Page 16 of Written in Secret (The Art of Love and Danger)

C HAPTER 16

T WO DAYS LATER , A brAHAM CROSSED the street from Central Station and glanced at the horsecar. Sweaty bodies elbowed one another for a chance at the breeze stirred by the horse-drawn conveyance. He could pay the fare and be home in half the time, but his shirt and vest already stuck to him like fresh plaster. Riding with that crowd would turn his entire suit into a rancid rag. Besides, a walk would provide the solitude and silence he needed to think that working with Lawson denied. Who knew the man would be such a squawking hen? Not that Abraham didn’t appreciate the instruction on becoming a detective, but the constant chatter left him little room to make his own observations.

He bypassed the horsecar and unbuttoned his coat to allow in what little air he could. Although he and Lawson had interrogated all the picketers, they were no closer to identifying Billy Poe. The man remained a faceless menace with an uncanny ability for delivering notes unnoticed. Oh, Abraham and Lawson had their suspicions, but nothing beyond speculation.

Monroe’s story about how he’d found Billy Poe’s letter sounded as true as an out-of-tune piano. Why would Poe pretend to be a picketer, drop the note at the corner of the house—half-hidden in the bushes, no less—and leave the discovery of it to chance? The obvious answer? He wouldn’t. Poe wanted Miss Pelton to read that letter, and dropping it outside the house was a senseless gamble. The wind could have whisked it away, someone could have picked it up and taken it, or it could have gone unnoticed altogether. No, that story made no sense for a man as meticulous and prepared as Poe. More likely, Monroe had crumpled and stepped on the note himself to make it appear trampled before bringing it into the Pelton home. The man plainly had a romantic interest in Miss Pelton, and Poe was quite clear in his admiration of her.

Not that Abraham or Lawson could prove that Marcus had made up the story. True to the nature of a mob, no one had seen anything. Not Marcus. Not the letter. Not even the man who’d hefted the brick through the window, despite the cheers that had accompanied the sound of shattering glass.

Abraham’s jaw tightened until his teeth ached.

Praise God for Lawson’s quick reflexes. Miss Pelton was no wilting miss, but being hit by a brick might have sent her into hysterics. Worse, she might have been injured. Lawson had a bully of a bruise that he tried to hide the discomfort of, but Abraham saw the older detective wince each time he leaned his back against a chair. If a man with enough grit to smooth wood felt the pain of it, what would a delicate woman have suffered?

Although, in truth, the word delicate did not describe Miss Lydia Pelton. Foolish? Yes. Dramatic? The queen of it. A liar and a thief? Facts no jury could ignore. But not delicate. No woman who wrote what she did and refused to feel remorse for it or accept responsibility for the murders penned by her hand could be called delicate. Callous, more like it. And selfish. All that time wasted on finding Dupin because she refused to speak one word.

If he never saw Miss Pelton again, it would be too soon.

Tightness between his brows indicated he’d started to scowl. A passing lady glanced at him, then gave him a wide berth, meaning it must be a fierce one. He massaged his forehead to erase the tension. His family did not need him bringing home the stress and anger this case and Miss Pelton created in him. They didn’t expect him to pretend all was well, but they certainly didn’t deserve a quick temper.

He blew out a breath. Miss Pelton was of no use to his case. They’d interviewed a few admirers who’d corresponded with her. So far that had proven fruitless. Only one had the physical potential for murder, and his alibi had been confirmed by three reliable witnesses. The remaining people on their list were unlikely candidates but would still need to be contacted.

The best evidence they had for determining Poe’s true identity were the notes he’d left behind. The unique handwriting would make matching it to its owner simple. Unfortunately, at least for now, it effectively disproved Monroe as the author. Still, something about it didn’t feel natural. It was both controlled and uncoordinated at the same time. The letter formations were shaky and slanted at an odd angle, as if created by a child just learning penmanship. However, there was a sense of skill in that each character was compact both in width and height—something a new writer rarely achieved. But how could an author be both proficient and amateur with the use of a pen? Given that the readability improved with each message, Abraham would bet Lucian a dinner at the Hotel Emery that Poe was disguising his handwriting. But how to prove it?

Abraham turned the corner to his street, and the hairs on his neck rose. A closed carriage stood in front of his house. Who in their right mind would travel with the curtains drawn tighter than a hangman’s noose on a day like today? With the temperatures above eighty and the humidity thick enough to bathe in, anyone inside would simmer in their sweat. Too long in that oven box, and the meat would fall right off their bones.

Even rumbles announced the driver asleep before Abraham reached him. Leaning at a dangerous angle, the man slouched in his seat with crossed arms and a tugged-down hat. The tall pile of dung and ammonia-rich puddle beneath the horses indicated they’d been here for some time.

Sunday sometimes meant guests, but usually Mother warned him beforehand, and rarely did anyone have a carriage wait for them. He glanced at the front door for a clue to who had come. He was in no mood for Mother’s matchmaking schemes, and even a visit from the minister would be unwelcome today.

Jake shot through the door. “Don’t go inside!”

The driver startled but resettled into sleep at a safer angle, so Abraham faced his brother, who spoke in wide-eyed horror.

“Girls are inside, and it’s all squeals and prattle. I’m going to Michael’s.” He glanced over his shoulder like he feared the women chased him. “Don’t send for me until they’re gone.”

Abraham collared Jake before he could run. “What girls?”

It wasn’t unusual for Jake to make himself scarce when Clara’s friends visited, but unease wended through Abraham and coiled with warning.

“Dunno. Some author lady and her family.”

God wouldn’t be so cruel, would He? “Do you mean Miss Pelton?”

“Sounds right.” The scamp wriggled free and called back, “Good luck with her .” Then he darted down the street at jailbreak speed.

A wise man would follow suit. And Abraham was no fool.

“There you are.” Mother’s voice came from behind.

Curse his hesitation. He turned, and she stood on the stoop with far too bright a smile.

“Hurry inside and freshen up.” Mother held the door open for him. “We have guests.”

“I’m in no mood for guests. Especially not Miss Pelton.”

“Nonsense. She risked her safety just to have a private audience with you.”

“You should have sent her away the moment she arrived.”

“Abraham!” The shock mixed with reprimand declared she’d raised him better than that, but Mother had no idea of the viper she’d let in.

“She’s a fraud and a schemer. What’s more, she feels no remorse for writing the stories that have cost the lives of four men. Do you really want her to influence Clara?”

As if to emphasize his point, Clara’s breathless voice carried outside. “I’ve found it! Would you sign this one too?”

Mother tugged the door closed. “Miss Pelton arrived on our doorstep as the picture of repentance and remorse. She’s done nothing but encourage Clara to be a better woman than she. I’d say that humility is a beneficial example to your sister.”

Humility? Bah! “Don’t believe anything that comes from Miss Pelton’s mouth. She only says what she needs to get what she wants.”

“And what, pray tell, do you think she wants by apologizing?”

“To prove she’s not responsible for those men’s deaths.”

Mother frowned. After a quick glance around, she lowered her voice. “You believe Miss Pelton murdered those men? I confess, I don’t see it.”

“Not physically, but her words influenced someone else to do it for her.”

“Oh, my boy.” A mixture of pity and compassion colored her tone as she cupped his cheek. “You are too smart to believe that. She’s no more responsible for their deaths than Mother Goose was for your sticking a thumb into a hot pie to find a plum. Your decision was yours alone, just as this was Billy Poe’s.”

His thumb ached at the memory of that long-ago burn, but Mother’s words didn’t change how he felt about Miss Pelton’s responsibility. Those men might be alive if it weren’t for her. “She is culpable for her words and her actions, whether the results were intentional or not. Do you know the things she did to get those stories published?”

“I am not saying she is innocent of all things, but she is not guilty of murder. She has come to you today as a broken and repentant woman to make her apologies.”

“I don’t have time for apologies from a hypocrite.” It was safer that way. The less he respected her, the easier it was to squash any potential attraction. He’d built up his wall, and he intended to keep it intact.

“God is making her new. Allow her to say her piece, then go from there.”

“She deserves condemnation, not alleviation from guilt.”

Mother rested a hand on his arm and held his gaze. “Mercy, Abraham. It’s the gift of not giving someone what they deserve. It is what Miss Pelton needs and what God requires of you. She is not escaping consequences by you listening to her or forgiving her. I am certain this experience has left an indelible scar on her soul, one she will never forget the pains of. Go speak to her.”

All right. He’d listen to her, but that was the only concession he’d make.

At his nod, Mother led him into the parlor, where Miss Pelton leaned over a stack of orange-leafed dime novels. Joy beamed from her countenance as she made large swoops and swirls with the pen in her hand before finishing off with a flourish.

So much for a remorseful Miss Pelton.

Once the last book was signed, Clara scooped up the pile and clutched it to her chest. “Thank you so much! I’ll treasure them forever. In fact, I’m going to hide them somewhere safe right now.” Clara turned to leave with her precious loot and spotted Abraham. “You’ll have to find your own copies to read now. I’ll not lend these out to anyone. Even you.”

“You needn’t worry about that, Pages. I have no interest in ever reading a Lydia Pelton book again.”

At his voice, Miss Pelton’s happy glow of a moment ago was snuffed out. Panic flickered across her face before she dipped her head and folded her hands like a somber funeral attendee. If she meant to convey shame and earn his pity, she failed. It was just as he told Mother. This visit was a ruse.

“Mrs. Pelton, Miss Madelyn, would you do me the honor of joining me in the kitchen for some cake?” Mother gestured toward the back of the house.

“Thank you, that would be delightful.” Mrs. Pelton gently pushed an obviously reluctant Miss Madelyn to exit the room.

Silence fell.

The remaining woman knew well how to play her game. Her solid dark-blue gown could pass as puritanical. Add how her shoulders sagged and her chin nearly touched her chest, and someone less knowledgeable of the underworld would be convinced that she felt remorse on a soul-deep level. She’d even tried to tame those wild curls into a tight bun, but they—like their owner—were rebellious and unruly. He almost wanted to go and pluck out however many dozens of pins she’d used, just to show her she could not hide her true self from him.

How was he supposed to show her mercy? And what did that require of him? If he gave Miss Pelton a thread of compassion, she’d unravel his whole neatly woven world.