The Diviners (44 page)

“Just tell me what you find out, please. It’s very important. Oh, and Mr. Woodhouse—this is just between you and me and the garden gate. Do you understand?”

“Whatever you say, Sheba.”

Feeling very clever, Evie stepped from the telephone box and headed back toward the dining room. As she passed the elevator, the doors opened and a flustered Miss Lillian stood inside. “Oh, dear. I went down instead of up.” She was struggling with a bag of groceries, and Evie offered to help her carry the heavy bag to her apartment.

“Come in, come in, dear,” Miss Lillian said. “So nice to have a visitor. I’ll put the kettle on.”

“Oh, please don’t go to any trouble,” Evie said, but the old woman was already in the kitchen. Evie could hear the strike of the match, the hiss of the gas as it took. She hadn’t meant to get trapped in a conversation. That was the trouble with offering help to old people. She nearly tripped over a tabby cat, who meowed in surprise and darted away. A second cat, black with yellow eyes, peeked out from under a table. It was hard to see in the dim light. Miss Lillian reentered the room and turned on a lamp.

“What a charming home you have,” Evie managed to say, hoping that her grimace passed for a smile. The place was a dreadful mess, papers and books stacked all about, every surface covered in some sort of bric-a-brac: ornate clocks set to slightly different times, brass candelabras with dark candles burned down to nubs, a
bust of Thomas Jefferson, a framed picture of solemn pilgrim ladies on a hill, plants, dead flowers in a glass vase whose water had dried to a film on the sides, and a small painted tintype of what Evie presumed were the young Lillian and Adelaide in their starched pinafores.
If there were an award for hideous taste
, Evie thought,
the Proctor sisters would win, hands down.

“Here’s your tea, dear. Do have a seat,” Miss Lillian said.

Miss Lillian indicated a rocking chair beside an old pump organ.

“Thank you,” Evie said, already thinking up excuses for why she needed to leave: sick uncle, building on fire, a sudden case of gangrene.

“Addie and I have lived in the Bennington since nearly the beginning. We moved in in the spring of 1875. April.” She frowned. “Or perhaps May.”

“Spring of 1875,” Evie said, thinking. “Miss Lillian, do you remember a story about a man named John Hobbes who was hanged for murder in 1876?”

Miss Lillian pursed her lips, thinking. “I can’t say that I do.”

“He was accused of murdering a woman named Ida Knowles.”

“Oh, Ida Knowles! Yes, I remember that. Ran off with a fortune hunter, they said. And then… yes, yes, I remember now! That man—”

“John Hobbes.”

“He was tried for it. Oh, he seemed a bad sort. A grave robber, if I recall correctly. A charlatan.”

“Do you remember any details of the case, or anything about him? Anything at all?” Evie sipped her tea. It had an odd taste.

“No, I’m afraid not, dear. I’m an old woman. Ah, here’s our Addie now.”

Miss Adelaide carried the black cat with the yellow eyes and wore a dress that had probably seen its best days when Teddy
Roosevelt was president. “I found Hawthorne trying to eat my begonias, the little devil,” she said, nuzzling the meowing cat.

“Miss O’Neill was just asking about the Ida Knowles case—you remember that, don’t you, dear?—and that terrible man who hung for it. But I couldn’t remember much, I’m afraid. Hawthorne, come here and have some kibble.” She put a bit of chicken salad on a plate at her feet and the cat leaped from Adelaide’s arms and ran for it.

“They hanged him the night of the comet,” Miss Addie said dreamily.

“Solomon’s Comet?” Evie asked carefully.

“Yes, that’s it. He told them to. It was his one request.”

“John Hobbes asked to be hanged the night of Solomon’s Comet?” Evie asked again. She wanted to be sure she had it right. It struck her as important, though she couldn’t say why. “Now why would he do that, I wonder?”

“Comets are powerful portents!” Miss Lillian clucked. “The ancients believed them to be times when the veil between this world and the next was thinnest.”

“I don’t understand.”

“If you wanted to open a door into the great spirit realm, to assure your return, what better time to plan your death?”

“But Miss Proctor, that’s quite impossible,” Evie said as gently as possible.

“It’s an impossible world,” Miss Lillian said, smiling. “Drink your tea, dear.”

Evie swallowed down the rest, spitting up small ends of leaves.

“That is a pretty talisman,” Miss Addie said, gazing at Evie’s pendant.

“Oh, it was a gift from my brother,” Evie replied. She didn’t elaborate further. If she told them James had been killed, they might cluck and sympathize, or else draw out the conversation
talking about every relative who’d ever died, and she’d be there all day and night. She needed to make her getaway.

Miss Addie reached out a finger and slid it over the surface of the half-dollar, paling as she did. “Such a terrible choice to have to make.”

“What do you mean?” Evie asked.

“Addie sees into the eternal soul,” Miss Lillian said. “Addie, dear, you’ll let your tea go cold, and we’ve much to do still.” Miss Lillian stood rather hastily. “I’m afraid we must bid you good day, Miss O’Neill. Thank you for visiting.”

“A terrible choice,” Miss Addie said again, looking at Evie with such sympathy that Evie felt quite undone.

Out in the flickering light of the hall—why couldn’t they seem to fix the lamps in the old place?—Evie thought about John Hobbes’s odd last request. Had he thought he could come back after death? That was ridiculous, of course, the thought of an egotistical madman, which he seemed to be. In two weeks, that same comet would make its return to New York’s skies.

As she waited for the wheezing elevator, a shiver passed down her spine, though she couldn’t say why. She wished she could talk it over with Mabel, wished they could share a laugh about the Proctor sisters’ awful décor, but she and Mabel were still on the outs. They’d never gone this long without talking, and Evie wavered between being angry with Mabel and missing her terribly. When the elevator door opened, her finger hovered over the button for Mabel’s floor. At the last possible second, she pressed the button for the lobby instead.

Back in the Proctor sisters’ overstuffed apartment, Hawthorne brushed affectionately against Miss Adelaide’s leg. In the other room, her sister prattled on about the day’s activities. Miss Addie peered into the dregs of Evie’s tea, examining the pattern the leaves had left in the bottom of the cup, and frowned.

Detective Malloy swept into the museum, pushing gruffly past the curiosity seekers, silencing anyone who tried to ask him about the Pentacle Killer with a terrifying scowl. “Miss O’Neill,” he said with a tip of his hat.

“Unc isn’t here just now, Detective. Do you have something new?”

He nodded toward the library. Evie had Sam take over and led Detective Malloy to the library, closing the doors behind them. Malloy dropped his hat on the brass statue of an eagle.

“Followed up on that tip your uncle gave us about the Brethren. Turns out there’s been a resurgence of that religious cult the past few years. The townspeople’ve been complaining about ’em. And guess who’s the leader?”

“I’m guessing it’s not Will Rogers.”

“Brother Jacob Call,” Malloy said.

Malloy took a handful of nuts from the crystal bowl on Will’s desk. “They say he’s been preaching about Solomon’s Comet coming through, and the Beast coming with it.” He let this settle.
“Turns out, he raises livestock and comes down to the city every few weeks to sell to the butchers.”

“He’s a butcher!”

“Yep. And he was here for every one of the murders. I had the boys pick him up and bring him in. But so far, he’s refusing to talk to us. Thought I’d have your uncle take a crack at him.”

Evie bit her lip. “Detective, could I have a go-ski?”

Malloy’s eyebrows went up. “At questioning a possible killer? I’m afraid not.”

“He might open up to a girl. After all, I’m not a threat like the police.”

“I admire your spunk, Miss O’Neill, but this is not your job.” He tipped his hat and wished her a good day.

Evie raced out into the hall as soon as he left. The museum was packed with people, and for once, she wished it weren’t. She hopped up and down, trying to be seen over the heads of the paying customers. “Sam!” she called. “Sam Lloyd! I need you!”

Sam came to her side, grinning. “I knew you’d come around.”

Evie rolled her eyes. “Take a shower, pal. I need you to help me get into the Tombs.”

“Haven’t you already learned your lesson?”

“Oh, Jericho!” Evie called. “Could you take over? I need Sam for a mission of utmost importance.”

“I could help you with that,” Jericho said.

“You already are!” Evie trilled. She linked her arm through Sam’s, dragging him toward the door. “I’ll fill you in on the way.”

Sam and Evie borrowed Will’s old car for the ride from the Upper West Side down to the city’s notorious jail. It was a long drive, and Sam was in a chatty mood. “Your friend Mabel still goofy for the giant?”

“Jericho? Mm-hmm,” Evie said, nearly flinching at the words
your friend Mabel
.

“What is it about that guy?”

“You just don’t like him because he hates you.”

“That isn’t the only reason,” Sam said.

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. I suppose you like the giant, too.”

“Jericho? Oh, he’s nice enough, I suppose.”

“So you don’t like him,” Sam said, smiling.

“I didn’t say that.”

They had passed the many music publishing houses of Tin Pan Alley in the West Twenties and were close to the fashionable town houses of Gramercy.

“You have a steady fella?” Sam asked after a bit.

“No fella can hold me for long.”

Sam gave her a sideways glance. “That a challenge?”

“No. A statement of fact.”

“We’ll see.”

“You still owe me twenty bucks,” Evie said.

“You’re a lot more like me than you think, Evie O’Neill.”

“Ha!”

“What I meant to say is, you like me a lot more than you think.”

“Keep driving, Lloyd.”

The car jostled along, past a flock of dark-suited businessmen holding fast to their bowler hats in the stiff wind whipping off the East River and barreling down the canyonlike streets.

“Got a little something for ya,” Sam said. His smile was cryptic.

Evie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? What’s that? I already told you the bank’s closed.”

“Some neck lightning.” He pulled a necklace from his pocket and offered it to her.

Evie gasped. “Holy smokes! That looks like a real diamond on there! Where’d you get this?”

“Would you believe a generous aunt?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so. Where I got it, they won’t miss it. They got plenty.”

Evie sighed. “Sam…”

“I know their type. They don’t care what happens to anyone but themselves. They buy everything the magazines and billboards tell them to and forget about it when something new comes along.”

“And Uncle Will thinks
I’m
cynical!” Evie shoved the necklace back into Sam’s jacket pocket. “You can’t just go around taking things that don’t belong to you, Sam.”

“Why not? If captains of industry do it, they’re heroes. If little people like me do it, we’re criminals.”

“Now you sound like a Bolshevik. Say, you’re not one of those anarchists, are you?”

“Bombs and revolution? Not my style. I’ve got my own mission,” Sam said, the last part coming out a bit hard.

“What mission is that? Leading girls astray with stolen gems?”

Sam gave her a sideways glance. “You ever hear of something called Project Buffalo?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“Well, if you look for any information on it, you won’t find it. It was a secret government operation during the war.”

“Then how do
you
know about it?”

“My mother went to work on it. She took some kind of test—”

“A test? What…?”

“Don’t know. Whatever it was, she scored pretty high. She
and my father had a big fight about it. I heard ’em in the other room. She said she felt she had to go. ‘What can we do?’ she said. My father said no. My father loves the word
no
.” Sam’s face clouded. “Anyway, maybe a month later, these fellas from the government showed up. They had my dad’s papers. Told him they could send him back to Russia if he didn’t cooperate. My dad wasn’t going back to Russia to starve or be killed. He had a nice house and a fur business. So that night, my mother packed her things and left. She sent us only one letter. Most of it had been blacked over. But she said they were doing good work, important work for the country. She said it would change mankind. And then we never heard from her again. When my father wrote to them, they said she’d died from influenza. I was eight.”