Page 14 of Written in Secret (The Art of Love and Danger)

C HAPTER 14

T HE POUNDING AT THE FRONT door wouldn’t stop, no matter how many times Papa yelled for the protesters to go away. Not that they could hear his voice over their chanting.

“Murderer!”

“Strumpet!”

“Bring her out!”

And a few others that were far too descriptive of what they would do if that last demand were obeyed.

Lydia wrapped her arms around her waist as she watched the veiled outlines of the angry group through sheer curtains. They’d wasted no time in coming. The newsboy had only delivered the paper an hour ago. How long would it be before the number of protesters exceeded those who’d picketed the publisher?

Two more people crossed the street, their voices raised above the rest and shouting things that would make the citizens of Sodom proud.

She rubbed her arms, though no movement she made warmed the cold that iced her veins. Why was this happening? Her Billy Poe novels weren’t evil, and they never crossed into the obscene as these people suggested. Her detective was valiant, good, and just. Billy Poe was a lauded hero.

But no. It wasn’t him they were here to throw stones at. They wanted her . She was the villain in everyone’s eyes.

Yes, she had misrepresented herself to get published and had persuaded officers to provide information, but she wasn’t a criminal. She hadn’t killed anyone.

If you hadn’t written those books …

She forced the thought away. The pen might be mightier than the sword, but her pen certainly hadn’t the power to end someone’s life.

“Come away from the window, dear. What if they should see you?” Momma’s pinched face belied the calm, steady click of her knitting needles.

The task was one that always calmed Momma’s nerves and allowed her to donate copious amounts of socks, gloves, hats, and scarves to those in need at the church. By the number of socks she’d finished since Papa told her of Lydia’s second identity last night, she’d been a perpetual ball of nerves.

At least Momma had the good sense to sit on the far side of the room. Lydia couldn’t drag herself away from the window. Perhaps if she stared at the scene long enough, she’d discover this was a nightmare. She would wake up to the world that existed before Billy Poe became a murderer and Dupin his accomplice.

Furniture scraped in the hall, and a moment later Papa rounded the corner with a sheen of sweat across his brow, his breath labored. “That should prevent any attempts at breaking in.”

“Do you think they’d try?” Lydia asked. The crowd was angry, but surely they wouldn’t stoop to vandalism or breaking and entering.

“The bigger the crowd, the less they think and the more they act on impulse.” He wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. “Henrietta, send Miranda home. Then I want you, Madelyn, and Lydia to pack your bags. We’ll go out the back and stay with the Planes until it’s safe to return.”

Lydia would never argue against staying with Theresa, but the idea that Lydia’s stories were cause for her family to flee from their home? It was absurd.

“Can’t we send for the police and have them disperse the crowd?”

“I’ve already made the call, but their presence will only be temporary. It is not safe to remain here.” He jammed the handkerchief back into his pocket and paced as he plotted his next move.

Lydia clutched her necklace, trying to soothe her anxiety, and returned her attention outside. More people had arrived within the span of their short conversation. Who knew how long they had until the crowd became bold enough to break in. Thank goodness Papa had the foresight to have a telephone installed as soon as they became available. Too bad Detective Hall was unlikely to be the officer to respond. Although, if they specifically asked for his assistance, he’d probably come, even if he hated her. That was just the kind of man he was.

She sighed. What she wouldn’t give to have a second chance with him—or maybe it was a third? Regardless of how many chances she was offered, he wasn’t likely to give her another.

Still, a part of her desired … What? Friendship with the man? Something more?

She shook her head. That was the foolishness of being an author—the imagination dragged the heart into its dreams.

Another person joined the crowd. What were they up to now, two dozen?

“Detectives Lawson and Hall, sir.”

What? Lydia spun on her heel toward the parlor entrance, where the two men stood behind the maid. Very funny, God. I know my thoughts did not just conjure him any more than my words killed those men.

Detective Hall’s gaze briefly met hers before skipping to Papa’s. By the scowl that deepened at the corners of his mouth, he did not wish to be here.

Papa shook each man’s hand. “You couldn’t have arrived at a better time. I don’t suppose you brought any other officers with you?”

“When we saw the crowd, we called for assistance. The station house informed us men were already on their way. The crowd should be dispersed shortly. Your maid let us in through the back.” Detective Lawson directed his attention at Lydia. “I would not stand so near the window if I were you.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Multiple times.” Momma’s curt tone chastised Lydia. “But Lydia does what Lydia wants.”

“So I’ve learned.” Detective Hall’s words wounded, but no more than she deserved.

Lydia forced a smile. “Gentlemen, please have a seat. We are glad you’ve come. Miranda, would you please make some coffee and bring some molasses cookies?” The ones that matched Detective Hall’s eyes. She was a glutton for punishment.

The maid bobbed her head before exiting the room. Momma set aside her knitting needles and followed, claiming to offer assistance. More likely, she desired to escape the growing tension. Detective Hall took the vacated seat while Detective Lawson joined Lydia.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t stand so near the window.” She gestured toward the growing crowd with her head.

A wry smile curled one side of his mouth. “I said, ‘if I were you .’ I’m not the target of hate from those outside. I thought it best that I be close enough to render aid should they decide to do more than shout at your door.”

Some of the tightness in her chest eased. This was why she wrote detective stories. She admired their tenacity, their intelligence to solve crimes, and the protectiveness they all seemed to possess. She felt safer with one by her side—even if she did wish it were Detective Hall instead of his partner standing next to her.

“Thank you, Detective Lawson. I appreciate your consideration. What brings you today? More questions for me?”

“Yes. I’m hoping that if I can better understand you, I can better understand the mindset of our killer.”

Was he implying that he thought her the murderer? How ridiculous. He had to be too smart for that foolishness if he’d made it to detective.

“Don’t look so disconcerted, Miss Pelton. I know you couldn’t have committed any of those murders, but the simple fact is you are our only lead in this case. Let’s start with why you chose to kill your criminals at the end of your books rather than jail them.”

Papa angled away, obviously not wanting to hear. His disappointment in her seemed only to have grown in the time since she confessed. Her answer to Detective Lawson’s question wasn’t likely to improve matters, but she had no other explanation to give.

Not wanting to see his reaction, she watched the veiled street, where two officers encouraged the group to move along. “Those men already had their chance in court and escaped the justice they deserved. I suppose I could have written it where they were convicted after a trial, but my reasons were twofold. My readers expect evil to be defeated, and evil would live on in a jail cell if I didn’t ensure their demise. The other reason is it felt right for these men to die in similar ways to how they’d killed others. It was justice served in the best way possible.”

“Do you really believe murder is the best form of justice?”

The question came from Detective Hall, and it pinched. Honestly, saying her motivation aloud left her feeling dirty instead of proud. Was it really an injustice to allow the criminals of her stories to languish in jail instead of face death? If she had the chance to write the stories again, would she do it differently? “Writing a character’s demise in a book is not the same as killing a real person. I’m not responsible for these men’s deaths.”

“But you do think the real criminals should have died for their crimes?” Detective Lawson asked.

Papa looked her direction with a hopeful expression.

How she wanted his approval, but she wouldn’t lie just to appease him. “I’m not sure. All I want is for the corruption in our justice system to end. Citizens should feel safe in their city, and that means criminals need to face the consequences of their crimes.”

Disappointment once again claimed Papa’s demeanor, and it hurt.

All night long, she’d wrestled with what he’d said. She couldn’t agree that writing her stories had been wrong, but perhaps she needn’t have killed the characters to get her point across. After all, it wasn’t as if killing them had changed the city’s morality. Every week, a potential story walked free from their crimes. As far as the real men’s fates? She didn’t claim to know how they should be sentenced, but they did deserve to face some sort of punishment. It just shouldn’t have been murder.

“Miss Pelton?” Detective Lawson touched her elbow.

“I’m sorry. My mind drifted. Did you have another question?”

He leaned closer, and his eyes narrowed.

Unnerved by his nearness, she leaned back, but his focus was beyond her.

Before she could ascertain what troubled him, his arms wrapped around her.

Glass shattered.

He jerked her around and shielded her with his body. A dull thud and Detective Lawson’s pained grunt indicated something had hit him.

Police whistles blew on the street. Calls of “run” and “stop” added to the sense of chaos out of view.

Lawson released her, spun on his heel, and hopped over the shattered window’s ledge to the grassy area on the other side. “Hall, stay with the Peltons.” Command given, he joined in chasing the protesters.

Still trying to understand what exactly happened, Lydia studied the floor. Glass lay in glinting shards around her. A brick edger from their front garden lay at her feet. Crudely scraped white letters stood out against the red clay.

Murderer .

A lump formed in her throat. Had someone thrown that at her?

Don’t be stupid. Of course they did. Bricks don’t tattoo themselves, grow wings, and attack.

Someone had deliberately tried to hurt her.

A tremor traveled down her spine. Name-calling she could handle, but she was under no illusion that she could withstand a physical attack. If they were trying to harm her while in her home, what would they do if they caught her on the street?

“Are you hurt, Miss Pelton?” Detective Hall’s concerned voice came from just behind her.

Lydia glanced at the glass, the broken window frame, then back at the brick. If it hadn’t been for the quick reflexes of Detective Lawson, that brick would have hit her.

“I’m fine, but someone threw that at me!” Lydia jabbed a finger in the brick’s direction. “I don’t understand. This isn’t my fault. I’m not the murderer. Whoever is pretending to be Billy Poe is.”

Again, her eyes sought the accusation literally thrown at her. That was poetic justice. A written word with the power to actually kill had it hit her just right. She hugged herself tightly.

Detective Hall guided her gently away from the glass field.

When he transferred her to Papa’s care in the foyer, she couldn’t hide the tremor in her hands.

Papa wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and though his disapproval hadn’t abated, compassion softened his features. “Our words have power, Lydia, no matter if they are meant to be fictional or not. We must always be careful in what we say or write and be sure that it is God-glorifying and edifying to those around us.”

He didn’t say that her Billy Poe novels didn’t measure up to that standard, but it wasn’t necessary.

“What happened?” Madelyn was halfway down the stairs before Papa could stop her.

“Go pack a bag. We’ll be staying”—he glanced at the gaping hole in their wall where a window should have been—“elsewhere.”

He probably feared someone still lingered nearby and might overhear their new location.

Madelyn opened her mouth to argue, but when she saw the mess in the parlor, she glared at Lydia. “This is your fault. I was supposed to have friends over this afternoon.”

“Madelyn.”

At Papa’s stern rebuke, Madelyn stomped back upstairs and slammed her bedroom door.

“George?” Momma called from the kitchen with an edge of panic.

Papa ran a hand over his balding spot before addressing Detective Hall. “If you’ll please stay with Lydia and ensure no one enters the house through the parlor, I must calm my wife.”

Papa left them in the foyer. They had a clear view to the kitchen, where Momma stood twisting a towel in her hands. Behind her was Marcus Monroe.

What was he doing here?

Marcus glanced Lydia’s direction, worry etched deeply in his face. He didn’t approach her or even call for her but extended a piece of paper to Papa. He shook his head at her before guiding Momma and Papa farther into the kitchen.

If he thought to exclude her from a conversation with her parents, he was sorely mistaken.

She marched toward the kitchen.

“How did you determine which men should live or die?”

Detective Hall’s question brought her to an abrupt halt.

“Excuse me?” She turned to face him.

“How did you determine which men should live or die?”

She stared at him for a moment before the words made sense. “I did not choose for these men to die.” At his arched brow, she amended, “Not in real life. I’m not a murderer.”

“No, but the only connection between each of the murders is your Billy Poe novels. It seems to me that if you had not written their stories and defiled some poor soul’s mind, those men would still be alive.”

She’d come to realize that being called a liar or manipulator was accurate enough, but to be called the one responsible for someone else’s wickedness? That was not to be borne. “I stand by my belief that sin corrupts a man’s soul, not literature.”

“Yet the murderer chose to become your character and kill the men you selected.”

A new and terrifying thought struck her speechless. If she’d written about different crimes, would those men have been the ones to die? Her stomach twisted, but she forced a calming breath. The answer didn’t matter. She still wasn’t responsible for another’s choice.

“I need to know how you chose your stories. It could impact the investigation.”

Whatever it took to end this madness. “I chose cases where men were undoubtedly guilty but walked free because of dishonest dealings.”

“I can name half a dozen more that fit your parameters but haven’t made it into your stories.”

“Because I can only write so fast. Out of necessity, I wrote about the ones occurring at the time I was writing. Otherwise, needed documents would’ve been harder to access without garnering unwanted attention.”

At his glower, she rolled her eyes. They’d been over this already.

“Perhaps it was wrong of me to obtain information that I shouldn’t have had, but—”

“Only perhaps it was wrong? Have you learned nothing?”

“Fine. It was wrong of me to obtain the answers I did in the manner that I did it, but I am not guilty of murder.”

“Did you write those stories to communicate your plan to a partner?”

“Have you been drinking?” It was the only explanation for such a ludicrous question. “There are more efficient ways to communicate with a partner than through writing a book that takes months to draft and as many months more to edit, then publish.” She crossed her arms despite her determination to keep her temper under control. “My stories are a means of serving justice, not communicating dastardly plans for murder. I may be a broken and sinful woman, but I do not delight in death.”

“Your books would indicate otherwise.”

He really did believe her vile. How disappointing. Her Detective Darcy would never be so blinded by prejudice.

Detective Lawson appeared at the window. One glance at the standoff between her and Detective Hall, and his countenance wrinkled like a prune. He clambered over the windowsill and strode toward them.

Before Detective Lawson reached them, Detective Hall speared her with another question. “Are you upset that those men are dead or only that your pseudonym is exposed?”

“That is enough, Hall.” Detective Lawson’s words came out hard and reprimanding.

“I’ll ask no more, after I hear your answer, Miss Pelton.”

Lydia looked Detective Hall directly in his stubborn eyes. Forget comparing them to delectable molasses cookies. They were mud brown, just like the words he slung. “I do not revel in their deaths, and I am sorry that they were murdered, but I cannot say I feel any remorse for rewriting their stories. They were criminals who escaped the punishment they deserved.”

The harshness of her own words boxed her ears. She still believed the sentiment behind them, but Papa’s rebuke of last night pricked her conscience. Was she taking God’s place by insisting her execution of justice was better than His?

Detective Lawson touched her back. “I think it best you go pack. It won’t be safe for you to stay here until that window is fixed. Hall, I’ll meet you outside.”

Detective Hall didn’t even acknowledge her as he strode toward the kitchen to leave. Papa met him and handed him a piece of paper. After a quick perusal of the sheet, he glared at Marcus, who stood behind Papa, then pivoted back toward Lydia and Detective Lawson.

“It appears you have a letter from Billy Poe.”