The Spiritualist (12 page)

The inside of the station was warm and smelling of sweat, and even though the ceilings were high and the receiving area large, it seemed close and crowded. There were policemen hovering about, some accompanied by vagrants or prostitutes, whom I tried to ignore as I sailed to the high countered desk in the center of the room, where sat a heavyset man with a dark mustache.

“I’m Mrs. Peter Atherton,” I told him. “Robert Callahan asked me to come.”

He nodded shortly and barked, “Matson! This here’s Mrs. Atherton. Can you take her up to Callahan?”

A thin, mustachioed watchman came hurrying over. “This way, ma’am,” he said, and I followed him past the desk and up narrow, dimly lit stairs whose walls were covered with paper bills printed with criminal faces. Finally, he took me to a small room—an office. There was a desk, a chair, an ancient and rather threadbare settee. There were more criminal portraits on the walls here: “Lazy Jack Ives,” “Bourbon Bill,” and an extremely ugly woman named “French Bertha” among them. The ceiling was gray with soot from gaslights whose lamps looked as if they’d never been cleaned. There were no curtains at the window, but the glass was so filthy the daylight lent almost no illumination at all.

The officer motioned me to the settee. Just as I sat down, Robert Callahan stepped inside. He looked somber and harried.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Atherton,” he said politely. He looked at the policeman. “Would you mind staying, Matson?”

Matson nodded. He pulled out a notebook and a pencil and sat at the desk.

Robert Callahan snagged the leg of the chair with his foot and yanked it closer. Then he sat, facing me.

“Thank you for coming, Mrs. Atherton. I know it’s an inconvenience.”

“I assume you have something of importance to tell me?”

“Actually, I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”

I frowned. I couldn’t imagine why he’d thought I must come down here for that. “Of course. However I can help.”

He took a deep breath and glanced over his shoulder at Matson, who lifted his pencil in readiness. Then Callahan asked, “Were you aware of the contents of your husband’s will, Mrs. Atherton?”

“Peter left a will?”

“Yes, ma’am, he did.”

“I had no idea. Have you told his brother of it?”

“I’m certain he knows. Mr. Burden—your brother-in-law, I believe?”—he waited for my nod—“discovered it in your husband’s papers yesterday.”

“He did? But… he said nothing of it to me.”

“So you didn’t know your husband left you everything? His monthly allowance? The house and everything in it? Generations of Atherton possessions?”

I was stunned, but through my surprise came a quick warmth at Peter’s thoughtfulness. My husband had taken care that I would be protected. There was no chance that I would share Judith Duncan’s fate. “No. I—I had no idea.”

Callahan said, “Your father was Mr. Atherton’s investigator, I understand?”

“Yes. Until he died.”

“He must have been happy to see you so well married.”

“Yes.”

“Quite a stunt, wasn’t it, to marry an Atherton?”

“I—I never thought of it that way.”

“Was it a love match, Mrs. Atherton?”

It was then I understood. It wasn’t the words themselves, but the look in his eyes, the chill of the question. I felt a sudden, numbing dread. “Are you accusing me of murdering my husband, Mr. Callahan?”

“Did you murder him?”

“No! Of course I didn’t!”

“He left everything to you.”

“I had everything when he was alive. Why would I want him dead?”

“I don’t know,” he said. His eyes were hard as agate. “Maybe you could tell me.”

“I didn’t kill my husband!”

Callahan sighed. He rubbed at one unruly sideburn. “Where were you on that Thursday night, Mrs. Atherton?”

Desperately, I said, “I was at Dorothy Bennett’s. I’ve told you this already!”

“What time did you arrive home?”

“Near midnight.”

“Apparently you were the last person to see your husband alive, Mrs. Atherton.”

“Not the last person. His murderer would have been that.”

“Exactly,” he said.

“
You
said it was a robbery.”

“Yes. I would have thought such a clever ruse beyond a woman, but then again, your father was an investigator. You worked for him, I understand?”

“I did his accounts,” I said.

“Did you? Only that? He never spoke to you of his cases?”

“Mr. Callahan—”

“What happened that night when you and your husband returned from Mrs. Bennett’s? You said he went out again—is that the truth?”

“Of course it’s the truth! I told you—there was the shooting at the spirit circle—”

“The misfire?”

“Yes! Yes. If you want the truth of who murdered my husband, you should question them.”

“Ah. You mean question Robert Dudley? Jacob Colville? Perhaps even Mrs. Bennett herself?”

“Peter believed—”

“Did you kill your husband when you returned home that night, Mrs. Atherton? Or was someone else there to do the job for you? A lover, perhaps?”

“No, I—how dare you! I was faithful to my husband!”

Callahan sighed. “Would you like to confess now, Mrs. Atherton? Or should we keep playing this game?”

“Am I under arrest, Mr. Callahan?”

His smile was grim. “Not yet.”

I grabbed my bag. I was shaking. “Then I assume I’m free to go?”

Callahan glanced at his man and gave me a reluctant nod. “You’re free to go. For now. But we ask that you don’t leave the city. We’ll assign a watchman to follow you, so don’t try to sneak away.”

“I have nothing to sneak away from.”

Callahan only waved his hand dismissively. “Go home, Mrs. Atherton.”

I didn’t hesitate. I was afraid they would change their minds, that they would arrest me on the spot, and my fear grabbed my better sense; I fled that office and the station without a shred of dignity, panicked beyond thought or reason.

There was no carriage waiting for me. Wildly, I looked about for it. I had told Cullen to wait, hadn’t I? Where could he have gone? But there was no sign of the familiar brougham, and I was too frightened to wait. I began to walk. It was impossible, of course; by the end of the block my corset pinched so cruelly into my ribs I couldn’t breathe. I stepped from the curb, into the hard snow piling against it, but it wasn’t hard at all, it was merely a thin and icy crust over garbage, and my thin boots sank into it, sending me off balance so I gasped and tottered, nearly falling into the street. A carriage careened around the corner—the horses’ hooves threw ice into my face, the driver shouted at me to get out of the way, and I faltered back, stumbling again to the curb. I missed a step and suddenly I was falling. My crinoline bent and collapsed; I tried to catch myself, but the walk was too slippery. I fell hard against the ice, my wrist twisting beneath me.

“Dear God, Evelyn, what do you think you’re doing?”

The voice was familiar. I looked up to see a man standing beside me, clad in a greatcoat and top hat. Paul.

“Oh, thank God it’s you. Oh, Paul, I—”

“Not here, Evelyn,” he said firmly. He put a hand on my arm and hauled me unceremoniously to my feet. He looked around impatiently. “I’ve been waiting for you. Penny told me you’d gone to the station. I sent your driver away. Come. This way.” He raised his hand, hailing his driver, who waited with the carriage I now saw across the street.

Once we were inside, Paul said, “Everyone’s waiting at the house.”

“I can’t tell you how grateful I am.” My voice fell to a whisper. “They’ve accused me of murdering him. Me! I think I… I believe I shall need your help, Paul. And John’s as well.”

Paul said nothing. He moved aside the leather curtain to peer outside. “Did you know about the will, Evelyn?”

I shook my head. “I’d no idea.”

He let the curtain fall again and leaned stiffly back against the seat. “You know I’ve always admired you, Evelyn. Just as Peter did.”

“You’ve always been very kind.”

He cleared his throat as if he were uncomfortable. “There are things the family must discuss.”

“Yes, of course.”

“And you should know… well, we’ll talk of all this later.”

We fell into silence that lasted until we reached the familiar brownstone on Irving Place, the house that had been the Atherton stronghold since 1835, when trade had begun to overtake the upper-class homes on lower Broadway, and their original mansion on Pearl Street had no longer been fashionable. I was relieved to see the Burden carriage waiting before it. John knew every judge and attorney in the city. If there was anyone who could help me withstand these false accusations, it was he.

Paul helped me from the brougham with patient courtesy. My wrist was already feeling better as we made our way up the icy walk. Kitty opened the door before we even reached the stoop, and when I stepped inside, Peter’s family came into the hall to greet us.

They were all dressed in black, as I was, in various measures of severity. Penny was grim, and Pamela wore the strained, sad look of someone bearing a too-great burden. Behind her, John hovered, his dark hair gray-tinged, his height and his importance seeming to expand to fill the narrow hallway, and I was reassured.

“She was sitting in the middle of the walk outside the station,” Paul said as Kitty took my cloak.

“In the snow?” Pamela asked.

“Like a common match girl,” he said.

“Whatever possessed you, Evelyn?” Pamela asked. She came over to me, putting her hand at my back, gently propelling me down the hall toward the parlor. “Anyone could have seen you!”

I felt a twinge of irritation. “Yes, no doubt it will be on the society page by morning. ‘Evelyn Atherton Sits in the Snow!’ How much better a headline than ‘Evelyn Atherton Accused of Murder.’ ”

I saw the quick way they all exchanged glances.

Pamela said quietly, “Come, you’re overwrought.”

The others followed us into the parlor. There the fire was burning brightly and the tea was laid, and I felt drawn into safety—here was my family, who would protect me. Here was my home. Mine, now that Peter had left it to me. I sank into the consoling familiarity of the nearest settee.

Penny sat beside me. She poured a cup of tea and pressed it into my hands. “Drink it, Evelyn. You look ready to swoon.”

“She can’t swoon just yet,” Pamela said as she took a seat. “We must have a family discussion.”

Paul went to the fireplace and pushed back the screen. He was no longer wearing his top hat, and his blond hair shone in the glow from the fire, and I thought how like his brother he was, though Paul was chiseled where Peter had been soft, broad where Peter was less so. He took the glass of bourbon John handed him and leaned against the mantel. His expression went thoughtful. “The house is yours,” he said, gesturing to the room, glass in hand.

“Yes, the police told me,” I said.

“You didn’t know before then?” John asked.

“No, of course not. I would have said something.”

“It must be gratifying to know he took such good care to see to you.”

Somberly, I said, “I would much rather Peter were alive to see to me.”

“We all would, Evelyn,” Pamela said.

“We all loved Peter,” Penny said.

“Yes, we all loved him,” John said. “But now we must face the reality of his death.”

“First we must manage the accusation the police have made against me,” I said. “It’s so absurd. Truly. To think that I—I hardly know what to do.”

They were silent.

I looked at John in expectation. “As my lawyer, there must be something—”

“I haven’t the expertise to handle a criminal trial, Evelyn,” he said. “You know I deal almost exclusively with contracts and mortgages. And wills.”

Before I could register this, Pamela said quietly, “I’m certain you realize how lucky you are. After all, had Peter died without a will, everything would have come to us. All these things… why, that clock belonged to my grandfather. And the vase was my great-grandmother’s. They’ve been in the family for years.”

“You should take them, then,” I said impatiently. “Please—you must take what you love. Peter can hardly have wanted to disinherit you of those things you treasure.”

“He was only seeing to your security,” John said.

“Yes. Everything I had was sold when my own parents died. I’ve nothing else.”

“Peter was a generous man,” Penny murmured.

“Too generous,” I agreed.

“I’m relieved to hear you say that, Evelyn,” John said. He went to the small, gilded table beside the sideboard. For the first time, I noticed there was a sheaf of papers amid my gathered shells and the metal coils of the gas lamp. “It gives me hope that you can be reasonable. I confess I wasn’t certain. But now I think we can come to an agreement after all.”

I frowned in confusion. “An agreement? About what?”

“You said you thought Peter was too generous in leaving you everything. Would you be willing to stipulate to that—in writing?”

I looked at the others, who had gone still and silent. They were watching me carefully. As I had in the police station, I felt an increasing dread.

John picked up one of the papers and waved it at the room. “This house. These things. They don’t belong to you. We would not have objected to your having something. We were preparing a yearly allowance for you. After all, you did make Peter happy for three years. But now, you must see, even that is impossible.”

Pamela smiled at me, but it was cold and cutting as a razor.

“The family must be protected,” John said.

“I thought I was part of this family.”

Penny sighed. “Please, Evelyn, don’t be difficult.”

John came forward with the paper. He held it out to me. “You should read this.”

I stared unseeingly at it. “What is it?”

“An order from Judge Denham. The estate is held in trust until the murder case is resolved. Everything’s frozen. You can’t sell or trade anything. Do you understand me, Evelyn? Nothing. The order’s quite clear. It covers everything: anything that’s in the house, anything Peter might have given to you—”

“You mean gifts he gave me? But those things are mine.”