These Shallow Graves (33 page)

Jo sucked in a deep breath. “Pull yourself together,” she hissed at herself as she walked up Irving Place.

The cabbie had dropped her at Sixteenth Street. Jo had paid him and started toward Gramercy Square, concentrating on her breathing as she walked. She had to calm herself. It wasn't easy getting back inside her house. She would need her wits about her.

It was a little after midnight and very dark. Irving had only a few sputtering gas lamps to light her way. She passed Seventeenth Street, then Eighteenth, lost in painful thoughts about Eddie.

How could she marry Bram now, knowing Eddie's true feelings for her? And knowing her own true feelings for him? But how could she break her engagement to Bram?

And the investigation into her father's murder—how would she continue it without Eddie's help? They were a team, an effective one. They'd been so close to finding Kinch. So close to confronting him face to face. Though she was frightened of the man, she wanted to look into his fearsome eyes and ask him who he was.
Was
he Stephen Smith? Had he killed Richard Scully? And her father?

He would hardly tell her if he had, but she would know anyway. His eyes would reveal the truth.

Jo, breathing easier now, thought back to what she'd learned at Pitt Street. Kinch was going to go to Darkbriar, to speak with Francis Mallon. She was sure of it. He was still searching for the manifests. If she could only find them before he did. If she had them in hand, she could see for herself what the
Bonaventure
's cargo was, and if the ship really was connected to Van Houten.

I'll go see Francis Mallon myself,
she decided.
I don't need Eddie for that. All I need to do is go to Darkbriar and ask to speak with him.

She shuddered at the thought of walking through Darkbriar's high gates, and into the asylum itself, but told herself that she was being silly. She'd be perfectly safe.

Busy concocting a story to tell her mother tomorrow that would give her time to get her out of the house to Darkbriar and back, Jo didn't hear the footsteps at first. By the time she did, it was too late.

A hand was clapped over Jo's mouth. Her arm was twisted behind her back. Terrified, Jo struggled against her attacker, but she was no match for him. He dragged her down a dark alley that ran between two houses and pushed her against a wall. Stars exploded behind her eyes as she hit her head. Rough bricks scraped her cheek.

Her attacker had taken his hand away from her mouth, but he still had hold of her arm. It felt as if it were being ripped from its socket. Suddenly something glinted silver before her eyes. It was a knife, its blade caught in a shaft of moonlight slanting in through the top of the alley. A whimper of fear escaped her.

“Not another sound or I'll cut you,” a voice said—a man's voice, harsh and low.

Jo nodded as best she could.

The man pressed himself against her. “Such a pretty girl,” he said, his breath warm in her ear. “What's she doing out by herself? She should be home, where good girls belong. Only sluts walk the streets at night. Are you a slut, Miss Montfort?”

“Please … ,” Jo whispered. Her eyes were closed. Her body was shaking. She was out of her mind with fear.

“Please,”
the man echoed mockingly. “Is that what you say to your paperboy?”

He kissed her neck and trailed the tip of his knife over her cheek to her nose. Jo whimpered again; she couldn't help it.

“So
very
pretty,” the man said. “But you won't be, without a nose. Keep poking it into other people's business, and I'll come into your house one night, into your bedroom, and slice that pretty nose off. I'll be gone before you've even stopped screaming. You think your paperboy will like you then? No one will.”

The man lowered his knife. He kissed her again. His breath was rancid.

“I'm going to go now, Miss Montfort,” he said. “But you're going to stay here. Right against this wall. You're going to count to ten, very slowly, and then you're going to go home and do as you're told. Like a good girl. If you do, we need never see each other again. Start counting. Nice and slow …”

Jo did, her eyes still closed, her voice hitching.

When she got to ten, she opened her eyes. The man was gone. She was alone.

She took a shaky, faltering step. And then another. And then she fell to her knees in the dirty alley and vomited.

“White can be so stark,” Anna Montfort said. “Ivory might be a better choice with your complexion. For your dress
and
your flowers. Oh, this would all be so much easier if Grandmama weren't insisting that the ceremony be held at Herondale!”

“It's for Mr. Aldrich's sake, Mama,” Jo said blandly. “He cannot attend otherwise.”

They were in the dining room, eating breakfast. It had been decided just yesterday that Jo would wear white at her wedding. Somber colors were usually required for one only recently out of full mourning—as Jo would be in June—but Grandmama had declared that Jo was making a trip to the altar, not a mausoleum, and refused to even hear of mauve for her wedding gown.

“You're right, of course, Josephine,” Anna said. “Peter must be a part of his son's wedding. And there's also the fact that Herondale is private. It has a nice tall gate to keep out all the dreadful reporters determined to tell the world what sorts of canapes were served.”

“No,” Jo murmured. “We can't have any dreadful reporters.”

“But the problem remains: how do we get dozens of hothouse roses from the city to the country?” her mother continued.

Jo was barely listening. Her hand absently went to her right cheek and the cuts there, made by the brick wall when her attacker pushed her head into it.

I stumbled, Mama. In my bathroom. Just this morning. I was thinking about the wedding, not paying any attention, and I fell and hit my head against the edge of the bathtub.

That was how she'd explained the cuts. Two days after the attack, they were starting to heal. The rest of her wasn't.

She'd staggered home that night, holding back her sobs until she got to her bathroom. Then she'd pulled her clothing off, run a scalding hot bath, and sat in it, feeling as if she'd never get clean.

She'd barely slept since the attack. She had no appetite. Her assailant had terrorized her. Hurt her. Made her feel dirty. And there was nothing she could do about it. He seemed to know that. He seemed to know that she wouldn't tell anyone, not her mother, or uncle, or the police. That she
couldn't
tell anyone. It was as if he knew
her.

And she hadn't so much as glimpsed him. He'd made sure of that. She'd heard his voice, and she didn't think it was Kinch's, but couldn't be sure. She'd been too frightened to focus on it.
Was
he Kinch? Or was he the man with the scarred face, the one who had attacked Eddie?

His voice wouldn't go away. She kept hearing it in her ear, over and over. …
You're going to go home and do as you're told. Like a good girl. …

Yes, I am,
she thought.
I have no choice. I'm going to give up pursuing my father's killer. Give up my dream of becoming a reporter. And give up the man I love. I'm going to be a good girl and do what everyone else wants. Because if I don't, I'll find a man with a knife in my bedroom one night.

Jo's bright eyes were dull now, her lively face a mask. Fear had dampened the fire that burned inside her to an ember. Soon it would die altogether. Maybe not today, or even in a year or two. But bit by bit, it would fade. Until the things she'd hoped for from life, and the person she'd longed to become, were only dim memories.

The world outside Gramercy Square, she'd learned, could be dark and dangerous, and one had to be strong to move about in it. Nellie Bly was strong. Fay was strong. Eleanor Owens had been, too. But Jo Montfort? She felt so weak now that lifting her teacup seemed like an ordeal.

“Whatever color we decide, the roses must come from Meeker's florists. They're the only ones I trust. …”

Her mother was still talking about flowers. Jo nodded listlessly, not caring about flowers or anything else. And then the door to the dining room opened abruptly and a pale and flustered Theakston hurried into the room.

“Madam, I beg your pardon, but Mrs. Phillip Montfort's maid is here,” he said, obviously upset.

Anna looked at him coldly. “Why are you telling me this, Theakston?” she asked. “I'm not in the habit of receiving other people's servants.”

“I'm quite aware of that, madam. But this is a most unusual circumstance. She's come to fetch and you and Miss Jo to Mrs. Phillip Montfort's side. It appears—”

Theakston stopped talking. He struggled for words.

“What
is
it, Theakston? For goodness' sake, get a hold of yourself!” Anna chided.

Theakston nodded. He squared his shoulders. “Mr. Alvah Beekman has been murdered, madam. By a lunatic wielding a knife. It happened late last night, and it appears that the same lunatic attempted to take another life as well … Mr. Phillip Montfort's.”

“I'm all right,” Phillip Montfort insisted. “It's only a cut. It will heal. It's Alvah's family we should be thinking of, not me.”

Jo, in tears, was sitting at her uncle's side. Her mother was on his other side. Her aunt Madeleine, trembling and red-eyed, was pouring tea. Jo and her mother had arrived only moments ago. They'd been met by a somber-looking Harney, who led them directly to Phillip's study. Caroline was there, too, ordering the maid to build up the fire. Robert had been called home from school and was expected later in the day.

Phillip was seated by the fire, wearing trousers, a shirt, and a dressing gown. He was ashen-faced, and there was a livid bruise on his cheek. His shirt collar was open, a bandage visible under it. A decanter of brandy and an empty glass rested on a table next to him.

Jo was extremely upset to see her uncle looking so shaken and diminished. She wanted to know what had occurred but knew better than to ask questions while a servant was in the room.

“Phillip, what in God's name happened?” Anna asked as soon as the maid left.

“Alvah and I were walking home,” Phillip said. “We worked until ten last night and decided not to trouble our respective cooks with a late supper, so we dined at the Washington.”

Jo knew the place. It was a hotel a few streets west of Gramercy Square. Her uncle often dined there.

“We were strolling along afterward when a man suddenly came at us. He punched me in the face. I fell backward. I tried to get up, but I was too dazed, and while I was down he went for Alvah. He … he had a knife,” Phillip said, his voice breaking.

Anna gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. Jo knew she ought to have been shocked, but she wasn't. She'd feared this very thing.

Phillip paused to collect himself. He refilled his brandy glass. Jo had rarely seen her uncle drink, and never before evening.

“After he killed Alvah, he came for me. I managed to get to my feet. He slashed at me, I ducked, and the knife only grazed my chest. I was able to grab his knife hand, to keep him from slashing at me again. The rest is hazy, but I must've shouted for help, because suddenly the police were there and they managed to subdue the man.”

“Thank goodness those officers were nearby and able to stop him before he … he … Oh, Phillip!” Madeleine said, bursting into tears.

“Now, now, my dear,” Phillip said.

Caroline took her mother's hand.

“What will happen to the man?” asked Jo. She had more questions for her uncle. She wanted to know what his attacker looked like, if he'd said anything, and if the police had identified him But she couldn't ask them. Not in front of her mother, aunt, and cousin. Her uncle knew that she had worried about his being attacked—and why—but they didn't.

“He'll be charged, I imagine,” Phillip replied. “The police were going to take him to the Tombs, but he was so violently out of control, they took him to Darkbriar instead.”

Jo knew about the Tombs. It was the city jail on Centre Street. It had been nicknamed the Tombs because it resembled a mausoleum.

“Darkbriar was close by, much closer than the Tombs,” Phillip continued, “and it has special cells to prevent inmates from harming themselves. I don't know if the police will keep him there. Perhaps they'll take him downtown if they manage to calm him.”

“The police brought Phillip here just after two a.m.,” Madeleine said. “I sent for the doctor right away.”

“You should have sent for us, too, Maddie,” Anna said reproachfully.

“Nonsense,” said Phillip. “There was no need. I'm fine.” But his hand shook so badly as he was speaking, he had to put his glass down.

“Papa, you're exhausted,” Caroline said anxiously. “Dr. Redmond said you weren't to tire yourself. He said you needed to rest today.”

“I will, Caro, but I'm not finished yet. I'm afraid I haven't told you everything. Not even you, Maddie. I wanted to wait until we were all assembled.” He took a deep breath, as if marshalling his strength. “The man who attacked me—Kinch, he calls himself—claims he was an employee of Van Houten's.”

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

“Was he?” Madeleine asked, aghast.

“I'm not sure. He claims Van Houten took something from him. Even as the police were putting handcuffs on him, he was shouting that he'd have his revenge. And he … he mentioned Richard and Charles. He said they'd already gotten what they deserved, and so would the rest of us.”

Jo hadn't noticed until that moment how hard she was gripping the arms of her chair. It was almost a confession. Almost, but not quite. Kinch had killed Beekman; her uncle had seen him do it. Had he also killed her father and Richard Scully?

“Phillip, what are you saying? You can't mean that this man … that he killed Charles?” Jo's mother said. Her voice was barely a whisper.

“I don't know, Anna. Frankly, I don't see how he could have. How would he have gotten inside the house? The doors were all locked. Theakston said so. And Charles never would have let such a wild-looking man in,” Phillip reasoned.

“I don't believe it. I
can't,
” Madeleine said, shaking her head. “This man's a lunatic. Why should we believe
anything
he says?”

“Kinch is certainly not in possession of his faculties,” Phillip said.

“Then why are you telling us this, if it's not true?” Madeleine asked unhappily. “Haven't we had enough upset?”

“Because the truth doesn't matter to the press,” Phillip replied. “Reporters arrived on the scene last night before poor Alvah's body was even cold. When they hear of Kinch's ravings—and they will—they'll have a field day. Three Van Houten deaths, a madman—it's catnip to an editor. Every paper in the city will be splashing rumors about as if they were gospel, and every shoeshine boy and scullery maid will be gossiping about the Montforts. I want you all to be prepared for it. Reporters may accost us in our carriages. They may knock on our doors and camp out on our stoops. You are, of course, to say nothing to them.”

As he finished speaking, a bout of coughing overtook him. He leaned back in his chair when it was over, flushed and spent.

“Papa, you're overtaxing yourself. You must rest,” Caroline urged. “Shall I call Harney to help you upstairs?”

“Certainly not. I'm fully capable of walking up my own staircase,” Phillip said, getting to his feet. “If this harassment by the papers becomes as bad as I fear, I shall look into renting a house in the country for all of us. I'm sure the Aldriches would know of something suitable.”

“Papa … ,” Caroline pressed.

“Yes, Caro, I know,” Phillip said wearily. “I'm going.” He bade everyone goodbye, then slowly walked out of the room.

“We are so lucky, Maddie,” Anna said, when he was gone. “If he'd hit his head harder, if that horrible man had been quicker … I can't even bear to think about it.”

“We are, yes,” Madeleine agreed. “But the poor Beekmans are less fortunate, and now we're all facing another funeral. It's too much too fathom.”

“You don't think there's any truth to what Phillip said, do you? About this evil man having something to do with Charles's death?” Jo's mother asked, her eyes clouded with worry. “I don't think I could bear it if … if …”

Jo's heart ached for her mother. Jo had had time to get used to the fact that her father had been murdered; her mother hadn't.

“We'll have to wait and see, Anna,” Madeleine said. “Hopefully the doctors at Darkbriar can figure out whether this horrible man Kinch is telling the truth.”

“Perhaps once Phillip regains his strength, he could speak with Mr. Stoatman and see what his reporters have heard, if anything,” Anna suggested. “To have Charles's name on the lips of every filthy newsboy, on top of everything else we've been through, is adding insult to a great deal of injury.”

Jo wanted to know what Stoatman's reporters had heard, too. She didn't care about preparing for the tidal wave of gossip that her uncle feared, though. She only cared, about finding out whether Kinch had murdered her father. If the doctors at Darkbriar were to get a confession out of him, the police would be the first to know, and the press a close second.

“I wish we didn't have to wait. If only
we
knew some reporters we could ask right now,” Maddie said, sighing.

“Thank goodness we don't,” Anna retorted.

Jo picked up her teacup and studied its contents.

But I do,
she thought.

Eddie was angry with her, and he had every right to be, but hopefully he would help her. Hopefully he would see her.

Just this one last time.