The Revelation of Louisa May (21 page)

“So soon?” Louisa asked. How quickly things had changed. Yesterday this would have been good news. But today George was missing and Louisa suspected him of murder. If the sheriff knew of George's existence he wouldn't look any further for the murderer.

“What is the matter, Miss Alcott?” He looked closely at her face. “I thought you would be pleased. Without Finch around, we should have no problem getting our shipment safely North.”

“Yes, about that. I came to talk to you today about the package at one o'clock. But you weren't there. Which seemed
odd since it is such a busy time for your tavern.” She paused. “I was worried about you, since you and Finch argued today, not long before he was killed.”

Pryor started to object, but Louisa touched his hand and said in her most sympathetic manner, “Mr. Pryor, your argument was overheard.”

He swallowed hard. “You think I might be suspected of killing him?”

Louisa shrugged. “Do you have an alibi?”

Pryor gave her a sharp look.

“Tell me where you were this afternoon.”

Prior's worried face lightened. “Come, I'll show you.”

Louisa hesitated before following him down the alley. But there were people in the street and in the tavern. Together they marched down the alley to the back entrance of the tavern. Surely she was safe. Inside, there were a few men drinking at the bar. They stared at Louisa but she kept her chin high and followed Pryor into his small office. He pulled a long envelope from his desk and handed it to her. It was full of banknotes.

“Finch was threatening to report me to Sam Staples for not paying my liquor taxes. He demanded a high price for his silence. So this afternoon I went to my bank in Lexington to get the money. I was supposed to give it to him tonight.”

“And someone can verify this?”

“I took the coach into Lexington. I knew at least two people on the ride.” And then there's the money.” He gestured to
the stack of notes. “Of course, I don't want this to get out, but I will confess to it if need be.”

Louisa's mind worked frantically. It was no great surprise that Finch was a blackmailer. She was inclined to think Pryor's story was true—otherwise, why tell Louisa about the taxes? And if it was, then Pryor didn't kill Finch. Ironically, his alibi for murder was that he was arranging to pay his blackmailer, who just happened to be the victim. “Very well,” she said. Mentally, she scratched his name off the list of suspects. “I accept your explanation.”

Prior nodded sharply. “Good. Now, I hope this won't distract us from our true business. Just after sunset on the day after tomorrow, I'll come to your barn with the other packages. We'll get them settled for the night and then we'll send them North.”

It was on the tip of Louisa's tongue to confess that George was missing, but she held back. Maybe George would return. If not, she didn't relish having to tell George's wife and children that he was a murderer. Time enough to tell Pryor everything the next day.

Leaving the tavern by the same discreet door, she returned to her survey of the Middlesex Hotel. There was nothing to do but go straight up to Miss Whittaker's room and confront her. If she didn't know about the murder, then the news ought to shock her into speaking freely. If she did know, it might be for the simplest of reasons: Miss Whittaker was the killer.

She entered the hotel and spied Judith wiping down a table in the crowded restaurant. She went to the door and beckoned to her.

“Miss Alcott! Back again?” Judith said, surprised and with a pitying look at Louisa's dress.

“Not for the restaurant,” Louisa assured her. “I couldn't possibly clean up twice in one day. What I need to know is which room Miss Whittaker is in. I'd rather not ask at the desk.”

Judith looked puzzled but she answered freely. “That's easy, Miss. Room 201. It's the best room.” She lowered her voice, “Miss Louisa, did you hear the news? That man who was arguing with Miss Whittaker—they found him dead!”

Did everyone know? “Yes, I heard,” Louisa said. “Shocking,” she added perfunctorily. “I must go. Thank you, Judith.”

Louisa hurried up the stairs before the officious-looking man at the front desk could ask her business. Dashing down the long carpeted hall, she found Room 201. She steeled herself for what was bound to be a trying encounter and knocked.

There was no answer. She knocked again. Miss Whittaker must be out. Glancing up and down the hall to be sure she wasn't observed, she tried the door handle. But it was locked.

She slumped onto a bench in the hall, trying to decide what to do next. A voice singing around the corner caught her attention. A moment later a maid in a dark uniform came round the corner carrying a pile of towels. She was young, with a pretty round face and a taste for jolly songs.

Louisa tried to recall her conversation with Judith at lunch. What was her friend's name? “Sally?” she asked, hesitant as if she was ready to be mistaken.

The maid stopped singing, her face scarlet. “Miss, I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't sing.”

Louisa waved that concern away. “Why shouldn't you sing while you work? Everyone should. Is your name Sally?”

“Yes, Miss.” Sally was clearly confused. “Have I done something wrong?”

“No, no. Judith was telling me about you today at lunch. My name is Louisa Alcott.”

“Miss Alcott! Your ma saved Judith's father's life. She talks about your family all the time.”

“Sit down,” Louisa said, patting the bench next to her.

“Oh, I couldn't do that,” Sally said.

“Then I'll stand, too,” Louisa said, getting to her feet. “I need to get into Miss Whittaker's room. It's important.”

“Is that all?” Sally asked. “After what you did for Judith, I'd be glad to help you. I have the master key to all the rooms.”

“I don't want to get you in trouble,” Louisa began.

“That Miss Whittaker is up to no good—all the girls agree. She's sweet as pie to men, but we women know better. Besides, the manager wants her out of the hotel. He won't believe anything she says.” Checking that no one was watching, Sally pulled out her master key and with a deft turn, the door was open.

“There you go, Miss,” she said. “And please . . .”

“If I'm caught, I don't know you!” Louisa said. “Thank you.” Sally disappeared down the hall, humming cheerfully.

Louisa slipped into the spacious room. Miss Whittaker had not skimped on her accommodations. Besides a large bed, there was a sitting area and a desk next to the window. Everywhere were signs of hurried packing. The dress Miss Whittaker had been wearing earlier was tossed across the back of a chair. Louisa examined the skirt, confirming her suspicions about the strawberries.

She went to the desk and looked through the papers there. She found letters from gentlemen in New York. They seemed to be her backers for the magazine project. One of her correspondents mentioned how pleased he was that Emerson, Thoreau, and Alcott were writing essays for the magazine, and he agreed to reimburse her for the printing expenses of $1,450. Louisa frowned. As far as she knew there had been no printing. In fact, not a single essay had yet been written.

She shuffled through the rest of the papers and found a pile of blank invoices from a printing shop. One was partially filled out for the amount of $450.

Louisa sank down in the plush armchair in front of the desk. Miss Whittaker was swindling her investors with falsified bills. And she was hiding behind the reputations of Louisa's friends and father to do it.

Mr. Emerson could probably weather such a scandal once it was made public, but what about Bronson Alcott? It would ruin his already shaky reputation.

“That little witch,” Louisa muttered.

She must have done something similar in Washington and Finch had known about it. Louisa knew Finch wouldn't hesitate to blackmail Miss Whittaker. Which gave Miss Whittaker ample motive to get rid of Finch. But what about the gun?

Louisa began checking under the furniture and felt all the crannies of the upholstery. She returned to the desk and began rummaging through the papers. So intent was she on her search, she didn't hear the door open.

I've got sense, if I haven't style, which is more than
some people have
.

M
iss Alcott, can I help you find what you are looking for?”

Louisa's back stiffened straight. Her right hand reached for the compromising invoice. She slipped it into her pocket and turned around. Miss Whittaker, once again impeccably dressed and coiffed, filled the doorway, Louisa's only exit from the room.

“What are you doing here?” Miss Whittaker's angry, clipped words were at odds with her ladylike demeanor.

With a tilt of her chin, Louisa said simply, “I'm searching your room.”

“Your honesty is refreshing.” Miss Whittaker's eyes glinted with appreciation. “How did you get in?” She removed her key from the door and carefully placed it in her large purse. Louisa eyed it warily; did the purse also contain a gun?

“The door was open,” Louisa lied. “You weren't here, so I let myself in.”

“And then you were struck by the urge to snoop through my papers?”

Louisa moved away from the desk toward the window. Miss Whittaker didn't take her eyes off her. “Miss Whittaker, can you explain these false invoices for services never rendered? It looks very suspicious.”

Miss Whittaker put down her purse and sat down on the settee in the middle of the room. “I created a fairy tale for some gullible investors. They're great admirers of these Transcendentalist philosophers, and they loved the idea of having their own magazine. I may have also suggested that Mr. Emerson might speak at their clubs and dine at their homes. They were more than happy to write checks for a magazine I had no intention of publishing.”

Louisa's mouth had fallen open. “You admit it?”

Miss Whittaker shrugged her elegant shoulders. “It's over now. I'm done.”

Louisa sat opposite her on a plush armchair. “Would your decision have anything to do with Mr. Finch?”

Miss Whittaker eyed her with speculation. “For a frowsy country miss, you seem to know everything.”

“What I lack in style I make up for with inquisitiveness,” Louisa said. “Finch knew you were a swindler?”

Miss Whittaker snorted. “Knew? We had worked together before, hoodwinking some stamp collectors in Washington out of thousands.”

“Did he threaten to expose you?” Louisa kept her voice light and conversational, but her stomach was churning. Miss Whittaker was confessing to the perfect motive. Was Louisa chatting with a murderer?

“You would think he'd let me alone for old times' sake,” Miss Whittaker said bitterly. “But he wanted a percentage for doing nothing but keeping quiet. I wouldn't give it to him. I've worked too hard. Do you have any idea how boring it is trying to charm philosophers? They only want to be told how intelligent they are.”

Louisa blinked. “The only men I know are philosophers,” she admitted. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“Why not? The law can't touch me for something I only planned to do.” Miss Whittaker frowned. “I never collected any money from anyone. Unfortunately. And now that Finch is dead, I've nothing to fear.”

“How did you know he was dead?” Louisa asked.

“It's all anyone can talk about downstairs.” Miss Whittaker took a pin out of her hairdressing and all of her hair fell about her shoulders. She massaged her scalp with her fingertips. “That's better. Maybe it's worth looking as unkempt as you for the sake of being comfortable.”

Ignoring the jibe, Louisa studied Miss. Whittaker. “You had an appointment with my father today,” she stated.

“Did I?” Miss Whittaker yawned delicately.

“Yes, you did.” Louisa said. She stood up and went to Miss Whittaker's discarded skirt. She held it up. “Look. For all someone has tried to clean them, these are strawberry stains. And they are the first of the crop, just like the ones my sister picked this morning. No hotel restaurant has these. You were in the clearing where Finch was murdered.”