These Shallow Graves (7 page)

Although Jo had steeled herself, her uncle's words still hit her hard.

Oh dear God, it's true,
she thought.
Eddie Gallagher was right.

“I blame myself entirely,” Phillip said, his voice ragged with grief. “I saw Charles on the day of his death. We, the partners, had a meeting in his study about a ship we wanted to buy. There was something wrong; Charles wasn't himself. He and I talked after the others left and he admitted he was troubled. He was talking wildly.”

“What did he say?” asked Jo.

“That he felt hopeless. That he'd be better off dead.”

“
Papa
said such things?” Jo said, bewildered. That didn't sound like her father at all.

“He did, and I became angry with him for saying them. I reminded him of his family, his many friends. We argued. How I wish to God we hadn't. I begged him to confide in me, to tell what was troubling him, but he refused, so I took my leave. I went to the kitchen on my way out. We'd had a luncheon before the meeting, and I wanted to give Mrs. Nelson my compliments. I spoke with her and left, and that night my brother shot himself.”

Phillip covered his face with his hands. “I saw him. Lying dead on the floor of his study. I'll never get that image out of my head. Never. I relive that day over and over again, knowing I might have prevented Charles's death if I hadn't argued with him. If I'd convinced him to share his worries with me. How could I have failed him so badly?”

“It's
not
your fault,” Jo said fervently, her heart aching for her uncle. “If there was anyone he would have confided in, it was you.”

Phillip lowered his hands. He nodded, but Jo could see he didn't believe her. If only she could find the reason for her father's death, she could convince him that he wasn't to blame.

“Something drove Papa to do what he did,” she said. “Could it have been money worries? His business? Did he have a disagreement with one of the partners?”

“Your father's finances are
not
a suitable topic of discussion,” Phillip said. “But to answer your questions—no, they were sound, and as far as I know, he had no disagreements with anyone.”

Jo took her father's agenda from her purse. “I found this in Papa's office,” she said, thinking it best not to explain
how
she'd found it. Her uncle didn't approve of snooping. “Papa made some puzzling notations in it. Do you think they might have anything to do with his death?” She showed him the page for September 15 and pointed at the notations
Kinch, VHW, 11 p.m.
and
Eleanor Owens, b. 1874.
Then she showed him September 17, with
Kinch, VHW, 11 p.m.
repeated.

Phillip peered at them, then shook his head. “I'm afraid those names don't mean anything to me,” he said.

Jo's heart sank. She felt certain that Eleanor Owens had some role in her father's death and had hoped her uncle could tell her who she was.

“If you'd like to leave the agenda with me, I could ask the other partners,” Phillip offered, reaching for it.

But Jo was loath to part with it. “I'd like to hold on to it. It reminds me of Papa,” she explained. “I'll write the names down for you.”

Phillip nodded. “Very well,” he said.

Jo pressed on with her questions. “Do you know why Papa would have seen his banker the day he died?” she pressed, pointing at the words
A. Jamison, 4 p.m.
written under September 16. “He'd withdrawn money. It was tucked inside the agenda. I thought it best to leave it at home.”

“No, but it doesn't strike me as unusual. He often met with them,” Phillip replied. “As for the money, I know he'd been talking about buying a new pair of carriage horses. Maybe he found some he liked.”

“Did he leave a note behind?” Jo asked hopefully.

Phillip shook his head. “Jo, I think that's quite—”

Enough.
Jo knew what he was going to say. He wanted to end this discussion, but she didn't let him.

“I don't know if this has anything to do with Papa's death,” she quickly cut in, “but there was a strange man outside our house late last night. He had something on his face, some sort of markings. Did Papa know such a man? Did he ever mention him to you?”

“No, he didn't,” Phillip said, visibly alarmed. “What was this man doing? Was he trying to break in?”

“No, he stood by the streetlamp and stared up at the windows to Papa's study. Then he left.”

“He was probably only a vagrant,” said Phillip, relaxing a bit. “But if you see him again, have Theakston fetch the police.”

Jo had to work up her courage to ask her next question. “Did Papa … Did he have someone? Someone else, I mean.”

Phillip looked confused. “I don't understand,” he said.

“Someone besides my mother. Could Eleanor Owens be that someone?”

“Good God, Josephine!” Phillip exclaimed, upset again. “How does a well-brought-up young lady even know to
ask
such a thing? There certainly was
not
someone besides your mother!”

Jo winced at her uncle's sharp tone, but she was relieved to know her father had not kept a mistress.

“I've had quite enough of these questions,” Phillip warned. “I know why you're asking them, but you must stop. It's not healthy. You won't find a reason. I've already tried. All you'll do is torture yourself.”

Jo started to protest, to tell him she was sure they
could
find the reason, if only they kept looking, but he held up a finger, silencing her.

“Don't speak.
Think,
Jo. Think of what you've just said. You've talked about disagreements with the partners and the possibility of your father consorting with strange-looking men and inappropriate women. Does any of that sound like him? Does it explain why he took his life? No. All it does is dishonor his memory,” Phillip said angrily.

Jo didn't reply; she just looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. Her uncle's words, she knew, were intended to make her feel ashamed of herself. That was what people did when they wanted to stop a girl from doing something—they shamed her.

Don't fill your plate; it's greedy. Don't wear bright colors; you'll look fast. Don't ask so many questions; people will think you bold.

“Think, too, of how irresponsibly you behaved,” Phillip continued. “You're lucky you were not seen at Park Row. Not by anyone who matters, I mean. We're
all
lucky.”

“What do you mean
all
?” Jo asked, lifting her eyes to his.

Phillip didn't reply right away. When he did, Jo sensed he was choosing his words carefully.

“I've worked very hard to keep the truth of your father's death out of the newspapers. Had I not, your chances of making a good match would've been ruined. There was talk in the days following his passing, and I don't want it stirred up again. When you go places you shouldn't, and speak with people you shouldn't, you risk doing just that. I know how deeply you're grieving, Jo, but don't let that grief be your undoing. That's the last thing your father would've wanted.”

Eddie was right about that, too,
Jo realized.
Uncle Phillip
did
pay the authorities to say Papa's death was accidental.

Phillip reached for her hand. “A woman's entire happiness depends on her marriage, and I intend for you to make an excellent one.”

Jo nodded, feigning acquiescence. She knew her uncle only wanted the best for her, but she couldn't do what he was asking—she couldn't stop trying to find answers, and she couldn't put her feelings in a neat little box. Her father had taken his life. Something had driven him to it, and that something must have been terrible.

He was gone, but his ghost lingered—in the quiet streets of Gramercy Square, in the hushed rooms of her house, in the hollows of her heart. It would haunt her forever unless she could find out
why.

Phillip, still holding her hand, said, “I've treated you as an adult, Jo, and now I expect you to behave like one. Your mother has not guessed the truth, and I'm glad of that. Likewise your aunt and cousins. I implore you to carry on bravely and be a comfort to your family, not a source of further distress. Will you do that for me?”

“Of course, Uncle Phillip,” Jo said, forcing a smile.

He gave her hand a quick squeeze. “That's my good girl,” he said, releasing it.

Jo rose to leave, and Phillip walked her to the foyer. As Harney held her coat, her gaze once again met that of her ancestor. There was a challenge in the admiral's hard gray eyes.

Fac quod faciendum est.
It seemed to Jo as if he'd spoken the words aloud.

“Oh, Jo, I've just remembered something,” Phillip said. “I saw Mrs. Aldrich yesterday. She invited Caroline and Robert to Herondale next weekend. Gertrude Van Eyck and Gilbert Grosvenor, too. She wondered if your mother might be persuaded to allow you to join them. Would you like that? If so, I'll have a word with Anna. It would only be a small, private gathering of close friends—nothing to offend the proprieties—and I think a change of scenery would do you good. The country's just the thing to rid the mind of morbid thoughts.”

“I would like that very much. Thank you, Uncle,” Jo said. She kissed him goodbye and walked down the stoop to her carriage.

But it wasn't Herondale she was trying to figure out how to get to as Dolan opened the door for her.

It was 23 Reade Street.

“How
does
one get inside these things with no bell and no butler?” Jo wondered aloud.

She was standing at the door of a boardinghouse, looking through its glass panes. Gas light from a single sconce flickered in the shabby vestibule, illuminating a rusty radiator and some empty milk bottles. A narrow staircase led to the upper floors.

Jo raised her gloved hand and knocked, but no one answered. As she was about to knock again, a man on the sidewalk behind her bellowed so loudly, she jumped.

“Hey, Tommy! Tommy Barton!” He waited for a few seconds, then cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled. “Barton, you lazy bastard! Open up!”

Above Jo's head, a window was raised. “Chrissakes, Al, what do you want? I'm asleep!”

“Not anymore. Press is down at the
Trib.
Chief says get your ass over there on the double!”

Additional profanities were uttered, the window was slammed shut, and Al trotted off. A minute later, a young man—bleary-eyed and tousled—hurtled down the stairs. He flung the door open and barreled past her. Seeing her chance, Jo caught the door before it could close.

“Excuse me, sir!” she called after him. “I'm looking for Edward Gallagher. Could you tell me on which floor I might find his apartment?”

Tommy Barton stopped and turned. He looked her up and down. She was wearing a matching slate-gray jacket and skirt. The suit was from two seasons ago. It was plainly trimmed but cut well. Her hair was in a simple twist, anchored with a jet comb.

“Me, I gotta go all the way over to Della McEvoy's to get a girl, and no matter which one I pick, she don't look nothing like you,” Barton said. “Whose house you from, sister?”

What an odd question,
Jo thought. “My own, of course. In Gramercy Square,” she replied.

Tommy Barton let out a whistle. “Uptown girl, eh? They must pay 'em well at the
Standard.
”

Jo blinked at him, puzzled. “I wouldn't know anything about Mr. Gallagher's financial arrangements. If you would be so kind …”

“Second floor. Second door on your right. Go easy on him.”

Jo nodded uncertainly. “I shall,” she said. She stepped into the vestibule and looked around. The walls were dingy, the linoleum worn. The sour reek of cabbage wafted through the air. Someone was shouting.

Go home. Now,
a voice inside her said.
This is insanity.

And it was. She'd taken a dreadful risk. Earlier that day, she'd removed her father's house key from his desk and a hundred-dollar note from his agenda. Then she'd had her maid, Katie, run to the bank to change the large note into smaller ones. Half an hour ago, at ten p.m., she'd left her home without an escort, to visit a man. She'd had to outwit Theakston to do it. No well-bred girl walked the streets of the city alone after dark. Were she to be found out, her reputation would be ruined.

Jo knew she should listen to the voice. Only two days ago, her uncle had told her how important it was that her conduct be above reproach. As she recalled his dire warnings, she almost lost her nerve.

If I'm seen here, if anyone finds out about this … ,
she fretted, anxiously eyeing the staircase.

She was just about to leave when she thought of Nellie Bly. Bly had faked insanity to get herself committed to a madhouse so she could write about the terrible treatment its inmates endured. If Bly was brave enough to endure ten days of abuse in pursuit of the truth, then she, Jo Montfort, could walk up a staircase.

Gathering her skirts in one hand, she took hold of the banister with the other. Halfway up the stairs, she heard a door slam above her. Footsteps pounded across the landing, and then a young man came careening toward her. He was wearing twill trousers and a tweed vest and jacket. She immediately recognized the handsome face, the too-long hair, the astonishing blue eyes.

“Mr. Gallagher! I've found you!” she said excitedly.

Eddie came to a stop a few steps above her. His eyes widened. “You've
got
to be kidding me. What are you doing here, Miss Montfort?”

“Paying you a call.”

“At ten-thirty on a Monday night? Does your mother know you're out?”

“I certainly hope not,” Jo said earnestly. “I paid my maid, Katie, a dollar to put on my nightclothes and get into my bed in case my mother checks on me.”

“How clever of you, Miss Montfort.”

“That's a rather charitable interpretation of my behavior, Mr. Gallagher. I see it as highly deceitful, truth be told, but I could find no other way to speak with you.”

Eddie shook his head. “Can't talk now. Sorry. Got a lead on a story.”

“Really? How
exciting
!” Jo exclaimed, thrilled to be in the company of a real reporter following a real lead. She was envious, too. She wished it were her striding along the city streets in pursuit of a story. “May I walk with you? I could tell you the reason for my visit on the way.”

“It's a free country,” Eddie said with a shrug.

Jo was delighted with this concession. They left the boardinghouse and walked to Broadway. Eddie set a fast pace. She nearly had to trot to keep up with him. As they walked, she told him about her father's agenda, the mysterious notations inside it, and the strange man she'd seen gazing up at his window. She also told him about the conversation she'd had with her uncle.

“That's why I came to your home,” she explained. “Because my uncle's banned me from Park Row.”

“That's all very interesting, Miss Montfort, but what's it got to do with me?”

“I need your help,” Jo said. “You're a reporter. Reporters find things out. I need to find out why my father took his life. Will you help me? I'll make it worth your while.”

Just then, Jo stumbled over a jutting cobblestone and nearly fell on her face. Eddie caught her in the nick of time.

“Mr. Gallagher, is it truly necessary to walk so fast?” she asked crossly, embarrassed by her clumsiness, and by the fact that one of Eddie's hands was on her waist.

“Yes, Miss Montfort, it is,” Eddie said, steadying her. “I got a tip on a story just before you showed up. I need to check it out. I'm not dabbling here. This is my job I'm talking about.”

“I'm not dabbling, either,” Jo said heatedly. “This is my father I'm talking about. I've risked a great deal to come to you tonight. A very great deal.”

Eddie removed his hand from her waist and offered her his arm. Jo took it. She had no choice. Cobblestones, ruts, and trolley tracks made a diabolical obstacle course.

When they reached the sidewalk, Eddie stopped. He didn't take his arm away. Jo didn't remove her hand. “You'll risk more if you pursue this,” he said, his tone softening. “A lot more. Like I told you, suicide's an ugly thing.”

“I'm prepared for all eventualities, Mr. Gallagher,” Jo said.

“Are you?” Eddie asked, looking at her as if taking her measure. “All right, then, Miss Montfort, here's the deal: A man went missing two days ago. His body was found tonight behind a Cherry Street warehouse. Turns out his wife left him for someone else. She wanted a divorce, but he wouldn't give her one. Now the dead man's parents are accusing the wife's boyfriend of murdering their son. The boyfriend's been arrested. The dead man's at Bellevue.”

He gave her a challenging smile. Jo swallowed. Her hand tightened on his arm.

“B-Bellevue?” she stammered. “As in—”

“As in the morgue.
That's
where I'm going. Still want to come?”