Shrouded In Thought (Gilded Age Mysteries Book 2) (22 page)

He enunciated the last word with such pointed emphasis and precision that it startled Evangeline. The two had paused in the center of the summer exhibit, sunlight streaming down through the glass ceiling panels and intensifying the kaleidoscope of colors that surrounded them. The scene stood in jarring contrast to their conversation. Everywhere around them, flowers dazzled the eye with exuberant life, while she and Roland spoke of nothing but blighted hopes and death.

“Did you love her, Roland?”

The youth stretched lazily in the afternoon rays. “I’m always in love, Engie. I might even be falling in love right now.”

“I was asking about Nora.” Evangeline refused to be dissuaded from the topic.

“Ah yes, Nora. Poor little Nora. Not good enough for uncle. I’ll tell you one thing I know for sure. Nothing fuels a romance like somebody trying to keep you away from a girl! Even when Nora said goodbye, I wasn’t ready to end it. Just on principle.” He added angrily, half to himself, “I couldn’t let him win!”

Evangeline said nothing as the two resumed their promenade through the last of the floral exhibit.

“And here’s another thing,” Roland said, “if I didn’t know his veins were filled with ice, I’d almost think the old man wanted to keep her for himself.”

“What? You actually think Martin might have had designs on Nora?” Given the elder Allworthy’s horror of impropriety, Evangeline could scarcely credit the possibility.

Roland shrugged his shoulders. “He’d never admit it to me even if it was true. I’m not sure he could even admit it to himself. If auntie ever caught him mixed up with another woman, you can guess what would have happened!”

Emboldened by Roland’s apparent candor, Evangeline ventured into deeper waters. “Do you think Nora was murdered?”

The youth turned to stare directly at her. “Well now, there’s an interesting idea. It never crossed my mind before. Let’s see. Here, I’ve got it! Maybe uncle was so mad when he couldn’t stop me from seeing Nora that one night he just heaved her into the river. Do you suppose that’s how it went?” Roland’s eyes were a mask of calculated innocence as he posed the question.

Evangeline returned his gaze evenly. “Where were you the night she died, Roland?”

A sly expression distorted the youth’s features. He put a finger to his lips. “Shhhh, it’s a secret! Not supposed to tell.”

Evangeline hoped that baiting him might draw out the truth. “Perhaps it’s because you were the one who killed her.”

Roland snickered. “That’s a good one!” He seemed delighted at the thought. He leaned toward her and murmured in a low voice, “Would you like me better, Engie, if you thought I was dangerous?”

Evangeline made no response. She had begun to tap her foot impatiently.

Seeing that his question was not about to receive the favor of a reply, Roland relented. “Well, just so you won’t think the worst of me, I’ll give you a hint.” He leaned in even closer and whispered in her ear. “I was in a place no respectable lady should ever know about.”

Realizing how much amusement he was deriving from playing cat-and-mouse with her, Evangeline gave him a pained look and began to walk toward the exit of the conservatory. The humid air inside the greenhouse was oppressive. The moisture seemed to stick to her skin and weigh her down. It had become as cloying to her as Roland’s company. She stepped outdoors and drew in a deep breath of cool, dry air. The youth followed close behind. They made their way silently up the path that led from the park to
Clark Street
.

Seemingly apropos of nothing, Roland finally said, “You know, there’s a very clever fellow who set the poems of Edgar Allan Poe to music. One of them keeps running through my head right now. Let’s see if I remember it.” He hummed a few notes off-key until he could find his pitch. “That’s it.” He began to sing a dirgelike tune:

“Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December

(or was it April?),

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow,

From my cards surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenora.

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenora. Nameless here for evermore.
”

He stopped and looked at her to gauge the effect. “What do you think of that? Catchy, isn’t it?”

“Quite.” Evangeline was completely out of patience. By this time they were standing by the curb at
Clark Street
, and she was attempting to hail a cab to take her back home. His song had belatedly reminded her that she had a literature class to teach that evening at Mast House. Despite her investigation, she was trying to maintain her regular classes, but very little time remained to get to the townhouse, change clothes, and have Jack drive her to
Polk Street
.

Roland whistled sharply as a hack came into view. He handed her into the carriage and leaned in to say, “Good-bye, Engie. I’ll be seeing you again soon.” With a last rakish smile as he closed the carriage door, he whispered, “Quoth the raven evermore.”

***

Evangeline raced up the stairs to the second floor of the Mast mansion where the classrooms were located. She had wasted so much time with that idiot Roland that she was nearly late for her literature class. By the time she arrived breathless at the door of the classroom, several of her students were already seated and waiting for her. A chorus of greetings in Italian, Greek, Polish, Irish, and German began the minute she entered. She waved distractedly as she rushed to the chalk board to write her somewhat disjointed lecture outline and tried to regain her composure.

The class consisted of twenty students—boys and girls, men and women ranging in age from fifteen to sixty. Some had finished their grammar school education and were taking the class to learn more about literature. A few were still struggling with the basics of English and hoped that reading poetry and prose in their adopted language would improve their vocabulary. Most lived in the neighborhood surrounding Mast House, and all worked in the factories and slaughterhouses on the west and south sides of the city. The one trait they all shared was an intellectual tenacity that matched their physical stamina. Evangeline wondered if she would have had the energy to work a ten-hour shift in a factory and then travel on foot to attend an evening class in literature.

Breathing calmly at last, she turned away from the board to face her students. After taking a quick count of attendance, she consulted the clock on the wall, and launched into her lecture.

“Good evening, everyone.”

“Good evening, Meees LeClayer,” they all replied with enthusiasm. The pronunciation of her name suffered a variety of deformities in the process.

She opened a large volume on the desk before her. “As I mentioned last week, we’re going to begin a new phase of study with a literary form called the short story. The author I’ve chosen to illustrate this form is Mr. Edgar Allan Poe. He is credited with writing one of the first detective stories, and his lead was admirably followed by Mr. Wilkie Collins in
England
.”

Many of her students looked at her blankly. Realizing she was moving beyond their depth, she smiled and retraced her steps to a more literal, if not literary, level. “We’re going to start with the story I assigned you to read this week. It is called ‘The Purloined Letter,’ in which Mr. Poe introduces a very clever man who solves a mystery. For those of you who have read the story, can anyone tell me the name of the detective?” Several hands shot up in the air.

“Mr. Rosetti, would you like to try?” Evangeline pointed to an older man seated in the back row who deemed it appropriate to rise before answering.

“Yes, Signora. I know this name. It is C. Augustus..., C. Augustus... Il mio dio! Un momento...” Mr. Rosetti began to mumble to himself, apparently running through an extensive catalog of alternatives before selecting one.

“Un momento, Signora! Conosco questa parola. I know this name. It sound like a beega feesh.”

“A what?” Evangeline had lost whatever phonetic association Mr. Rosetti was trying to make.

“Si, si. Now I remember. It sound like a... a... come dite! How you say... like a dolphin. The name, it is C. Augustus Dolphin.”

Evangeline smiled. “Oh, I see, Mr. Rosetti. Even though your etymological reference may not be entirely accurate, I can’t help but admire your unorthodox mnemonic technique.”

“Che cosa, Signora?” Despite reading Poe, Mr. Rosetti’s English vocabulary did not extend easily to five-syllable words.

Evangeline smiled again as she explained to her bewildered pupil, “In short, sir, you’ve come quite close.”

She wrote on the board, “C. Auguste Dupin,” at the same time pronouncing the name: “See Awgoost Doopan.” When she turned back round to face the class, Evangeline could see several students silently mouthing the words.

“Very good, Mr. Rosetti.” The man was still standing and beaming proudly at his classmates. “You may take your seat now. Can anyone tell me what the story is about?”

Several hands shot up in response to her question. “Yes, Jan.” Evangeline pointed to a Polish boy seated near the door.

“This story, it is about a letter that is stolen, yet I think it does not look stolen.”

“Excellent! Exactly the point. The letter has been stolen, but concealed in a place where no one would think to look. Can anyone tell me where that is?”

“Why, miss, it’s right there under their bloomin’ noses,” replied an Irish boy seated in the front row. At that response, the entire class laughed.

“Right again. Thank you, Sean. And what point is Mr. Poe trying to make, do you think?”

Everyone fell silent. Evangeline waited a few seconds before giving them the answer. “It’s all about perception, isn’t it? When you expect to see a certain thing in a certain place, you don’t pay any attention to it at all, do you? It’s very easy to trick the mind into thinking a thing is one way when, in fact, it’s just the reverse. Do you see?” A few heads nodded slowly.

“It isn’t what we know that trips us up. It’s what we think we know, that isn’t so. It’s as if...”

Evangeline cut herself short as a new thought struck her. She furrowed her brow and began flipping through the pages of The Collected Prose And Poetry of Edgar Allan Poe on her desk.

“A moment, if you please,” she muttered. Finally locating the page she wanted, she scanned it feverishly. “Aha!” she exclaimed in triumph, poking at the text for emphasis. “Exactly as I thought! It’s what we think we know, that isn’t so.”

She slammed the book shut and leaned forward over her desk to gaze out at the perplexed sea of faces before her. “Quoth the raven, indeed!”

“Che cosa, Signora?” Mr. Rosetti asked timidly from the back row.

Chapter 20—Flat Notes

Freddie breathed a sigh of relief as he threw himself into his easy chair and loosened his collar at the end of a long day. He kicked off his shoes and was just about to nod off to sleep when he heard an insistent rap at the door.

“What the devil!” the young man exclaimed to himself. “It’s nearly nine o’clock. Who would be crazy enough to call at this hour!”

He swung open the door to reveal the countenance of his friend. “Engie?” he gasped in disbelief.

“The very same, though I’d think by now you might have learned to recognize me on sight.”

She swept through the door and looked around. “So this is where you skulk when you aren’t bothering me in Shore Cliff.”

Freddie hurriedly tried to make himself more presentable by slipping on his shoes. This required him to hop on one foot, then the other, while at the same time awkwardly fumbling with his shirt and vest buttons. Collar still askew, he scurried around the parlor, quickly picking up a pair of slippers and a crumpled newspaper from the day before.

Ignoring the stir her presence had caused, Evangeline began to inspect the premises. “Rumor has it that these new-fangled elevator apartment buildings haven’t yet received the blessing of the upper crust as fashionable living accommodations.” She advanced from the parlor into the library alcove, which was separated from the main room by a green velvet curtain swept back by a tasseled rope. “But that’s just the opinion of old money, who believe that unless you have a fountain in your atrium, you’re roughing it.”

She peered out of the eighth-floor windows which overlooked
Lake Shore Drive
. “Have you ever tried dropping a flower pot from this height?” she asked speculatively.

“No, and I’ll thank you not to conduct any such experiment from these premises!” Freddie was indignant. “I really wouldn’t care to be evicted on your account.” With a scowl, he continued the battle with his recalcitrant collar button.

“It was just a thought.” Evangeline laughed teasingly. She ran her index finger over an end table. Her white-gloved hand revealed no dust. “Hmmm, very good. Apparently, you know how to fend for yourself when Mama isn’t around to look after you.”

“Growing up in a house full of women, how could I have turned out any other way?” Freddie’s tone was rueful.

“You might have turned out as that most loathsome of all insects, a mama’s boy, who expects that every female within whining distance was created for the sole purpose of smiling indulgently and waiting on him hand and foot.” The lady gave her friend a sidelong look. “I’m pleasantly surprised that you’re not.”

Her eyes came to rest on a large houseplant sitting on a mahogany stand at the opposite end of the parlor. “Will wonders never cease! Do my eyes deceive me, or have you become a horticulturist? With an aspidistra no less!”

Freddie rolled his eyes. “It was my mother’s one and only contribution to decorating this flat. She believes that plants are a civilizing influence.”

“Well, I’ve never been of the opinion that culture can be transmitted through chlorophyll, but it does lend a certain quelquechose.” Evangeline circled the plant appraisingly. “You’ve somehow managed not to kill it. Very good indeed!”

Just beyond the aspidistra was a modest dining room holding an oak pedestal dining table and four chairs. Evangeline did not advance farther in that direction but instead turned her attention to a room on the right set off by double doors. “The bedroom, I take it?”

Remembering an unmade bed and a pile of soiled linen heaped in the corner of his sleeping chamber, Freddie hurriedly interposed himself between his visitor and the doors. “You really don’t want to go in there.”

Apparently judging it wise not to inquire too closely as to the reason, Evangeline stepped back. “Is this a single bedroom flat?”

“No, there’s a small bedroom off the parlor for the valet whom I expect someday to afford to hire. In the meantime, I just have to shift for myself.”

“I’d think the interest from your trust fund would provide you with ample means to secure one.” Evangeline turned to circle the parlor one more time.

Freddie shook his head. “I’m trying to live off of my pay as a reporter. Besides, it takes some getting used to, after growing up surrounded by female relatives—and female servants, for that matter. The idea of another fellow skulking around these narrow quarters all day, folding my pajamas and dusting my knickknacks.”

Unwilling to contemplate the image further, Freddie changed the subject. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit at this ungodly hour?” He placed a sardonic emphasis on the word “pleasure.”

“Ah, yes. Well, there is that.” Evangeline abruptly flounced down on the horsehair sofa and removed her gloves. “Would it be too much of an inconvenience to ask for a cup of tea?” She eyed her friend with a reproachful expression. “I certainly wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.”

Freddie, unused to the role of host, felt himself flush with embarrassment. “Oh, sorry. Of course. Won’t be a minute.” He scurried off to the galley-sized kitchenette at the back of the flat.

The living room echoed the sounds of slamming cupboards, clattering crockery, and finally the whistle of a boiling tea kettle.

The young man emerged shortly thereafter bearing a tray with a chipped teacup, a mismatched saucer and a large pot of tea. “There you are.” He proudly put the tray on the buffet table in front of his guest.

Evangeline’s amused expression suggested that the presentation left something to be desired. “I think you should seriously consider hiring a valet at the first opportunity.”

Freddie resumed his seat in the easy chair and watched while she poured herself a cup.

“You know I take my tea with lemon and sugar.”

At this gentle admonition he flew back into the kitchen and clattered and rattled a bit more. When he returned with the lidless sugar bowl, he apologized for the dearth of lemon or milk on the premises. After Evangeline had sweetened her tea and taken a few sips without grimacing, which Freddie deemed a favorable sign, he pursued his original question. “Why are you here?”

“Glad to see you as well.” Evangeline set down the cup and saucer, folded her hands in her lap, and began. “I wanted to give you the results of my chat with Roland today.”

“Ahhh!” Freddie leaned forward in his chair. “Tell me all.”

“I find him to be an insufferable puppy!” His friend sounded indignant.

“Maybe so, but do you still think he’s a murderer?”

Evangeline lifted her eyes to the ceiling as she contemplated the question. “Well, at the beginning of our conversation, I was fairly certain, but now, I’m not so sure.” She launched into an account of her conversation with Mr. Allworthy, the younger.

“He still sounds pretty suspicious to me,” Freddie commented after she finished.

“But I believe he has an alibi.”

“That’s ridiculous! Don’t tell me you believe that nonsense about ‘I was in a place no respectable lady should ever know about.’ That could be anywhere.”

“On the contrary, my friend, it could be only one place in this city.”

He looked at her in surprise. “Engie, what are you talking about?”

The lady smiled serenely. “After I got over my irritation at what I thought was a pointless waste of time, I finally realized he was trying to be clever. He actually left me a clue as to his whereabouts that night.”

“Would you care to share it, or would you rather I just bump around in the dark and stub my toes on the furniture for a while?”

Evangeline laughed. “I doubt the furniture could take that much abuse. I will enlighten you presently.” She paused to take another sip of tea. In wonderment, she added, “This actually isn’t bad.
Darjeeling
?”

“Thank you.” Freddie chose to ignore the implied insult. “You were about to say...”

“I was about to say that when Roland broke into song, it wasn’t for idle reasons.”

“Well, that’s some comfort at least. I’d hoped there’d be some recompense to your eardrums for that sort of punishment.”

“As indeed there was. It’s a good thing Mr. Edgar Allan Poe came to my rescue.”

“Don’t you use his work in your classes?”

“Yes, but usually it’s the fiction, not the poetry. As I was starting to discuss one of his short stories with my class this evening, I took a moment to scan the text of ‘The Raven.’ I discovered that Roland had intentionally taken liberties with the original version.”

“To wit?”

“To wit he altered several words that have a bearing on the matter at hand. When he came to the line ‘it was in the bleak December’, he added ‘or was it April.’ Nora drowned at the end of April, did she not?”

“Correct.” Freddie was impressed.

“After that he altered the line about sorrow. ‘Vainly I had sought to borrow, from my cards surcease of sorrow.’ Poe used the word ‘books’, not ‘cards’.”

“What kind of cards do you suppose he meant?”

“I’d expect playing cards. I certainly don’t think he meant calling cards.”

“Interesting.” The young man rubbed his chin reflectively.

“Then he said ‘sorrow for the lost Lenora.’ He put the accent on the last syllable making the name sound like Nora, not Lenore as it is in the poem.”

“Go on.” Freddie’s interest had been piqued even further. “Anything else?”

“Well, the most significant hint of all is the word ‘Evermore.’ It occurs only once in the poem. At the end of the first stanza, which was the one he sang to me. He repeated the word when he said goodbye to me. But the last line of the refrain is always ‘Quoth the raven, nevermore.’ His last words to me were ‘Quoth the raven, evermore.’”

Freddie frowned in concentration, vainly attempting to connect the hints into a coherent clue. “And what do you make of all of that?”

“He was telling me where he was the night Nora drowned.”

“He was?” Freddie stopped concentrating and looked up at his friend in amazement.

“Of course. He was playing poker at a brothel that night.”

“What!” the young man gasped.

Evangeline looked pityingly at her friend. “Given your previous experience in the levee during our last case—”

“Our last what?”

“I’d think you of all people would remember the name of the most prestigious, if that’s the right word, house of ill fame in the entire city.”

“The Evermore Club.” Freddie exhaled the words. “Why, of course!”

“I believe it’s the only bordello that publishes its own brochure praising the splendor of its accoutrements, including gold-plated spittoons in every room.”

“The Evermore Club.” The young man repeated the phrase again in wonderment. “Why didn’t I see it earlier? That’s exactly the sort of place a young swell like Roland would be likely to frequent.”

“Given his interest in the ladies, I don’t think he makes too fine a distinction over whether their affection for him is genuine or merely rented for the night.”

“The Evermore Club...”

“Freddie, stop saying that,” Evangeline admonished irritably. “You sound as if you’re in some sort of trance.”

“But it’s just so... so...”

“Yes, I know. So je ne sais quoi. Can we move on?”

“All right then. How do we establish his alibi?”

Since his question was met by dead silence, Freddie glanced up at his friend, who sat demurely on the couch, hands once more folded, smiling placidly in his direction. “Do I really need to belabor the obvious point of which of us will be performing that task?”

“Why is it always this way?” he asked weakly. “Why do I never see it coming?”

“Because you have an absolute talent for wandering into quicksand, that’s why. Besides,” Evangeline sniffed self-righteously, “I’d think it’s the least you could do after what I’ve been forced to endure today!”

“All right, Engie, you win.” Freddie shuddered at the thought of Roland’s unwanted attentions being foisted on his friend, not to mention that rasping tenor voice of his. “I withdraw the objection. I capitulate utterly. What’s the plan?”

The lady beamed at him over her teacup. “You see, you can be reasonable when you put your mind to it. You’ll have to pay a visit to the famous Evermore Club tomorrow, see the proprietress and find out what she knows.”

“You mean proprietresses, don’t you? It’s owned by sisters—
Ada
and Minna Evermore.”

“I’m not privy to the sordid details of who runs the establishment!”

“And yet you somehow managed to peruse their brochure...” Freddie trailed off impishly.

Evangeline cleared her throat. “Yes, well, never mind that. We have more important matters to discuss than my choice of reading material, such as what other fish I have to fry tomorrow.”

“What will you be doing while I immerse myself in that den of iniquity?”

Evangeline tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I have to sort out how many suitors Nora had actually attracted.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Roland may have been telling the truth when he said his uncle had his eye on her as well.”