask.”

“It is not my place, miss,” Digby answered with another grave little bow.

“Please. Just for a moment.” I balanced the box of marzipan on my lap. I had considered tossing it onto a rubbish heap outside, but reconsidered, since street children and beggars rummaged through such heaps. I would have to carry it home to dispose of it.

“As you wish. For a moment.” He stood in front of a window, on the far side of the room. The street gas lamps had been lighted, and the flickering yellow radiance cast harsh shadows into the room. The curtains, too, had been removed.

“I have heard distressing things about your employer,” I began.

“You must not believe everything you hear.” Digby stood stiffly, his white-gloved hands tense at his sides.

“Of course not,” I gently agreed. “You knew him perhaps better than the rest of us. Except for Mrs. Wortham, of course.”

“Of course.”

“I have heard that he went to visit his mistress, Katya Mendosa, as soon as he returned from his honeymoon. That must have been very distressing for Mrs. Wortham.”

Digby stood even straighter. “A patent falsehood, miss. He did no such thing.”

“Not even once?”

“Not even once.”

Digby, as good manservant, would lie about that, of course, I thought. I would try a different tactic.

“I’m so relieved to hear that,” I said. “Of course, in Europe he stayed devotedly by his wife’s side. Is that how you would describe Mr. Wortham’s nature? Devoted and loyal?”

“His nature?” Digby considered. “Of course.”

“So you did travel in Europe with them.”

“He required my services, yes, miss.”

“How cold it is today,” I said, rubbing my hands together to warm them.

“Exceedingly, Miss Alcott,” he agreed.

“And very wet.” I stared about at the flocked walls as if distracted. “When did Preston Wortham first employ you, Digby?”

“Upon his engagement to Mrs. Wortham. I am skillful at setting up domestic arrangements, and as a new husband he would need to make . . . certain changes . . . in his living arrangements once he brought his new wife home.”

“You would not be willing to supply more details about those certain changes?”

“No, miss.”

“No matter.” My imagination could very effectively supply the domestic differences that would perforce be needed in Wortham’s living arrangements once he made the transformation from bachelor to husband.

“You have been helpful, Digby. You might be interested to know that I had employment inquiries from a gentleman who expressed particular interest in you. Unfortunately, he has died rather unexpectedly.”

“Ah. That would be Mr. Henry Mapp. I read his obituary. He asked particularly for me?”

“He did. He was most impressed with you.”

Digby frowned. “I am flattered, of course. But the position would not have suited me.”

“You refer to the inquiry of five years past.” Mr. Henry Mapp had been called before a court to answer charges of embezzling funds from a club for which he had been secretary. “He was cleared of all wrongdoing in that matter,” I said.

“Yes. But the mud clings, miss. Once something like that is made public . . .”

“His peers have largely forgotten, since he was innocent of wrongdoing,” I said somewhat hotly. But it would not serve my purpose to lose my temper, so I softened my voice and began again. “I know of a young woman seeking employment, Digby. Could you help?”

“Is she of impeccable character, miss?”

I sighed. It was useless. By Digby’s standards, Queenie could hardly be described as a woman of character. It wouldn’t matter that Brownly had drugged and raped her.

“If not . . .” he began, but the air in the room grew charged and the servant did not finish his sentence. He was staring somewhere beyond me, over my shoulder.

I was certain I would be dismissed any moment. I could no longer hesitate.

“Perhaps, Digby, you can tell me who has been blackmailing your employer,” I said.

“I don’t quite understand, miss,” Digby blustered.

“Of course you do. All the signs point in that direction. A young man of poor reputation and estranged from both his family and his family’s wealth, a known seducer, marries a wealthy young society girl. It’s a perfect setup for blackmail. I already know that Mr. Wortham was . . . busy . . . for several summers in Newport, and I’m sure most of Boston, high and low, knows it, too. Certainly the papers have not hesitated to print all the old gossip. If he was not being blackmailed, why, then, was he always out of funds, even after marrying a rich wife?”