City of Liars and Thieves (18 page)

“What's this?” I traced the spots with my finger. There were a half dozen, maybe more.

Elias grabbed my hand and held it back. “Caty, stop.”

The sheriff stepped closer. “Mrs. Ring,” he said. “May I ask you a few questions?”

“My wife's too distraught for questions,” Elias said.

“The sooner we know the facts, the sooner justice will be served,” Sheriff Morris said.

“Yes.” I shared his sense of urgency. “I'm ready.”

Sheriff Morris launched into his inquiry. “When was the last time you saw your cousin, Gulielma Sands, alive?”

I had never heard anyone but Aunt Mary refer to Elma by her Christian name. The knowledge that I would have to soon explain Elma's fate to my aunt made me dizzy. I was certain the news would kill her. I stumbled backward. Elias helped me into a chair, and someone brought a glass of water. I stared at the cloudy liquid. It was nothing like the pristine water that flowed readily from the streams in Cornwall, and I had no desire to drink it. Elma died in this city's filthy water. Levi had put her there.

“How long has it been since you saw Miss Sands alive?” the sheriff asked again. I knew the question was a mere formality, as the timing of her disappearance was public knowledge.

Elias stepped between us. “She's in no condition to be interrogated.”

I took a deep breath. Elma would never again experience the colors of autumn or hear a robin sing in early spring. She would never hold her baby to her breast, never marvel at her child's laughter. No one would inherit her playful smile or gift for storytelling. Levi had stolen her future.

He would pay for his crime.

“It's been eleven days,” I said, feeling more clearheaded. It seemed like a long time for Elma to have been gone and a short time for my fortune to have changed so completely.

Sheriff Morris stated the date that Elma had vanished as if he had given the matter considerable thought. “December twenty-second. And what time did she leave here that night?”

“Shortly after eight.” I recalled the stormy evening, remembered brushing Elma's glossy hair, the lifeless remnants of which lay scattered on the floor. I pointed at Levi. “She left with him. They were to be married.”

Levi was motionless on the threshold.

“Levi Weeks,” Sheriff Morris said. “Do you know the young woman who lies there a corpse?”

Levi stepped backward. “I think I know the gown.”

“That is not the question. Is there no mark in that countenance you know?”

Levi covered his eyes with both hands. “It's too hard.”

“Answer him,” Elias demanded, his voice rising. I set my hand on his arm, praying he would not threaten Levi in the sheriff's presence.

There were shouts on the street, but in Elma's room, we were still. Now that their mission had ended, Watkins and Lent stood awkward in their idleness. Hatfield was biting his lip as if holding back words, or tears, and I could see the blue veins in Elias's neck throb.

The sheriff kept his eyes on Levi. “Do you know this girl?”

Levi was shaking his head. He managed to maintain his composure, but he kneaded his rigid white hands.

Anger surged through me and I rushed to Elma's side, struggling to free the ivory comb from the weedy tangle that had been her silky hair. “What about this?” I said, holding the bone-white comb under his nose so the sharp teeth nearly scraped him.

Levi's mouth fell open, but he still did not answer.

There was huffing on the stairwell and Richard Croucher burst into the room, shoving Levi aside. He marched up to Elma's bed and shook his head. “A fallen woman, indeed.” His gaze was spiteful as his eyes met Levi's. “Found 'er in the Manhattan Well. What do you say to that, Adonis?”

“I have nothing to say to you,” Levi spat.

“But you know the place.” Croucher looked knowingly around the room, his eyes landing on the sheriff. “ 'E did a bit of work up there, you know.”

No matter his previous indiscretions, I felt a swell of gratitude toward the bizarre Richard Croucher, the only one who shared my instinct. “Levi
did
help build that well,” I emphasized. The disclosure seemed so incriminating, I imagined the sheriff immediately dragging him to the hangman's scaffold.

“I was by that way myself that night,” Croucher continued. It was a strange admission.

I thought of the narrow road and deep snow.

Sheriff Morris turned, his eyebrows raised. “You say you were by the Manhattan Well that night?”

Pleased to be the focus of attention, Croucher did not seem to grasp the implication of the question. I wanted to gag him, but he continued. “Several times. Unfortunate I wasn't there at the right time. I might have saved her.”

“What time were you there?” the sheriff asked.

Croucher's chest deflated. “I can't say exactly.”

“So how do you know it was the wrong time?”

“I didn't 'ear nothing. If that poor girl was being murdered—” He removed his hat and ran his hand across the balding patch at the crown of his head. “My regrets, ma'am,” he said, glancing at me, but he kept on speaking. “If someone 'ad been doing 'er 'arm, I'd 'ave 'eard something,” Croucher spat, his speech failing as his temper increased.

“Where were you exactly?” Sheriff Morris asked.

Croucher's face grew ruddy and he wiped his brow. “I supped at Ann Ashmore's on Bowery Lane.” He looked over his shoulder. “Ask 'er.”

Sheriff Morris nodded at the watchman, who took note.

Croucher cocked his head toward Levi. “It's this man needs questioning. Ask 'im where
he
was.”

“I dined at my brother's,” Levi said sharply. His eyes darted around the room, avoiding mine.

“Why not lay your 'ands on 'er?” Croucher said. It was believed that if a killer set his hands on his victim, blood would flow from them, making his guilt manifest.

While I did not believe that blood would rush from Levi's hands, I was curious to see his reaction. My fingertips nearly matched the impressions on Elma's neck. I was certain his would be a perfect fit.

“Have him put his fingers on the spots around her neck,” I said.

Elias stepped closer. “If thou are innocent, thou need not refuse.”

Levi had taken another step backward and was now standing in the hallway.

“I'd sooner die than gratify your curiosity,” he said, but his voice was void of emotion.

“Mr. Weeks,” Sheriff Morris said, “I believe you should come with us.”

Levi balked. “What charge is brought against me?”

“Thou can't be ignorant of the charge,” Elias said.

Levi backed farther away; one more step and he would topple down the stairs. “I swear I am.” His eyes were wide and his lips trembled.

“Mr. Weeks,” said the sheriff, “I ask that you come peacefully.”

“I'll come,” Levi said, “but I insist you notify my brother, Ezra Weeks.”

“We all know who your brother is,” Croucher called as the sheriff led Levi downstairs.

The front door banged open.

“That's him!” someone shouted.

“That's Elma's killer!” an angry voice roared.

“Levi Weeks is a blackhearted murderer!” the mob bellowed. “Hang him!”

I allowed myself a fleeting smile.

The pounding on the door began early the next morning. Long minutes passed while I held my breath, praying the trespasser would leave. The knocking kept pace with my throbbing temples, announcing our new reality. Elma was dead, and an early-morning visitor could only mean more misery.

The previous night had been long and painful. Charles and I nestled together in his rickety bed. He sobbed while I choked back tears. Just before midnight, he drifted off, and I lay motionless, gazing at the starry night through the frosty window. Too troubled to sleep, I wandered into the parlor, lit a lamp, and confronted the inevitable. For the next few hours, I struggled to put words to this disaster.

My Beloved Aunt,

Our darling Elma was found dead yesterday. The circumstances are a mystery, but Elias and I are determined to discover the cause. She is home now, resting peacefully. Final preparations are being made. She will be buried at the Friends burial ground, a picturesque place with a rolling lawn, a short walk from our home.

Please know that I loved Elma as if she were my own child. God willing, she has gone to a better place and, one day, we will join her in eternity.

The letter felt cruel in its brevity. Spilled ink and tears dotted the page. With bitter pleasure at the frivolous waste, I crumpled the thing and threw it into the fireplace. The cinders were hardly burning, and I squashed the page with a poker and buried it under the ashes. My second draft, and third, were just as pathetic. It was impossible to convey my sorrow, and I kept imagining my aunt's bony hands shaking as she unfolded the page. I cringed recalling that first letter I had written to Aunt Mary nearly a year ago, inviting Elma to visit. I had promised to care for Elma, and she had died a nightmarish death. I may as well have killed her myself.

Pushing the pitiful missive aside, I struggled to make sense of my emotions. I felt sadness and grief, resentment, guilt, and anger. Why did Elma trust Levi? Why did she leave me? Why did I allow her to go?

I found myself on the landing outside Levi's door. I had stood in the very same spot the night Elma vanished, too hesitant to knock. Fear no longer held me back. I had combed through each and every one of Elma's possessions, but this was the first time I had set foot in Levi's room since the sheriff had led him away. At first glance, nothing looked unusual. The bed was made, the wardrobe empty. Poor Will, who had fled after Levi's arrest, must have packed his master's things as well as his own. I opened each dresser drawer, beginning at the bottom and working my way up. I had rummaged through Elma's bureau countless times. Unlike her drawers, Levi's slid easily open. I heard a soft rolling noise before I saw it: The small gemlike glass was empty. Only a blood-red residue remained. Had Levi fed Elma laudanum before throwing her down the well? Why hadn't he destroyed the vial?

I was trying to collect my thoughts when I noticed the spilled remnants of a candle on the nightstand. It was a miracle the house had not caught fire. Furious at what I was convinced was Levi's final act of destruction, I went to the table, wanting to be rid of every last trace of him. When the wax proved too hard to scrape away, I lowered my lamp and lit the charred wick. The flickering light gave off an otherworldly glow, illuminating scratches in the puddle of wax. As the wick flared, letters came to life, twisting and turning like a vine seeking sunlight:
Elma
.

Elma's name had been etched by the same hand that had carved her ivory hair comb. The same fingers that had made the discolored imprints in the crooked chain around her neck. The same ones that had killed her.

My breath grew shallow and I sat heavily on the bed. I do not know how much time passed. When I looked again, the wax was dripping down the side of the nightstand, and the letters had melted into nothingness. Who could say if they had been there at all? My head was filled with a loud, persistent drumming.

The noise increased until it occurred to me that someone was knocking on the front door. I sat perfectly still, praying to be left in peace. Moments passed. Birds were chirping, but their chatter only emphasized the racket. I pulled my shawl around my shoulders and went downstairs to answer.

“Mrs. Ring?” A distinguished-looking gentleman, tall and slender in a dark overcoat, stood, hat in hand. “My name is Dr. Prince. The sheriff sent me.”

A pack of wolves would have been more welcome. Wintry air flooded the vestibule, but it was the doctor's presence that made me shiver. He barely registered my distress. He had the seasoned eyes of a physician, one who had seen countless births and deaths and learned to reconcile the two.

“I've come to conduct the coroner's inquest,” he said, brandishing a large black case with shiny clasps. I was certain the brass was as cold as his demeanor. I imagined his apathetic fingers probing Elma. “I apologize for the hour, but I wanted to get here as soon as possible.” He glanced over his shoulder at the street, which was mercifully empty.

Elias shuffled out of the bedroom, looking as haggard as I felt. He tensed up at the sight of our visitor. “Please let us bury our kin in peace,” he said.

“Mr. Ring,” Dr. Prince replied, “I respect your grief, but I am afraid Miss Sands cannot be buried until I have conducted an exam.”

“She's dead,” Elias said. “What's left to examine?”

“Miss Sands's death is now a matter of law, and the sheriff has requested an inquest.”

“The dead should be allowed to rest in peace,” Elias said. “That's God's law.”

“We can't bury her?” I asked. There seemed no end to the horror.

“After I present my findings to the coroner's jury.” The doctor's voice softened. “If the death is determined to be unnatural, there will be a trial.”

“Of course her death was unnatural,” I said. “She was murdered.”

Dr. Prince tugged at the chain of his pocket watch. “It's impossible to say what the evidence will prove, until after my examination.”

Elias crossed his arms and positioned himself at the base of the staircase. “And if we don't allow it? What then?”

“Mr. Ring,” the doctor said, “if you don't step aside, I'll be forced to summon the sheriff.”

“That won't be necessary.” Unable to predict how he might react, I placed a tentative hand on Elias's arm and spoke gently. “Anything the doctor finds will only help convict Levi.”

Elias hung his head in concession, but his eyes trailed me as I led Dr. Prince upstairs. The climb had never felt so long or tiresome. The steps creaked. My legs ached and my temples pulsed. When we reached the third-floor landing, I stood back. Dr. Prince and his black bag appeared out of place in Elma's room, with its eyelet curtains and lace doilies. He seemed to agree, holding the bag high, as if he did not know where to set it, and finally settling on the table beside the washbasin. My stomach lurched as he snapped open the clasps. Knives, scalpels, and a miniature hammer with a pointed head clanged against a cold metal tray. The last item he removed, more dreadful than all the others, was a cloth mask, which he tied around his mouth and nose.

It struck me that Elma was nothing more to him than a job, a pile of rotting flesh like any other, which he was commissioned to examine too early on a cold winter morning. He would never know her, never admire her grace or hear her laughter.

“Wait,” I begged. I took a deep breath, went to Elma's side, and ran my hand along her cheek. The stench was horrible, but touching her was worse. Her skin puckered and, when I pulled away, it refused to plump back into shape.

“Mrs. Ring, is there any information you may have neglected to tell the sheriff?” Through the mask, his voice was as sharp as the blades on his tray.

“Is it possible…” I began, gazing down at the lifeless creature that had once been Elma. “Could one tell if she used medication?”

The doctor looked up from his instruments. “What sort of medication?”

“Laudanum.”

“Miss Sands took laudanum?”

“No!” I shook my head. “Just the opposite. There are those—Levi Weeks said she took it to do away with herself. But I know she never did.”

“It is impossible to say until I've conducted my exam.”

I smoothed down Elma's dress below the bodice, where it stretched across her belly. For the hundredth time since she came home, I considered changing her dress. The muslin was thin in places, ripped in others, and the green fabric was now the color of mold. But each time I reached toward the shredded collar, my eyes locked on the bruised spots around her neck. I was petrified to see what lay beneath the tattered dress.

The doctor straightened, holding a scalpel in one hand. “It is surprising what a body will reveal even after its demise. One can tell, for instance, whether an infant was stillborn or a victim of infanticide, whether a body found in water was someone who drowned or a victim of a disguised homicide, even if a young woman was a maiden.” He held it to the light, running his finger along the blade.

It seemed like a direct appeal. I considered feigning offense, but his assumption was not wrong. What's more, I was tired of hiding the truth. If I had spoken out when I first suspected that Elma was pregnant, maybe I could have saved her.

I took a deep breath. “Actually, I've reason to believe…It's possible Elma was—”

Elias came rushing into the room, brandishing a torn newspaper. “Says right here she was ‘willfully murdered!' ”

I snatched the paper out of his hands. There it was: our tragedy reduced to a paragraph of print.

Thursday afternoon, the body of a young woman by the name of Gulielma Elmore Sands was found dead in a well recently dug by the Manhattan Company, a little east of Anthony Lispenard's farm. The circumstances attending her death are somewhat singular. She went from her cousin's house in Greenwich Street on Sunday evening, December 22, with her lover, with an intention of going to be married, from which time until yesterday afternoon she had not been heard of. Strong suspicions are entertained that she has been willfully murdered.

“Where did this come from?” I asked.

The question seemed to take Elias by surprise. “It was outside the front door. This one too.” Elias read out loud: “ ‘Little did Miss Sands expect that the nuptial arrangements she had been making with so much care would direct her to that bourn from which no traveler returns.' ”

Elma had left a cryptic message in the water jug what felt like ages ago. This time the message was clear. “Why must Elma suffer any more?” I said, waving at the scalpels and knives. “It's obvious that Levi murdered her. Her life was stolen—will her body now be desecrated as well?”

There was an angry thud on the side of the house.

“What on earth?” Elias went to the window and began to furiously wave his arms. “This is private property. Get out of here!” he shouted through the closed pane.

“What is it?” I asked, not daring to approach the window.

“Those lunatics have put up a ladder,” Elias said, frowning at Elma's lifeless body as if she were still causing trouble.

“Mrs. Ring, were you about to say something before your husband came in?” Dr. Prince's eyes settled on mine.

“The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we'll be left in peace.” Elias's words were clipped and sounded like a warning.

“Mr. Ring,” the doctor said, “would you draw the curtains and perhaps bring me a second lamp?” I had the impression he wanted Elias to leave so he could speak with me alone.

“I'll fetch the lamp,” I said, suddenly eager to go. I had been ready to tell Dr. Prince everything, but Elias's interruption gave me time to reconsider. I had already said too much. Suggesting she was expecting might help convict Levi—or simply incriminate Elma. While every kernel of my being knew her condition, I did not have any real proof. If I was wrong, I would have needlessly sullied her name. Better to let the doctor conduct his investigation than to prejudice his results.

Desperate for air, I fled the house. Elma was being sliced apart, and I needed to know that Levi was suffering for his crime.
An eye for an eye,
I told myself, twisting Christian doctrine to accommodate my malicious thoughts.

Greenwich Street looked as dreary as I felt. People dressed in thick layers inched cautiously over deep ruts and mounds of filth. Each afternoon the snow melted, then froze again overnight, fortified with mud and waste. Sun peeked through the clouds, and the ice turned to slush as I walked, saturating my boots and numbing my toes. The deadening of feeling came as a relief. If I thought it would have helped, I would have immersed myself. Was that how Elma felt? Had she been desperate enough to throw herself into an icy grave? As quickly as the idea entered my head, I dismissed it. Levi wanted me to believe that Elma had killed herself, to absolve his own role in her death.

Despite the cold, street traffic grew as I walked toward City Hall Park. At the corner of Broadway and Warren Street, I stopped and stared. A three-story masonry building, Bridewell Prison sat squarely between the poorhouse and the old town jail. Angry cries and a general air of sickness and misery emanated from its depths. I could see men pacing along the rooftop. Women and children huddled together outside, awaiting any opportunity to speak with their fathers, husbands, and sons. Behind thin iron grates, the windows were exposed to the elements. Dagger-like icicles hung side by side with the bars, as if nature itself were conspiring to keep the criminals imprisoned.

A horse auction was taking place on the street between the prison and common. Men called out bids, and their shouts echoed across the open space and bounced off walls. I gazed into Bridewell's gaping windows, imagining Levi squirming in his cell, surrounded by violence and pain. No doubt he had imagined riding off on a handsome steed, a dark bay stallion very much like the one his brother owned. The one he had used to snatch Elma away.