These Shallow Graves (43 page)

Jo was reeling. Her entire life, she'd loved her uncle. Over the last few hours, she had come to fear him. Now, she hated him.

“Van Houten sold slaves,” she said, trying to fathom the unfathomable. “I don't believe you. You're lying. My father would never do such a thing.
Never.
”

“We sold Africans to buyers in Arabia, Egypt, and Brazil—all of us, your father included. I told you, the firm was on the brink of ruin. How do you think the beautiful life you've always lived was funded? The Gramercy Square mansion, the Adirondack estate, the summers in Newport?” Phillip asked tauntingly.

“That's why you were all afraid,” Jo said. “No upstanding companies would do business with slave traders. Especially after the war. No decent people would receive you. Stephen Smith knew that. And when he finally got back to New York, he used it against you.”

“Smith made it to one of the islands. He was there for nine years, until a pirate ship picked him up. He was with them for another seven years. He served the captain well, and they let him go eventually. They gave him a bit of money. He used it to get home. That took another year. He arrived in New York in the middle of September, determined to find Eleanor and their child. He didn't know they were both dead.”

Jo remembered Smith sitting with Scully. She could hear his voice echoing in her mind.

Seventeen years without the company of another Christian soul. Without kin. Without comfort. Seventeen years of hunger, scurvy, and fever. My aspect is as you have made it. Look upon me and see the monster you have wrought.

Her heart ached for Stephen Smith. For Eleanor. For everything they'd lost.

“How do you know about the island? The pirates?” she asked.

“Charles told me. After the luncheon at his house. After the others had left. He'd seen Smith the night before and wanted to do what Smith demanded. He wanted to hand over Van Houten. He saw no other way.”

“But you did,” Jo said, bitterness rising in her like bile. She knew what was coming next. She knew what he'd done. And it made her sick to her very soul.

“I wanted to get rid of Smith. Just
him.
But your father wouldn't listen to me. He actually wanted to
help
him. To make reparations. Charles turned on me. After all I'd done for him. The things he had—wealth, respect, influence—he owed them all to me. Because I had the courage to do what had to be done.”

“Did you kill Scully and Beekman yourself? Or did Mallon do it?” Jo asked.

Phillip went silent again. Fay, who'd picked up a sturdy stick, whacked his bloodied knee with it as hard as she could. He groaned with the pain, his teeth clenched, the sinews standing out in his neck. Then he leaned over and threw up. Jo watched dispassionately.

“
Talk.
I'm not telling you again,” Fay growled.

“I hoped Mallon would find Smith before Smith could get to any of the other partners,” Phillip said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, “but Smith was slippery. He got to Scully and Beekman. They turned on me, too, but Mallon took care of them. And then he found Smith. And when I finally had him, I had my solution—a way to make it all go away.”

“By killing him, but not before you pinned all three deaths on him,” Jo said.

Phillip hesitated. Fay tapped her stick on the ground and he continued. “There are cells under Darkbriar. Disused. Forgotten. Mallon kept Smith there. He gave him large doses of morphine for several days, and then, when I was ready, he withdrew the drug. I had a plan. I invited Beekman to dine with me so we could discuss Smith. It was a fruitless conversation. When we finished, Beekman headed to Della McEvoy's, as he often did. I walked with him. Mallon was waiting for us in an abandoned building next to Della's with Smith. I'd helped him get Smith there under cover of darkness the night before. We left him in the basement, bound and gagged. Mallon returned the next night, hauled Smith up to the ground floor, and kept watch. When he saw us outside of Della's, he cut Smith's restraints and dragged him out of the building. By that time, Smith was suffering from morphine withdrawal. Badly. He was staggering and raving.”

“You made sure you were with Beekman so that you could be attacked, too. To make yourself look like a victim,” Jo said.

Phillip nodded. “Mallon killed Beekman immediately. I had him cut me and hit me in the face. Then he put the knife in Smith's hand. I held it there with my own hand and shouted for help. When the police arrived, they saw me struggling with Smith. I told them Smith had killed Beekman and attacked me. They saw Smith holding a knife, and ranting like a madman, and they believed me.”

“Where was Mallon?” asked Jo.

“He'd run back to Darkbriar to change his bloody clothing, start his shift, and wait. Smith was bundled off to Darkbriar at my suggestion. Mallon took over and you know the rest—Kinch the crazed ex-employee confessed his crimes and committed suicide.”

“You nearly got away with it,” Jo said wonderingly.

“I still can, if you'll let me.”

Jo looked at him uncomprehendingly. “Who
are
you?” she asked.

Her uncle locked eyes with her. “Do you understand what you're setting in motion?” he asked. “The end of everything. Of Van Houten. Our family. Your future. It's not too late. I can make this go away. Just like I made Stephen go away. You can have Bram, Herondale, a life of ease. What more could you want?”

“My father,” Jo said, her voice breaking.

For a second, something flickered in Phillip's eyes. Something familiar. Something human. Jo tried to appeal to that as she asked the question that terrified her the most.

“You killed him yourself, didn't you? You, not Mallon.”

Before Phillip could answer her, shouts rang out in the darkness.

“Orderlies,” Fay said. “They're getting closer. We have to go.”

But Jo barely heard her. In her mind, she was no longer on the grounds of Darkbriar; she was inside her father's study. She saw the wrong turns she and Eddie had taken in pursuit of the truth, and the right ones. She saw how it had happened.

“You stayed after the luncheon that day,” she said. “You and my father argued. Theakston heard you. You left, and as you did, you took Mrs. Nelson's key, didn't you? The police report said you went to the kitchen to compliment her. It also said she was distraught after my father's body was discovered because she'd
lost
her key and thought the killer might've used it to get inside the house. But it
wasn't
lost. Theakston found it right where it was supposed to be—hanging on its hook in the kitchen. You took it before you left and used it to let yourself into the house later that night so that none of the servants would see you. My father didn't shout for help when you walked into his study. Why would he? He probably welcomed you. You closed the door. The two of you talked. It turned into another argument. He wouldn't go along with your plan to get rid of Smith, so you got rid of him instead. You shot him with your own revolver. He was never suicidal. You made that up to throw the police off the scent. And me as well.”

“It was an accident,” Philip said pleadingly. “I only meant to scare him. The gun went off in my hand.”

Jo shook her head. “You don't know how much I wish I could believe that,” she said.

“It's the truth, Jo. I swear it,” Phillip said, pressing a bloody hand to his chest.

“The noise from the gunshot woke the household,” Jo continued, ignoring his desperate attempt to sway her. “But you were ready for that. You locked the study door to give yourself a few minutes, then you took my father's revolver out of his cabinet, took a single bullet out of the chamber, put your spent casing in it, and put the gun in his hand. You couldn't leave the bullet to be found, so you slipped it in your coat pocket and hid behind the draperies, but the bullet fell out because there's a hole in your pocket.”

Phillip nodded, defeated.

“You stayed behind the draperies, perfectly still, until Mrs. Nelson took my mother to her room, and the maids went upstairs to dress, and Dolan went for the coroner, and Theakston and Officer Buckley went to check the back door. Then you hurried down the stairs, and out of the front door, to your own home. And that's where you were when Pauline arrived to fetch you.. After you saw my father's body, you insisted on going to the kitchen for a glass of water. Dr. Koehler and the police captain went with you. You bribed them then, to call the death a suicide. They returned to the study to finish their work, and you put Mrs. Nelson's key back on its hook. Just in time for Officer Buckley to do his inventory of the house keys.”

Phillip closed his eyes.

“He was your brother,” Jo said, anguished.
“Your brother.”

Voices called back and forth. They were much closer this time. Lantern beams shone in the darkness.

“We've
got
to go,” Fay said tersely.

But Jo still had questions. “Do you know where the manifests are?”

Phillip said nothing.

“Does Mallon know?” Jo asked. “He was Eleanor's orderly. Did she tell him? Do you have them? Answer me!”

“I see them!” someone shouted. Jo looked up; she saw a man in a white uniform running down the path toward them.

“Story time's over,” Fay said. “We're leaving, Jo.
Now.
”

Fay stuffed her revolver into her skirt pocket and grabbed Jo's hand. They ran through the woods until they hit the asylum's stone wall.

“We've got to get to the gravedigger's cottage,” Jo said, gasping for breath. “The gates are locked.”

“Not anymore. The watchman opened them to let my cab through. I persuaded him to give me the gate key..”

“You did? How?” Jo asked.

Fay rolled her eyes.

“Right. The revolver,” Jo said.

They set off again, following the wall until they reached the front of the asylum. Fay stopped short of the gates, keeping herself and Jo hidden behind some shrubs. Jo was relieved to see that the gates were wide open, but alarmed by the scene unfolding directly in front of the asylum.

“What's happening? Is that Mary?” Jo asked.

“Yes, it is, damn it!” Fay hissed. “She's gone
totally
nuts! Look at her!”

Mad Mary singlehandedly attacking the asylum. The watchman was lying on the ground, unconscious, a rock near his head. The matron was inside the building, shrieking from a first-floor window. The glass in the front door was smashed. Lights were going on in windows on all the floors. The cab Fay and Mary had arrived in was nowhere to be seen.

“What the
hell
is going on? Why are all the lunatics
outside
the asylum tonight?” Fay asked.

Mary picked up a rock and smashed another window.

“This is not what we need. We need to get out of here,” Fay said. She started toward Mary with Jo on her heels. “Mary! Hey, Mary! Knock it off!” she shouted.

Mary turned around and Jo saw that her face was wet with tears. “Let me go!” she shouted, stamping her foot. “I can't stay here!”

“Who said you had to, you loon!” Fay shouted back. “Come on! We've got to go before the cops show up. It looks like you scared the driver off, so we'll have to hoof it. Hurry!”

In the distance, a siren wailed. Fay grabbed Mary's arm and yanked her away.

“I just shot a man, Mary,” she said. “Two, actually. So I need to be gone when the cops show up or I'm going to jail. And you”—she jabbed a finger at Jo—“need to be gone, too. Unless you want to give your uncle another crack at having you committed.”

As the siren grew louder, Fay, Jo, and Mary started running for the gates. They'd just reached them when a police wagon turned into the driveway.

Everything happened at once. Jo had no time to react. Five officers jumped out of the police wagon. They surrounded her, Fay, and Mary. The matron dashed out of the asylum, shouting for the officers to put Mary in jail. Orderlies came out of the woods carrying Phillip Montfort and a still-unconscious Francis Mallon on stretchers.

“I'm Sergeant Terence Cronin,” the officer in charge yelled. “What's going on here?”

“I'm Phillip Montfort. And that girl there shot me! She also shot an orderly,” Phillip said, pointing at Fay. “I want her arrested. That's my niece next to her, Josephine Montfort. She belongs inside the asylum.”

“He's lying!” Jo shouted. “He's a murderer. As is that man there.” She nodded at Mallon. “He killed my father, Charles Montfort. He's responsible for the deaths of Richard Scully, Alvah Beekman, and Stephen Smith, too. Tonight he tried to kill me. He confessed it all. My friend heard him.”

“Who? Fairy Fay?” Cronin said, snorting. “She's a pickpocket! I don't trust anything
she
says.”

Jo saw how it would go; the officers would believe her uncle, a powerful man, pillar of society, over herself and Fay.

“Sergeant Cronin, Fay saved my life,” Jo said frantically. “I don't belong in Darkbriar and she doesn't belong in jail. You've got to believe me.
Please.
If you put me in that asylum, I won't survive.”

“Now, now, miss. We're being a bit dramatic, aren't we?” He walked up to Jo and peered at her face, frowning. “Who put those bruises on you?” he asked.

“My uncle.”

“Don't listen to her, you fool! She's a lunatic!” Phillip shouted.

The sergeant's lip curled at Phillip's arrogant tone. He turned to him. “Now then, sir, who might you be calling a fool?” he asked.

“Do as I say, or I'll have your badge!” Phillip ordered.

“Will you, now?” Cronin asked. He turned to his men. “Robinson! Gates!” he barked. “There's an infirmary in the main building. Find some doctors and get these men medical attention. Ryan! Bauer! Take the women downtown. Ladies, you're all under arrest. A judge can sort this mess out in the morning. I'll be damned if I'm doing it.”

An officer manhandled Fay over to the police wagon. It took two more to get a howling, struggling Mary over to it.

“I can manage, thank you,” Jo said curtly to the officer who approached her.

As she walked to the wagon, the orderlies carrying Phillip's stretcher passed her. Phillip's hand shot out. He grabbed Jo's wrist, his fingers curling painfully into her flesh. The orderlies stopped short. Her uncle's eyes were hard and cold as Jo looked into them. Whatever humanity she'd glimpsed earlier was gone.

He pulled her to him, and in low, menacing voice said, “Make your next move carefully, Josephine. I've buried quite a few … and I can bury you, too.”