These Shallow Graves (18 page)

“Stephen Smith.”

Jo closed her eyes and exhaled raggedly, immensely relieved.

“Are you all right, miss?” Sally asked, peering at her closely.

“Quite,” Jo said, regaining her composure.

“Stephen Smith, it turns out, died at sea,” Sally explained. “Seventeen years ago. Shortly before he was due to return to New York. His ship was lost in the Indian Ocean during a storm.”

Jo knew that. The first time she'd ever seen Smith's portrait, during a trip to Van Houten's, she'd asked her father who he was. She knew the faces in the other six portraits, but not his.

“Mr. Smith drowned,” her father had replied. “A long time ago.” She'd wanted to know more, but his tone had been forbidding, so she hadn't pressed him.

“Mrs. Kroger didn't think that Eleanor ever knew Mr. Smith had drowned,” said Sally. “She was in Darkbriar by the time his death made the papers here. It might've been a comfort to her to know she hadn't been abandoned. He was a nice man, Mrs. Kroger said. Mrs. Kroger always felt bad about what had happened.
Unsettled.
That's the word she used.”

“Unsettled? Why?” Jo asked.

Sally refilled her teacup. “Because Stephen Smith had a secret. At least, that's what Mrs. Kroger said. He found something out about his firm. Something terrible. And he felt he had to set it right. He sent Eleanor packets. They contained some kind of papers having to do with the secret. Manifests, I think they're called. Mr. Owens wouldn't allow correspondence from him to enter the house, so Mrs. Kroger would meet the postman, take anything from Mr. Smith, and smuggle it in to Eleanor. Mr. Smith wanted Eleanor to keep the papers safe until he returned.”

The hair on the back of Jo's neck stood up.

Kinch had also talked about manifests—with Mr. Scully at Van Houten's.
There's proof. There are manifests, signed and stamped,
he'd said.

Kinch, like Smith, had a secret. He'd been in Africa, too. And he knew Scully. He called him Richard. And Scully knew Kinch, despite his tattoos.
Your aspect is greatly altered. I would not know you but for your eyes,
he'd said.

And Kinch, like Smith, had lost a
her.
Maybe a woman, not a ship, just as Jo had suspected when she and Eddie talked about Kinch at the waterfront.

Could it be?
she wondered, with mounting excitement.
Could Kinch be Stephen Smith?

He
has
to be,
she thought.
Africa, manifests, Van Houten, a secret—there are too many similarities for it to be coincidence. It makes sense. It fits together perfectly.

Except for one rather inconvenient fact,
a voice inside her countered.
Stephen Smith is dead.

Jo racked her brain, desperate to see if there was something she was missing, something that could make the impossible possible. If there was, it eluded her. She decided to take a different tack.

“Miss Gibson, did Mrs. Kroger ever tell you what terrible thing Stephen Smith discovered?” Jo asked bravely. She feared the answer to her question as much as she'd feared learning the identity of Eleanor Owens's lover.

“No. Miss Eleanor never told her,” Sally replied.

“Mrs. Kroger had
no
idea what was in those papers?”

Sally shook her head. “She questioned Miss Eleanor about it. She even asked to see the papers, but Miss Eleanor refused. All she ever said about them was ‘The letters are safe under the heavens. The gods watch over them. And us.' ”

“The letters were never found?”

“No. After Miss Eleanor went into the asylum, Mrs. Kroger looked everywhere for them. She thought if she could get Mr. and Mrs. Owens to read them, they might see that Mr. Smith was an upstanding man and change their opinion of him. But she never found them. And then Miss Eleanor died and there wasn't a reason to keep looking.”

Jo gripped the arms of her chair, electrified by that last piece of information.

“This next question is very important, Miss Gibson,” she said urgently. “Did a man with very marked facial tattoos—black swirls and spikes—ever visit the Owenses?”

“
I
never saw such a person,” Sally replied. “And I can't imagine Mr. Baxter opening the door to a man who looked like that.”

“Did Mrs. Kroger ever mention such a man visiting?”

“No, and she certainly would have mentioned it. She was the talkative type.”

“Was the Owenses' house ever broken into?” Jo asked.

“Not to my knowledge,” Sally said.

Jo sat back in her chair, her mind working over what Sally had just told her.

Kinch and Stephen Smith are the same man—I don't know how they are, but they are—and that man is a liar,
she realized.
He bluffed Richard Scully, and probably my father, too. He doesn't have the manifests. They're still wherever Eleanor Owens hid them.

Jo knew what her next step was: she had to find those manifests. They would certainly tell her what terrible thing Van Houten was accused of doing.

Jo regarded Sally Gibson coolly. “I'm told Atlantic City is much nicer than Coney Island,” she said.

“I'm sure it is, Miss Montfort. And a damn sight more expensive,” Sally retorted.

“I shouldn't think that would be a problem for an enterprising girl like you.”

Sally raised an eyebrow. “Have something in mind, do you?”

Jo smiled. “As a matter of fact, Miss Gibson, I do.”

Miss Edwina Gallagher to Miss Josephine Montfort

October 24, 1890

Dear Jo,

Writing in haste … Bill Hawkins never heard of the
Bonaventure
and Jackie Shaw's not in town, but I got myself into Van Houten's office twice with the help of Tumbler. I've worked my way through half of the firm's ledgers but haven't found anything on the
Bonaventure
yet. I'm going to keep going back until I've gone through everything. I'm telling you this to keep you in the know, but you're not to come downtown. Don't even think about it. Sit tight. I'll keep you apprised.

Yours,

EG

Letter from Mr. Joseph Feen to Mr. Edward Gallagher

October 24, 1890

Dear Eddie,

I'm sorry to hear that your time at Van Houten has not proved fruitful. You might be interested to know that Eleanor Owens is dead, but she had a daughter with Stephen Smith in 1874. Sadly, the child is also dead. Mr. Smith, it appears, believed something untoward took place at Van Houten's. Just as Kinch does. In fact, there are many similarities between the two. Smith sent documents to Eleanor. Could they be the manifests Kinch spoke of? They contain answers we need, I'm sure of it. I'm going to try to find them. I'm telling you this to keep you in the know, but you are not to come uptown. Don't even think about it. Sit tight. I'll keep you apprised.

Yours,

JM

“The Phillip Montforts, ma'am,” Theakston said, handing Anna Montfort a calling card.

He bowed and left the drawing room. A few minutes later, Jo's uncle, aunt, and cousin came in, all ruddy-cheeked. Phillip was rubbing his hands together and exclaiming about the crisp autumn air. Madeleine and Caroline had cashmere shawls wrapped about their shoulders. They joined Anna near the fireplace as Jo poured tea. It was a blustery Tuesday afternoon.

Jo greeted her relatives so warmly, they never would have guessed she was miserable.

Thirteen days had now elapsed since she'd last seen Eddie Gallagher, and she'd had only one very businesslike note from him. She was more worried than ever that she'd badly misjudged what occurred between them, and that the kisses they'd shared were nothing more than a pleasant diversion for him. Why hadn't he written a more intimate note? Why hadn't he tried to see her?

“Mrs. Nelson's lemon wafers! My favorite!” Phillip exclaimed as Jo's mother passed a plate of the delicate, buttery cookies. He ate one, then said, “Anna, I have some good news for you. Charles's lumber mills are all but sold.”

“Oh, Phillip, that
is
good news!” Anna said, smiling.

Jo smiled, too, feigning enthusiasm for the conversation.

“The buyer is serious, and I expect to finalize the sale before year's end,” Phillip added.

“And Van Houten?” Anna asked. “How is that proceeding?”

“The transfer of Charles's shares to the remaining partners is under way. The paperwork should be completed next month.”

“I can't thank you enough,” Anna said. “I'm so grateful to you for handling Charles's affairs.”

Phillip held up his hands. “Don't thank me yet, Anna. There's still the
Standard
to be gotten rid of, and that's proving trickier.”

Jo was no longer feigning interest in the conversation. She looked at her uncle over the top of her teacup.

“How so?” Anna asked.

Phillip took a sip of tea and placed his cup back in its saucer. “The newspaper business had become a tawdry one, I'm afraid. No matter how hard I try to enforce a civilized tone at the
Standard,
I fail. The sooner we're rid of it, the better,” he said.

Anna sat forward in her chair, a concerned expression on her face. “Surely Mr. Stoatman isn't following the lead of the
Herald
or the
World,
” she said.

“No,” Phillip replied. “It's not Stoatman who worries me, but rather the quality of reporter he employs.”

Jo refreshed her uncle's tea. She was listening raptly now.

“What do you mean, my dear?” Madeleine asked.

“I went to see Stoatman yesterday—we meet once a week—and he was on the telephone when I arrived, so I waited. And while I was outside his office, I overheard a pack of reporters talking, and by God, they
were
a pack—a wolf pack!” Phillip said, his face flushing with anger. “One of them, a strapping, dark-haired boy—Gleeson or Gilligan, some sort of Irish name—was bragging to the others about a story he was writing. He talked about a young woman who was helping him with the story in a most disparaging way. She was doing so because she fancied him, he said. And he, it was quite clear, was encouraging the poor girl for his own ends.” Phillip shook his head. “I tell you, I had half a mind to knock the arrogant young fool right on his backside!”

Jo froze, teapot in hand. She felt as though she couldn't breathe.

“Papa!” Caroline scolded.

“I did!” Phillip said indignantly. “I want the
Standard
sold as quickly as possible. Journalism is no longer a business with which this family should be involved. The breed of man who now practices it wants only to claw his way to the top and doesn't care who he steps on to do it. You wouldn't understand, Caro. You either, Jo. You're not parents yet. But I have a daughter and a niece, and to think that someone in my employ would talk about a young woman so makes my blood boil.”

Jo forced herself to breathe. She placed the teapot back on its tray Eddie had agreed to pursue information on her father because he knew the story of his murder would be a big one and could help him get a better job. Was
he
the reporter her uncle had overhead? Was she herself the poor girl?

“Papa, you're turning into an old curmudgeon!” Caro teased. “Just like Grandmama.”

Phillip softened. He patted his daughter's hand. “I suppose I am. I'll have to get myself a walking stick and a dozen spaniels.”

Everyone laughed. Everyone, that is, except Jo. She felt sick inside. She was a fool. An impulsive little idiot who knew nothing of men.

“Speaking of Grandmama … I hear there's to be a small birthday supper for her soon. Just family and close friends. Here in the city,” Madeleine said. “A fortnight after the Young Patrons' Ball.”

“I'm sure we'll all be summoned,” Anna said archly. “Mourning makes no difference to her.”

“Will you go?” Madeleine asked.

Anna gave her a look. “We will
not.
I still can't believe I agreed to let Jo go to the ball.”

“She'll only be sitting, not dancing. It will all be very proper,” Madeleine said. She turned to Jo. “Has your gown arrived, Jo, dear?”

But Jo, staring into the fire, didn't hear her.

“Jo? What's wrong?” Madeleine asked.

Jo realized she was being addressed. “Nothing, Aunt Maddie. Nothing at all,” she said, her voice strained.

Anna and Madeleine traded worried glances.

“I've upset you, Jo, haven't I?” Phillip said unhappily. “I shouldn't discuss untoward topics in front of young ladies. I'm sorry.”

“Our Jo is such a sensitive soul,” Madeleine said soothingly. “Let's talk of more civilized subjects, shall we?”

Jo pasted on a smile. She nodded agreeably. But Phillip's words echoed in her head:

… and he, it was quite clear, was only using the poor girl for his own ends. … A strapping, dark-haired boy—Gleeson or Gilligan, some sort of Irish name—

No, Uncle Phillip, not Gleeson or Gilligan,
she thought miserably.
You got the name wrong. It's Gallagher.