A Deadly Affection (27 page)

Fingerprints. The prints on the murder weapon had never been identified. If Hagan was the murderer, there was a good chance they belonged to him. All I had to do was find something he'd handled and give it to the police, and they could compare his prints to those on the sword. I jumped to my feet, to the surprise of the greeting-card salesman, who was in the midst of describing a unique pop-up mechanism. “Utterly fascinating,” I said, pumping his hand. “I wish you the best of luck.” Pushing back my chair, I turned and hurried to the door as directly as my wine-infused limbs would allow.

I trotted down the empty hall and pushed through the swinging door at the end into the servants' stairwell. Despite the supposed sedative effects of alcohol, my heart was hammering under my stays as I crept down the two flights to the basement. Emerging through the door at the bottom, I found myself standing at one end of a dimly lit, white-tiled hallway that cut straight through the center of the basement. I took a few tentative steps forward. The clank and clatter of plates being unloaded from a dumbwaiter indicated that the kitchen was at the far end of the hall. To my immediate left, I could see an open storeroom with nets of fruit hanging over shelves of earthenware crocks. Past that was the wine cellar, and beyond that, a closed door that I presumed led to the servants' dining hall.

Taking a deep breath to dispel the fog of liquor from my brain, I turned and eyed the four evenly spaced doors on the right side of the hall. Normally, in a household this size, the butler and valet would be housed on the upper floors and the coachmen and lower house staff in the stable, leaving the basement rooms for the highest-ranking footmen. Which meant that one of the four rooms across from me should have belonged to Hagan. I didn't dare approach the one by the coal bins at the farthest end of the hall, for it was almost directly across from the busy kitchen. But it might be possible to take a quick look into the others without being seen. And now would be a good time to attempt it, while the rooms' occupants were all off tending to their ball duties.

The third door from the stairs was already open a crack. I tiptoed over and nudged it open a few inches more. Peering in, I saw a narrow room hardly larger than Eliza's prison cell. Pale yellow light from an areaway window in the back wall illuminated a bed, a wardrobe, a washstand, and a small desk. A pair of trousers was thrown over the desk chair, while the sheets lay in a tangled pile on the bed. Hagan might have left in a hurry, but no well-trained first footman would leave such disorder behind. I concluded that this room was still being lived in and pulled the door shut.

Glancing up and down the hall, I moved quickly to the next door and eased it open. This room was furnished identically to the first. A light had been left burning in one corner, and a copy of the daily newspaper lay on the bedcover. A pair of shoes poking out from under the bed confirmed that the space was still occupied. This wasn't Hagan's room either.

I froze, hearing voices moving toward me from the kitchen. I ducked into the room and closed the door, pressing my ear against it. The voices grew louder, then continued past to the stairwell. I let out my breath. The wine's effects were rapidly evaporating, and I was beginning to wish I'd never started on what was feeling increasingly like a wild-goose chase. But I'd already come this far, and I didn't know where else to search.

Steeling myself for a final attempt, I slipped back into the hall and continued to the door closest to the stairs. I pushed it open and stepped in. The bed was stripped, the floor beneath it bare. I hurried over to the desk and pulled open the single drawer, looking for some identification, but found only a pen and a half-empty inkwell. I crossed to the wardrobe—and hit pay dirt. A first footman's morning dress ensemble and formal livery were hanging inside. Folded into the pocket of a waistcoat, I found a coarse linen handkerchief with the letters
JH
embroidered on the corner. I'd done it, I thought giddily. I'd found Hagan's room.

Now all I needed were some fingerprints. I unhooked the silk evening bag from my waist. Whatever I took had to be small enough to fit inside it. I returned to the desk drawer and stared down at the pen and inkwell in indecision. Both had likely been frequently handled; either would serve my purposes well. I finally scooped them both up in a handkerchief and stuffed them into the bag.

A few minutes later, I was back in the ballroom, watching the guests on the dance floor bounce to a syncopated ragtime beat. My heart was beating to its own staccato rhythm as I thought about the bounty in my bag. With this one fell swoop, Eliza might be cleared. And if I handled things well, the Fiskes needn't even know I was involved. I couldn't wait to tell Simon.

My elation dimmed a notch when I glanced to my left and saw my mother and Lucille alone at the edge of the dance floor. Lucille stood with her back to the dancers and her hand on my mother's arm, suggesting a private tête-à-tête. I hastened over to join them, my scalp prickling at the sight.

“Genevieve,” my mother said, “you'll never guess what Mrs. Fiske has proposed.” Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes sparkling with excitement.

I turned to Lucille.

“I want your mother to design a garden for me,” she said. “I've been thinking about doing something for the children of this city for some time, and I've just decided that a garden would be the perfect thing.”

“It's going to be a teaching garden,” Mother gushed, “with an allée of fruit trees to provide shade for picnics, and winding perennial paths with little sculptures hidden along the way.”

“It has to be not only beautiful, but also hardy enough for a city climate,” Lucille said. “Which is why I thought of your mother. I need someone with her horticultural expertise.”

“But she's never designed a public garden,” I observed.

Lucille entwined her hand more securely around Mother's forearm. “Exactly. I'm looking for a fresh approach. I can't wait to see what she comes up with.”

This sudden interest in my mother made me more than a little uneasy. I was trying to think how I might gracefully talk Mother out of it when Lucille suddenly threw up her hands and cried, “Oh, listen! It's the maxixe!”

The orchestra had started playing a dramatic piece featuring an accordion, violins, pianos, and a guitar. “Evelyn, where's that handsome husband of yours?” Lucille asked, scanning the crowd. “Oh, there he is. Amy Parker's got him in a corner. Hugh! Hugh!” Father turned, and she gestured to him to come over.

“Quick,” she said the moment he arrived, placing Mother's hand in his. “I need you two to get out there and dance.”

My parents blinked at each other. “Dance?” my mother repeated.

“Yes, dance.” Lucille frowned at the guests bobbing awkwardly about the floor. “Somebody has to show them how it's meant to look. And you always were the best dancers in the room.”

“It's been a long time,” said Father, still looking at Mama.

“Then you shouldn't waste another minute, should you?” coaxed Lucille.

“What do you think, Ev?” Father asked. “Should we give it a try?”

“Oh, I couldn't,” she said, looking stricken. “I wouldn't know how.”

Lucille clucked impatiently. “Nonsense. It's nothing but a tango with a little two-step thrown in. There isn't any one way to do it; that's the fun of it. You're allowed to make it up as you go along.”

I watched, fascinated by the struggle taking place on my mother's face.

Father smiled crookedly at her. “I suppose we might still have a dance or two left in us.”

My mother's eyes locked onto his, as if seeking strength there. She swallowed and nodded her assent.

He led her out onto the floor. They faced each other, heads erect, Father's arm encircling my mother's slender waist, and just listened for a moment, as if giving themselves over to the music. I had vague memories of my parents cavorting around the piano when I was very young, memories involving billowing skirts and twirling feet and girlish laughter. But I was not prepared for what came next. As they started to dance, my parents became different people. Gone was my suffering, distracted mother, replaced by a woman of extraordinary grace and pride. Gone my stern, conscientious father, transformed into a figure of passion and finesse. The music was lively and bright, and they matched it note for note. Bodies swaying, arms lifting and dipping in elegant synchrony, they responded instinctively to the music and to each other, dancing first face-to-face, then front to back, adding a twist here or a pause there, moving in such perfect unison it seemed they were controlled by a single mind. When they sailed past me, they were smiling. Smiling with pure joy.

I stared after them in astonishment. What could account for it? The music? The flowers? The free-flowing champagne? I didn't know—but I wished it could go on forever. I found myself dreaming of things I'd stopped dreaming about long ago. Of life going back to the way it once was, and my parents being happy again…

“They look happy, don't they?” Lucille said, echoing my thoughts. She tapped her folded fan thoughtfully against her cheek as we watched my parents glide across the floor. “Your mother's been through a very difficult time. It's good to see her come out of her shell. The garden commission is just what she needs. She'll be meeting new people, exercising her talents. Building a future instead of living in the past.”

“It was kind of you to think of her,” I said stiffly.

“Not kind, my dear. Expedient.” Her face turned toward mine. “I want you to see just how generous I can be.”

With a shock, I realized that she was trying to bribe me—to befriend my mother in an attempt to keep me silent about what I'd learned. I made no response, dumbfounded by this apparent admission. What could it mean except that she was guilty? I could imagine no clearer proof that my suspicions were correct.

“It really is beautiful to see,” she said with a sigh, gazing out again across the floor.

I stared at her serene profile. Did she really think it was that simple? That by having the doctor murdered and now buying my silence, she could keep Olivia's true parentage and ill health a secret from the Earl and the rest of the world?

“I haven't seen Olivia on the dance floor,” I said pointedly.

“Olivia isn't dancing this evening. She injured her ankle earlier today while dismounting from her horse.”

So that was her plan; she was simply going to keep Olivia off the dance floor until the engagement was sealed—as if that could make the problem go away. “I never would have guessed. She seems to be walking on it just fine.”

“Oh, it's all right to walk on. But the doctor says she should refrain from dancing for a few weeks to give it a chance to mend. Of course, she wanted to dance anyway, but we insisted.”

“That's a mother's job, isn't it?” I said sharply. “To protect her child even when that child doesn't know she needs protecting? To think of her long-term interests and put everything else aside?”

She drew back slightly, regarding me through narrowed eyes. “You're quite right, Dr. Summerford. Everything I do, I do with Olivia's interests in mind.”

Either she was frighteningly cynical, I thought, or it had never occurred to her that Olivia's interests might be different from her own.

“But let's talk about you,” she said, snapping open her fan. “Your mother tells me you graduated near the top of your class. That's an impressive accomplishment for a woman.”

I didn't reply.

“I'm always looking for opportunities to advance the feminine cause,” she went on. “I contribute to the suffragist movement, of course, but I also like to take a more direct approach by supporting individuals I believe show special promise in their fields.” She smiled thinly. “You, Doctor, are obviously a woman of unusual depths. Practical as well, it would seem. I understand you're experimenting with a new kind of mental therapy. What would you say to your own clinic? A place where you can test out all your ideas and work with anyone you wish?”

I gaped at her, marveling again at her willingness to so openly display her hand. My questions about Dr. Hauptfuhrer must have unnerved her even more than I had realized.

“Just tell me where and what,” she continued, “and you'll have it. You needn't concern yourself with the financial details. I can offer you income for life, with no distractions from your calling.”

For the briefest moment, I imagined it: my own groundbreaking clinic, a warm, inviting, enveloping space where patients from all walks of life could come to find relief from their suffering, guided by me and my devoted trainees. She was offering the one thing that might tempt me in exchange for my silence. But accepting would mean turning my back on Eliza, and that wasn't something I could do. “I'm happy with my current arrangements, thank you.”

She pursed her lips, studying me with clear green eyes. “Something else then,” she said with a shrug. “I understand your father has asked my husband to invest a considerable amount of money in an invention of his. A mechanical lung, if I'm not mistaken. What if I were to persuade Charles to give him the full amount? Of course, I can't make promises, but I do have a certain amount of influence.”

Keep your influence to yourself
, I wanted to shout,
and leave my parents alone.
“I believe my father and Mr. Fiske already have an understanding of sorts. And in any event, the machine speaks for itself. It's sure to turn a substantial profit once it goes into production. Those with the vision to invest in it will get their money back in spades. It's only a matter of finding them.”

“But that will take time,” she mused. “And it isn't just about profit for your father, is it? I suspect his interest in saving lives is much more personal than that. The sooner he can heal others, the sooner he himself can be healed, wouldn't you agree?”

I didn't answer, more disturbed than I would let on by the perceptiveness of her comment. My parents whirled past us again, joyful as tethered birds just set free.

“So full of life after all these years,” sighed Lucille. “Be sure that you don't take it for granted, Miss Summerford. Happiness is such a fragile thing. You must handle it with care.”

The threat couldn't have been clearer if it had been stitched across her bodice. For her, I supposed, it would be child's play: drawing my parents out of their isolation, luring them into a sense of false security—and then crushing them without a moment's hesitation. We both knew they would never get up again. In just the blink of an eye, Lucille had managed to take my parents' tender, vulnerable psyches into her perfectly manicured little hands. The thought made it hard for me to breathe.