Louisa and the Missing Heiress (11 page)

“The background of poplars and the ruined castle is, I admit, well drawn and colored,” I commented. “See how the brushstrokes of ocher mimic the shadows cast by a strong Italian sun at high noon.” But elderly Father Nolan studied not the background but the model who, at a certain angle, could be said to leer at the viewer.

“Perhaps we should sit over by the window and wait for Mr. Brownly,” Sylvia suggested, gently taking her priest by the elbow and steering him away from that particular painting. His color was beginning to look unhealthy.

“Yes,” he said. “We shall sit and wait for this sinner and see if he might not be brought to redemption.”

“Father,” I said kindly but firmly, “we are not here to redeem, but to offer condolences. Please remember that.”

“And to ask questions,” Sylvia amended.

“Perhaps a few.” I grinned. “We need not ask, however, why it is that his landlady so freely gives admittance to all who seek entrance here. ‘All’ being young women. It would also explain the very strange look she gave our guardian.”

“Sweet Mother, indeed,” agreed Father Nolan. “Do you think she thinks . . .” And he grew silent, unable to complete either sentence or thought.

Sylvia and Father Nolan settled uncomfortably to wait, since Mr. Brownly had equipped his studio with some plush chairs and footrests, in addition to the settee on which Sylvia refused to sit, having seen it—and its activities—in several of the canvases. I, however, prowled about, hands behind my back, stepping over palettes and paint tubes, my eyes moving this way and that. I stopped before one canvas and frowned. I lifted a hand as if to touch the painting, and then stepped back in dismay.

“Louisa?” Sylvia asked, noting my increasingly somber demeanor, but just then footsteps were heard coming up the stairs, Edgar Brownly, puffing and panting, and between stentorian gasps singing a music-hall song whose lyrics could not be repeated at a family gathering.

Mr. Brownly yanked the door open and merrily called out a name . . . Katarina, or Katya, I couldn’t tell which, for the ending of that greeting was gulped down when he saw us. He stood there on the threshold, wide-eyed and trembling and looking much as a rabbit does when the gardener bears down on it, hoe in hand.

“Are you going to tell Mother?” were the very first words the thirty-year-old Mr. Brownly uttered.

I glided forth and offered my hand as well as a warm, conspiratorial smile. Diplomacy was the key to good detective work.

“Do forgive this intrusion. We come to extend our condolences on the loss of your sister,” I said.

Edgar Brownly wiped his profusely sweating brow and sat in the first empty chair at hand.

“Dot,” he said. “Oh, yes. Dot.” He seemed not overly grieved.

“It must be painful, losing a beloved sister,” I tried again.

“Oh, yes. Very painful,” Edgar Brownly agreed. He might have been talking about the weather.
Poor Dot
, I thought again, watching how coldly Edgar Brownly discussed her death. How few people seemed to have actually loved her. Had there been a flaw in her nature I had not seen? Or had she simply been one of those unfortunate few, deserving yet rarely receiving affection? I began to regret my decision to come.

“Of course, your fortune will be enhanced by the diminution of the number of sisters to be seen to financially,” I added smoothly, getting to the point.

“Not at all,” he protested. “That bounder Mr. Wortham will receive Dot’s share. I profit not at all by Dot’s death.” In that moment Edgar reminded me of troublesome little Walter Campbell, who, shuffling his feet and with hands held behind his back, would utter the baldest lies to avoid blame.

“That is not your mother’s knowledge of the situation,” I gently corrected. “Mr. Wortham is cut off from Dot’s inheritance.”

“Mother told you that, did she? Oh, yes, now I remember. There was an agreement,” Edgar mumbled sheepishly.

I decided to become somewhat more aggressive in my line of questioning.

“Mr. Brownly, you had no great love for your sister, much to profit from her death, and you might also be described as a man of . . . singular morality.” I looked about the studio. “One might wonder if the loss of a sister was a goal you actively sought.”

Edgar Brownly turned red. He breathed with wheezing difficulty. His eyes popped, much as had Father Nolan’s when first looking about at the pictures. Then breeding showed. Money does not purchase contentment, but it does provide a certain composure in difficult situations, such as when one has been accused of murdering one’s sister. Mr. Brownly straightened his ascot, leaned back in his chair to allow his compressed lungs more access, and smiled with equanimity.

“Dear Dot’s death was an unfortunate accident. Miss Alcott, you have been reading romances, I suspect,” he said. It was my turn to blush, for I was not merely reading romances but also writing them, though the Brownlys knew nought of that.

“The postmortem suggested foul play,” I persisted.

“Did it? Well, I suggest they reconsider their findings. There will probably follow a request for money from the family, and then, lo and behold, whatever quack performed that unwarranted desecration upon Dorothy will change his mind.” Mr. Brownly sighed heavily. “Wealth is a burden, Miss Alcott. The world spends much of its time trying to rob you of it . . . as Dorothy discovered, I’m certain. How is Mr. Wortham? Weepy and guilt-ridden?”

“Well,” I said, rising to my feet, “we will be on our way, Mr. Brownly. I am sorry if we have interrupted your work.” And I managed to say
work
in a tone of voice that sent the blush back to Edgar’s face, and a smile of victory to mine. “But might I ask a favor, Mr. Brownly? An escort home?”

Breeding provides composure but also noblesse oblige. “Certainly, Miss Alcott, though it is a bit inconvenient. I have an appointment this afternoon. Maybe some other time?” He seemed not at all pleased to be inconvenienced and made a point of fetching his gold watch from his waistcoat pocket and peering at it intently.

Feet sounded again in the outer staircase, lighter, faster feet, and I suspected that Mr. Brownly’s appointment for the afternoon had arrived. This satisfied me no end, as I had never before met the kind of woman a gentleman would refer to as an “appointment.”

The door swung open and a woman, young and exotic and dressed in the most garish of scarlet costumes, stood there, as surprised to see us as Edgar Brownly had been. Her mouth dropped open when she saw Father Nolan, and she murmured,
“Madre de Dios”
several times. When she saw me, a dangerous fire glittered in her dark eyes.

“So,” she hissed, glaring at Mr. Brownly and flaring her nostrils. “So soon you will replace me? We shall see about that.” And she raised her hand to slap him. We did not interfere. The slap was a good one for a smallish woman, loud enough to echo in the studio. Mr. Brownly gave a little yelp and raised his own hand to strike back, though a true gentleman never, ever strikes a lady . . . or a woman, for that matter.

At that moment, I thought it wise to step between the two.

“You are misperceiving the situation. I am a friend of the family,” I said to the woman.

“A friend of the family? Ha! What would family do here?” the woman shouted.

She had a point, I thought.

The woman backed out the still-open door, muttering foreign phrases that sounded like curses, and flounced back down the stairs, her high heels clacking like castanets.

“Well,” Edgar Brownly said between clenched teeth. “My afternoon schedule has been freed, thank you.”

I had a flash of recognition, caused by my clandestine habit—which I hoped no one guessed—of poring over the popular papers and reading about the stars of the stage.

“Was that Katya Mendosa?” I asked, and I could not contain the awe in my voice.

Miss Mendosa was the most popular opera star of the season, not the least reason for which was her famed temper. She had stabbed a rival the year before, undeterred by the logic that stated that her rival, the man’s wife, had more right to the man than herself. Some mysterious working of justice had resulted in an acquittal; it was said that the judge was a great fan of opera, or at least of female operatic performers.

“It was. Past tense seems appropriate.” Mr. Brownly looked longingly down the stairwell.

“Since you are now free, perhaps you will fetch a horse and buggy and accompany me on an errand, for I do not wish to do it alone and Sylvia and her companion have other chores to attend to,” I said.

“Yes,” Sylvia agreed, understanding my hastiness was a ruse, “come along, Father Nolan. Louisa, will I see you tomorrow?”

“Yes. Come to the house, Sylvia. Father still wishes to speak with you.”

And so we parted company, Sylvia to have tea with the priest and a long talk about the Holy Trinity, and me to my own purposes, which fell out as follows:

A hired carriage was sent for and I required that it not be a closed brougham, but a cabriolet with the folding top down, though it was a winter day and the air was fresh. Mr. Brownly, the only male in a family of five women and therefore accustomed to whims, agreed without a quarrel, but was peevish and uncommunicative. Although his “appointment” for the afternoon had, apparently, canceled their rendezvous, all during that crosstown ride he kept checking his pocket watch, as men do when they wish to indicate their time is being wasted.

Only when we arrived at our destination, the Charles Street Home, did the heavy glare leave his face. Once again he looked somewhat like a rabbit about to be pounced upon, an image enhanced by his bulbous nose and heavy, rounded cheeks.

“Will you wait a moment, Mr. Brownly?” I asked sweetly, once the driver brought the cab to a full stop in front of the dilapidated porch of the home, with the flower box and rocker on one side and the red-painted
whore
marking the other. The omnipresent children playing on the porch pointed and laughed and came out of their quilt tent to stroke the horses’ soft mouths; Mr. Brownly had no recourse but to wait as the ragamuffins swarmed about.

Queenie was upstairs, curled up on her cot but not sleeping. There was a plate of uneaten flapjacks on the floor and a glass of water made milky and noxious with a dose of Hostetter’s Stomach Bitters.

“Queenie, are you well?”

“Well as can be expected.” The girl sighed. She was of gloomy countenance, barely able to eat, to talk, to breathe, so heavy was the weight bearing down on her small, young shoulders. I picked up a much worn book that lay open next to the girl.

“
The Gold Seeker’s Manual, a Practical and Instructive Guide to All Persons Emigrating to the Gold Diggings in California,
by David Ansted,” I read aloud. “Queenie, when this is over, are you going to search for gold?”

“That’s a funny one. No. The camps are for men. But if I had my own stake I might go west and set up a boardinghouse, a new place where no one knows me,” Queenie said. “Might as well long for the moon, though when this is over I’ll be on the street.”

I put my arm about the girl’s shoulder and pulled her up into a sitting position. “No, you won’t,” I said. “I won’t let that happen. Come to the window, Queenie, and tell me what you see. Prepare yourself first for a shock, and then have no fear.”

I brought her to the window and made her look down into the street. The girl squinted, then drew back in wide-eyed terror.

“It is him,” she whispered. “He said he would kill me if I told. . . .”

I put my arms more tightly about her and held her for comfort.

“He can’t hurt you, not more than he already has,” I said.

“Oh, yes, he can. You don’t know him,” Queenie said between clenched lips. I drew back, frowning. The expression on Queenie’s drawn face spoke of great fear. “You don’t know him,” she repeated. “He’s a devil.”

Just at that moment Edgar Brownly looked up at the window. His face seemed to have changed completely. He was no longer the bland, childish, and chubby darling of the Brownly family, but a man whose repugnance for this house and its inhabitants showed in his darkly knitting brows and the furious line of his mouth.

Queenie and I stood behind the yellowed curtain, where we could see and not be seen, and Brownly did not know that when he raised his clenched fist at that house, I observed the gesture and tucked it into my memory for safekeeping.

Two mysteries had been solved, at least: the mystery of how Queenie came to be pregnant, and why her portrait had been leaning against a wall in Edgar Brownly’s studio.

 

 

ON WEDNESDAY, Mrs. Dorothy Wortham was interred in the Old Boston Cemetery, next to a long line of Brownlys who would keep her company for eternity. The service was subdued, the eulogy brief. It rained all the while, a steady, cold drizzle that soon soaked overcoats and bedraggled the black feathers in the women’s hats.

The deceased’s brother, Edgar, provided the parting words for Dorothy, since Mrs. Brownly was not strong enough for public speaking, even graveside. He seemed to have great difficulty thinking of pleasant things to say about Dorothy and concluded with the simple statement that she had been the youngest daughter of the Brownly household and loving wife of Preston Wortham. Edgar sneered slightly at that.

Edgar also gave me several sidelong looks of such distaste—indeed, hatred—that Sylvia, standing beside me, didn’t understand until I whispered to her the events of the day before, and the murderous look I had spied on Edgar’s face through the window.

“Certain men can’t stand to be reminded of their sins,” Sylvia whispered back from behind her prayer book.

“Certainly when other, even more grievous sins may be awaiting discovery,” I whispered back.

During the service the Brownly daughters and spinster aunt stood straight and calm, and they turned away to return to their waiting closed carriages as soon as the prayers were finished. The phrase
indecent haste
sprang to my mind.