River of Bones Page 8

  Margery walked out onto the porch with a tray and set out a small dinner on the table. She retreated without a word. Did she taste the strange tension in the air?

  ‘Why did you stay away for three months?’ I asked abruptly.

  The change of topic didn’t seem to faze him. If anything, he had been waiting for the question.

  ‘You put yourself at great risk to help me catch a murderer. You almost died, because I didn’t trust your judgment. I’d treated you most foully. I was an ass, and yet you offered free treatment to Miss Hacker and her son, and to my daughter. You helped all of us and never asked for anything in return. I felt like I’d taken advantage of you, and thought it better to stay away for a while.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I believed that you disappeared because it didn’t matter to you. That you were used to people risking their lives for you, and you risking yours for them. You are a policeman after all. I believed that, perhaps, saving my life meant…nothing to you.’

  His jaw worked as his eyes travelled from Líadáin’s sleeping form up to my face. ‘You made it clear that when the case was solved, you didn’t want to see hide nor hair of me. It was a reasonable request at the time.’

  We fell silent. The food was untouched. Líadáin’s eyes flitted back and forth beneath her lids.

  ‘You are wrong,’ he said hoarsely. ‘It matters to me.’

  9

  ‘Telephone! Telephooooone! Te-le-pho-hone!’

  ‘Yes, I hear it loud and clear!’ Zachary shouted over Klara’s screeching and the ringing of the dreadful thing. Merely an hour had passed since the telephone company had installed it, and already I wanted to rip the damned contraption off the wall.

  ‘You have reached the Arlington Mansion. How may I help you?’ Zach’s nasal interpretation of a butler’s voice and his pinky poking the air made me snort.

  Boxing his shoulder, I snatched the receiver from him. ‘Dr Elizabeth Arlington here.’

  ‘Is this the home of Dr Arlington?’ a woman hollered in my ear.

  ‘Yes! This is Dr Elizabeth Arlington,’ I shouted back. There was a lot of crackling and hissing. ‘Who is there?’

  ‘Inspector McCurley from the Boston Police Department wishes to speak to you. I will connect you now.’

  More crackling and hissing. My eardrum was beginning to hurt.

  ‘Elizabeth?’

  ‘Yes! Quinn, is that you? You sound like you’re drowning.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘You sound like… Never mind.’ My throat was raw from all the shouting. I hated telephoning. ‘What did you want to tell me?’

  ‘We have an identification. Could you come by my office at four in the afternoon?’

  ‘I have a patient at three. Is four-thirty or five all right?’

  ‘Yes! I’ll see you then.’ With a loud crack, Quinn was gone. I stared at the earpiece and shook my head.

  * * *

  Hattie was a good friend and one of the few patients I had kept seeing regularly after I’d closed my practice. She was nine months pregnant with twins and spent most of her days lying on her side and complaining about the size of her stomach, her engorged breasts, and the many stretch marks that had begun appearing eight weeks earlier. Every time I examined her and listened to her laboured breathing, I was glad I had only one child.

  ‘I wish I could go to the beach,’ she grunted. ‘This heat is killing me. But I’m sure people would think I was a stranded whale, and try to roll me back in.’

  I laughed. My hands skimmed over her swollen abdomen, brushing baby bottoms, feet, and elbows. And there, a head. There was no space left for the two to bounce about. And so they kicked harder in protest.

  Hattie stifled a burp. ‘Excuse me. God, this heartburn. Why the deuce did Robert put two in my belly? Men are greedy creatures.’

  ‘He put millions of sperm cells into your womb. You supplied two eggs. Or one, if they are identical twins.’ I tickled her belly button.

  ‘Gah! Your medical talk is disgusting, Liz!’ She slapped my hand away. ‘That gherkin joke you told us at Warren’s bachelor ball still makes me shudder when I think of it. See!’ She pointed at her stomach where gooseflesh rippled her skin.

  ‘Well, it was pretty close to reality—’

  ‘Let’s change the subject. Will you come to our next meeting? The Freaks will come here, obviously. I can’t roll all the way to Warren’s. Do you even know where he lives now? Never mind. You won’t visit him anyway.’

  I cocked my head, wondering how much Warren had told his sister about his interest in me. But Hattie being Hattie, I didn’t have long to wait for that piece of information.

  ‘He’s still…enamoured of you.’ She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. ‘God knows why.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Her gaze shifted back to me. ‘He fancies sweet women, not…wild ones. I mean, look at you.’ She waved a hand up and down my frame. ‘Do you ever wear a skirt these days? And your hair, for Christ’s sake! You gave me a shock when you walked in.’

  ‘You don’t like it?’ I smirked and plucked at short curls that didn’t even cover my ears.

  Hattie opened her mouth and shut it. Opened it again. Clicked it shut. And huffed. ‘One day you’ll be arrested for pretending to be a man.’

  ‘I’m not pretending to be a man!’ Luckily, those days were over. ‘And there’s no law prohibiting the wearing of trousers, nor is it forbidden to cut my hair short. Several of my colleagues dress similarly. And don’t forget the thousands of Boston women who wear knickerbockers for bicycling.’

  She shook her head. ‘Well, whatever you do, just don’t break my brother’s heart.’

  ‘Hm.’

  ‘Don’t you hm me, Elizabeth Arlington!’ Her index finger hovered close to my nose. ‘Yes, he told me you aren’t awfully interested in returning his feelings, but do me the favour and try not to be the bull in a china shop.’

  My father had called me an elephant in the china store. On several occasions. ‘I’m just being honest with Warren.’

  She grunted again and rubbed her belly. ‘Can I put my clothes back on?’

  ‘Yes. We’re done.’ I helped her sit up, and laced the maternity corset loosely on her sides.

  ‘Would you like to stay for tea?’ she asked.

  ‘I can’t. I’m meeting Inspector McCurley.’

  ‘Warren told me you’re investigating a crime.’

  ‘Hm-hmm.’

  She squinted at me. ‘Now I am worried.’

  I waved her away, but she snatched my wrist. ‘Liz, the last time you chased a killer you almost got yourself killed. I hope you aren’t trying to catch one now. You aren’t, are you?’

  I cleared my throat. ‘We’re trying to identify a man.’

  ‘Is he insane? Mute?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘You are joking, right? No, of course you aren’t.’ Hattie rubbed her brow and took a deep breath. ‘I was so worried when I saw what Uriel’s brother-in-law did to you. I didn’t understand why you put yourself in such danger. And I still don’t understand it. And now you…you’re doing it again? You are a mother, Liz! Don’t you even think of Klara?’

  Her hands fisted in her lap, her fingers trembling. Softly, I put my hand over hers. ‘Hattie, what I’m telling you now can’t leave this room.’

  She produced a small hiccup. I knew she’d tell Warren and perhaps Uriel. But that was all right with me, as long as she didn’t spread it all over Boston’s high society.

  ‘I’ve been investigating crimes for years,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I never precisely set out to do detective work. It was more like I…stumbled into it.’

  ‘Stumbled into it?’

  ‘Yes. But that’s not important. What I meant to tell you is that you don’t need to worry, because I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘You are a woman,’ Hattie hissed. ‘A mother. You have responsibilities.’

  ‘Yes. That I do. And that’s why I’m keeping my daughter safe. Do you think that nothing bad ever happens to the well-behaved women and girls?’

  ‘Well, surely they—’

  ‘Ugh, stop it, Hattie! Or else I’ll have to conclude that you believe all murder victims somehow have it coming.’

  ‘I think you should get married.’

  Appalled, I threw up my hands. ‘I have an appointment. Call me if you feel your pains coming.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Liz. I shouldn’t have said that. No one has the right to pressure you into marrying when you are still mourning your late husband. I’m just pointing out that three years is a long time.’

  I shut my eyes and counted to three. I wasn’t mourning my late husband. I was glad to be rid of him.

  I put a smile on my face, told Hattie not to worry herself, and left.

  * * *

  I greeted the constable at the front desk with a nod, and climbed the stairs to Quinn’s office. I found him standing in the corridor, talking with another policeman.

  ‘Go on in, I’ll be there in a minute,’ he said, motioning toward his office door.

  I entered and walked up to the window to open it.

  ‘This heat isn’t natural,’ Quinn said, as he rushed in and slammed the door shut. He yanked off his hat and wiped his brow on his shirt sleeve. Something dark shone through the white fabric.

  ‘Is that a tattoo on your arm?’

  Irritated, he scanned his sleeve. ‘Is there a hole there I’m not seeing?’

  ‘No. I thought I saw a black pattern through the fabric on your upper arm when you wiped your brow. But I can’t see it now.’

  He took his jacket off the peg by the door, and shrugged it on.

  I gave him a puzzled look. He must be sweltering.

  ‘If anyone here saw that, there’d be a lot of questions,’ he explained without looking at me.

  ‘Does it have to do with your past as a pit fighter?’

  He cleared his throat, nodding once.

  ‘The police catalogues tattoos of…infamous individuals. Would yours be familiar to them?’

  His gaze flattened.

  I thought back to what my friend, Uriel, had told me when I first met Quinn. He’d warned me that Quinn couldn’t be trusted. The press called him The Pit Bull. Who had come up with that name?

  ‘May I ask what it depicts? Your tattoo?’

  ‘A serpent. It’s how I strike.’

  Ah, Quinn must have fed a fake nome de guerre to the newspapermen. A distraction. I wondered about his past and if his real name was still muttered in the fighting pits. Heat rose to my face as I tried to picture a snake curling up his chest. ‘You are hiding in plain sight,’ I said, leant back and grasped the windowsill, realising with surprise, ‘It doesn’t bother you anymore. I’m standing at the window and you’re not… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’

  What was wrong with my mouth today?

  With a sigh, he pulled his revolver from his holster and placed it on the desk. ‘It’s taken me long enough to realise that very few people feel the urge to jump out of a window when they come by one.’

  He pinched the bridge of his nose, and sat on the corner of his desk. ‘I just had an interesting conversation with Sergeant Davies, and hope you can provide some insights.’ He thrust his chin toward the corridor. ‘Davies is the man I was talking to in the hallway. He reported that two new soup kitchens opened in Wards Six and Seven about a month ago, right among the most destitute and crowded blocks. Prices are half what the other soup kitchens charge. And they offer pasteurised milk in clean bottles to mothers who can’t feed their babies. Free of charge. Do you happen to know anything about that?’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Why do you ask?’

  He raked his fingers through his hair. Sweaty tufts stood up at the back of his neck. ‘It’s highly suspicious. That business can’t be legitimate. They have to make a profit with something. Sergeant Davies and Detective Parks have searched the basements of both houses but found nothing. No fighting pit, no gambling or opium den. Apparently, an Englishman who lives in London is renting the premises. And a man named Smith is the steward, but he communicates with the landlord only by letter. Would you mind asking your patients if they’ve heard anything next time you visit the Wards?’

  I pushed my hands into my trouser pockets. ‘There’s nothing illicit about those two soup kitchens.’

  ‘Huh.’ A sharp glance, and then he picked up a pencil and began worrying it with a clasp knife. Narrow shavings tumbled to the floor. ‘You know something, but you don’t want to tell me.’

  I shrugged a shoulder.

  ‘The Boston Police Department opened an investigation. They’ll raid those kitchens whenever they raid the rum cellars and saloons in the neighbourhood.’ He placed the sharp pencil on the desk and picked up another one. ‘That’s three, four times a week.’

  ‘They won’t find anything.’

  ‘Are you involved?’

  I lifted an eyebrow.

  His knuckles whitened. The pencil crackled under the pressure of the blade. Abruptly, he sat up straight. ‘The handwriting of the steward seemed familiar. I just couldn’t put my finger on it until now. Why would you be posing as the steward?’

  ‘I will tell you if you promise this won’t leave your office.’

  Grunting, he blew pencil shrapnel from his trousers, and leant back. ‘If there’s anything illegal about that business, I can’t keep it to myself. I’m a policeman.’

  ‘And if the soup kitchens are wholly legitimate?’

  ‘In that case, I…will keep my mouth shut.’

  I ran a finger along the windowsill, picked up a dead fly and threw it out. ‘They are mine.’

  He spluttered. ‘You own the soup kitchens?’

  I nodded.

  ‘That must cost you…what? Fifty dollars per month?’

  ‘Fifty gallons of milk, plus vegetables and meat for approximately three hundred fifty to four hundred meals per day, plus the costs for crockery and glass bottles, wood, coal, wages, and the like all amount to roughly two-hundred fifty dollars per month for both kitchens.’

  He blinked. If he hadn’t already been sitting, I was sure his knees would have gone soft. ‘How can you possibly… Why would you… And in the Black Sea district of all places! You will go bankrupt if you keep this up.’

  I shook my head. ‘My husband left me some money.’

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘And you don’t want to invest it?’

  ‘Isn’t that what I’m doing? I’m putting it to good use. It feeds people and keeps babies alive.’

  Quinn’s expression fell. ‘And we are raiding your soup kitchens.’

  I waved a dismissive hand. ‘I can’t go policing them myself, and I’m sure they’d morph into opium dens at some point without occasional police intervention.’

  I turned away to gaze out the window and into Pemberton Square. A cabbie was softly muttering to his horse as he brushed it down and watered it.

  ‘About your inheritance…’ He paused, searching for words.

  My heart sank. ‘You want to know how much it is.’

  ‘No. I just…don’t want others to take advantage of your kindness. Will you let me know if your money runs out? Will you promise to ask for help?’

  My heart beat like a cricket. A smile warmed my face. Strange, it was always those who had to make do with very little who offered help. They knew what it meant to have nothing. Quinn was struggling to make ends meet, yet he was offering financial aid. ‘I promise I will if you will promise me the same. To ask me for help.’

  He inclined his head.

  In a whisper, I added, ‘And I thank you for your kind offer. But it won’t be necessary. I could run ten of those kitchens for the rest of my life.’

  He opened his mouth, then shut it and turned his gaze away.

  ‘What?’

  ‘How did your husband die?’ The question was fired like a bullet from his mouth.

  Ah. I knew I shouldn’t have hinted at the sheer size of my inheritance. ‘Is that the inspector asking?’

  Upon my incredulous stare, he lifted his hands. ‘No. It’s a friend asking. I’m not insinuating… I just… I want to know what you’ve gone through. But I realise now that I have no right to ask. Please accept my apologies.’

  I scanned his face. The prominent scar running from cheek to throat. The thunderstorm blue eyes. He turned his face away just a fraction, showing the unmarred side. Had he been doing that for a while now?

  ‘I killed him.’

  He reared back. ‘W…what? Why?’

  ‘He was a murderer.’

  His jaw was working, but he made an effort to keep his expression undemanding, trying not to pressure me into giving him information I didn’t wish to give freely. But his resolve broke. ‘You could not go to the police?’

  ‘No, I could not.’ I took a step closer to him, lifted my right hand — the one with the missing index finger — and touched my knuckles to the jagged scar that must have nearly cost Quinn’s life. ‘Who gave you this?’

  His eyes flared.

  I dropped my hand.

  He bent forward, and said softly, ‘There will be no information trade. We left that behind us. If you want to know about that injury, I will tell you how it happened, whether or not you tell me about your husband.’

  I gave him a small nod.

  ‘This…’ he motioned at the scar, ‘…happened during a pit fight. Right after, actually. My opponent lay in the sand. I believed him unconscious. He wasn’t. He snatched a bottle from a man in the crowd, broke off the bottom, and slashed me. He couldn’t accept defeat. He’d been bested by a boy half his size.’

  I had no words.

  ‘I was lucky. The wound was deep, laying free the artery, but not nicking it. When I put my hand there, it felt like a wet, pounding snake.’

  I sucked in a hiss. ‘The wound wasn’t stitched up by a physician, was it?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. The man who owned me did it.’

  ‘What? You were—’

  ‘Property. Yes. But that’s a long story. I’ll tell you another time if you want to know.’