The Spiritualist (26 page)

As it had the other night in the parlor, the room seemed to pulse with his presence, and it made me so nervous that I stumbled in my haste. There was a desk near one wall, and instinctively I went there first. It was heavily decorated, inlaid with mosaics of what looked like ivory. Above it hung a painting of a couple caressing each other before a great bed—the woman had masses of curling hair, the youth was darkly handsome. A calla lily sprung tall and upright from a vase next to them. It was uncomfortably hedonistic, and I tried to ignore it.

His desktop was clean, unlike that of any other man I’d known. There was a single ledger pushed beneath a row of cubbyholes beside an ink bottle and scattered pen nibs, a well-used penwipe, and a cloisonné box. On the shelf above was a decanter, very like the one in my room, and I lifted the stopper and realized it held the same liqueur. My suspicions about the drink solidified, and I put the stopper carefully into place, and approached the desktop again more zealously.

First I lifted the lid of the cloisonné box. Inside was the diamond and sapphire pin I’d seen him wear, along with a pile of rings—different stones, different settings, all expensive—a jeweled watch chain, a single cuff link set with an opal, along with four other sets of different design, and two other brooches, one of garnets and one decorated with diamonds and blue topaz. A fortune in jewelry, but that alone was not evidence.

The desk had two large drawers; I tried them both, but they were locked, and I pawed through the cubbyholes, searching for a key—there was one, but it didn’t fit, and it looked so old and rusty I doubted it had any use at all. I opened the ledger, a listing of accounts and expenses, and glanced over the numbers, looking for anything suspicious, though I was aware of the foolishness of this—how would I know? It looked like the usual things: payments to Madison Clothiers and Jacques Larouche, tailor; Ball, Black and Company; and a perfumer’s in Union Square. He obviously had a liking for fine things; beyond these, he had so few expenses, there was not much to see.

But the amounts listed under income were impressive. Payments—gifts, no doubt—of five thousand dollars, another six, two of four—just in the last six months alone. I wondered angrily how much of it had come from Peter, but none were itemized; he was clever enough to explain nothing. Michel Jourdain was a wealthy man. In the last year he’d amassed an income of nearly fifty thousand dollars.

I closed the ledger and shoved it back into its place, and then I glanced about the room for where he might have hidden a desk key. There was a nightstand with a drawer by the bed, but when I opened it I saw nothing but handkerchiefs, and I was just bending to go through them when I heard footsteps in the hallway.

I froze, but the footsteps passed—the maid, thank God. I closed the nightstand drawer softly and took a deep breath to calm my nerves. I glanced toward the door, and as I did, my eye was caught by a flash of light. I turned back quickly, trying to find it again, and then saw the way the window light slanted across the nightstand, glancing across a half-drunk glass of water, shimmering on the ribands—how many colors he had! More than any woman…

Then I saw what I hadn’t before. The flash of a jewel hidden beneath the ribands. I thrust my fingers into the silks until I grabbed what felt like a chain, and pulled it loose.

My heart seemed to stop. It
was
a chain, a watch chain, and one I knew. It was made of fine gold, adorned with pale sapphires to match his eyes, dangling with a charm—a tiny fish, with scales made of the smallest diamonds—in answer to a joke he used to make about fishing for me in muddy waters.
“Who knew there was such an exotic thing there among the eels?”

Peter’s watch chain. A gift from me in the first year of our marriage. He’d worn it since, but it had not been found on him when he died. It had been taken, either in a robbery or in the semblance of one… .

I dropped the chain into my palm, where it sent cats of light about the room. To have found this… to have found it here, where it should not have been, where it could not have been unless Michel Jourdain had taken it himself… I clasped the chain tightly. This was what I needed. It was not the adoption papers, but surely it was evidence enough. How ironic that it was to be something of Peter’s that would save me!

Again I heard the footsteps of the maid. I looked toward the door, seeing her shadow pass beneath it. I knew I could not tarry. Michel’s appointment with Dorothy could not last that long, regardless of what he did there. I looked back at the watch chain pooled in my hand. I wanted to take it with me—it should be mine, now that Peter was gone, and it was so precious—but I knew I could not. Michel would know someone had been in his room, and I could not afford to keep something that might prove to be evidence in Peter’s murder. I must leave it here where I found it and tell Benjamin. He would know what to do about it.

But I was reluctant to put it back. I curled my fingers around it, squeezing as if I could imprint it into my hand, and then I pressed it to my lips. Only then did I let it slide from my fingers, hiding it again in the pile of ribands where it coiled like a snake. Then I went to the door, pausing to listen before I opened it slowly. The hallway was empty. I eased out, closing the door tightly behind me.

L
ATER THAT AFTERNOON
, Molly knocked on my door and said, “Mr. Jourdain’s waiting for you in the parlor, ma’am. He says you’re to have tea.”

I had forgotten all about it, but finding Peter’s watch chain had removed my fear of Michel. Now that I knew he’d killed Peter, now that I knew he had manipulated me, I felt a hard triumph. And though I realized I must be cautious, I went into the parlor believing I had the advantage again.

He was sitting with long-limbed elegance upon the settee, with the tea set before him, along with a platter of tiny lemon tarts and sandwiches of biscuits and thinly sliced ham.

He rose when he saw me, and that set off a spate of coughing. I waited politely until it ended, and then I sat across from him in a silk-upholstered chair.

He motioned toward the teapot and said, “Would you do the honors,
Madame
? I’m sure you’ve more grace than I.”

I perched on the edge of my seat and poured, and handed him his cup, though I was careful not to do so much as brush his fingers when I gave it to him.

“Would you care for a lemon tart? They’re Cook’s specialty, and my favorite.”

“I’m not hungry,” I told him. “You have things to discuss with me?”

“Ah, so this is how it’s to be? No friendly comment on the weather? Not even a ‘Will it be as cold today, d’you think?’ A pity. I’d so hoped for diversion. I’m sorely in need of it.”

“I’m sorry I can’t oblige you. I find I’m not much in the mood to be diverting.” I looked down into my tea.

He said, “Life’s a trial in itself, eh? Fortunately, you’ve one thing to look forward to.”

I glanced up. “What would that be?”

“Why, your development, of course.” Idly, he ran a finger around the rim of his cup, and I found myself drawn by the motion, almost mesmerized by it. “Dorothy’s quite insistent that I tutor you.”

Now I heard the danger in his voice; my sense of having the advantage over him weakened. “What did you tell her?”

“That I would, of course. I obey her every whim.”

I thought I heard a slight mockery, even self-deprecation, but I wasn’t certain. “I release you from your duty,” I said, putting the cup aside. “Especially as you seem so opposed to it.”

“Ah, but I don’t have to be.” He too set down his cup, stretching out his legs, leaning forward. “I think you’ll find I can be very accommodating.”

I rose abruptly, without thinking, wishing only to put space between us. I went to the window and pulled aside the drapes to look outside. “Mr. Jourdain, you made yourself perfectly clear. As I told Dorothy, I’ve no wish to inconvenience you.”

“But you’ve inconvenienced me already,
Madame.
Whether you like it or no, I’m bound by my promise to Dorothy. She’d be unhappy if I ignored it.”

“God forbid you make her unhappy.”

“You’ve the grasp of it, it seems.”

I heard the creak of the settee as he rose, and I focused on the scene outside
—
the watchman across the street, the muddy lawn, the last vestiges of snow in the lee of the house, the slushy, icy brown of it in the gutters. Still, I was sensitive to his every move. I made myself remember Peter’s watch chain tangled in with his ribands, and tried to raise anger; instead I felt only panic as Michel drew closer. Then I felt him standing behind me.

“It’ll be spring soon,” he said casually. Then, softly, “You wear a distinctive perfume,
Madame—
what is it? Lily, I think, with something… ah, what is that? Something sharp—ginger, perhaps? Why, I think I’d know it anywhere. It lingers… even after you leave a room.”

He knew.

He leaned closer. “It’s quite unusual. Very like you.”

“P-Peter chose it.”

“Did he? That surprises me. I don’t believe he would’ve spent time choosing a scent for a woman he neglected.”

It was meant to inflame me; I knew this, but I was unable to stop myself from reacting. “He did not neglect me.” I turned quickly to face him—only to find he was much closer than I’d thought. I stepped back and nearly lost my balance, and as I reached to regain it, he grabbed my elbow, steadying me and at the same time pulling me closer, so there was only the width of my skirts between us.

“Come,
Madame
, why lie? He was here most every night, ‘til very late. Where were you? Lying alone in your big bed, waiting for his step upon the stair—”

I pulled away from him. “You go too far, Mr. Jourdain.”

“Did you never wonder where he was? What he was doing?”

“He told me he was working.”

He smiled. His expression confused me. He was wry, and sarcastic, but there was something else there too, something that made me hesitate, that took my fear and replaced it with curiosity. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t believe it?”

“You didn’t know your husband very well. But I wonder, did he know you at all?”

I couldn’t abide how he looked at me. I would have backed away from him, but I was already against the window, and he was standing so close I could not dodge him easily.

“Do you wonder why I have it?”

“Have what?” My voice was nothing, barely a sound.

“He told me a story. About a girl he found in an office on Lower Broadway. ‘A pretty fish,’ he called her. ‘Like an angelfish. An angelfish in muddy water.’ ”

Peter’s words. The story was always the same. “He told you?”

“Just before he gave it to me. She was an angel, he said, ‘but you’re something grander, Michel. You’re my savior.’ ”

“He didn’t give it to you—he wouldn’t have! You stole it from him.”

“Before I murdered him,
chère
? Ah, that’s what you think? That I took him down there and knifed him and took his watch chain to make it seem like a robbery—”

“You seem to have the grasp of it,” I mocked. “I won’t go to prison for you. I won’t hang.”

“I hope not. Such a waste of a pretty face.”

“I know what you are.”

He touched my chin. I turned my face away, but still his fingers lingered. “I know what you are too,
Madame
. Tell me: have you ever made love with one who’s your affinity?”

“My husband—”

“Another lie.” He sighed. “Come, can we move beyond such disguises? Must we still pretend your husband loved you?”

I opened my mouth to tell him it was no lie, but Michel’s face blurred before me; I realized with horror that I was crying.

“Dear God, I despise you.” I pushed at him, and he stepped back. I raced past him to the doorway, blind through my tears, but I heard his final words even as I fled, a whisper that was more frightening than anything he’d said to me before.

“Do you, Evie? Do you really?”

I
fled to the kitchen, where I startled the cook and the scullery maid, and Lambert, who did not show any surprise, but merely looked up from packing tobacco into his pipe. I asked him to call me a carriage. Then, to the discomfort of the cook and the maid, I waited there, a place I was fairly certain Michel would not follow.

When Lambert returned with my cloak and the message that the driver was in front, I hurried from the kitchen.

“Will you be home for supper, ma’am?” he asked as he followed me to the door.

“No. Please give my apologies to Mrs. Bennett.”

I rushed outside. It was growing late into the afternoon, and the sky was darkening, the air growing colder. Dorothy’s driver bundled me into the carriage and asked politely, “Where to, ma’am?”

“Pearl Street,” I told him. “To the offices of Atherton and Rampling.”

I had no idea if Benjamin would be at the office, but my rush was to be away, to be safe, and I could think of no one safer than he.

The nightly exodus out of downtown had not yet begun; as we made our way into the business district, the sidewalks were not yet crowded with men hastening to catch the omnibuses and horse cars uptown. Carriages for hire waited along the side of the street, the horses dipping their heads in tired resignation, the drivers smoking as they waited for their fares. Merchants rolled barrels back into their stores. Boys sweeping the walks with more vigor than efficiency raised dust that only added to the constant cloud already raised by the city’s building boom. Like fog, it grayed everything, and fell again like dew on the bruised apples of the pushcart peddlers on the corners, who were beginning to appear now with the ending of the day, lighting their oil lamps to show off the produce that hadn’t sold at market.