Things Half in Shadow (50 page)

“Because my wife has already forgiven you,” he said quietly, “I must do the same. May God have mercy on your wretched soul.”

He retreated to a corner, caught in the comforting embrace of both Mrs. Mueller and P. T. Barnum. Lucy took his place in the center of the room, staring down at Leslie Dutton.

“How did you do it?” she asked, holding out the needle and syringe for all to see. “Was it with this?”

The initial catharsis of her confession over, Mrs. Dutton recited the rest in a defeated monotone. “Yes. When the lamps went out during the séance, I pulled it from my purse and stabbed it into her neck. I didn't know if it was enough to kill her. I didn't even know if the needle had broken the skin. I wasn't thinking clearly. I . . . I just wanted her silenced.”

“And the first Mrs. Dutton?” Lucy asked. “How did you kill her?”

“The same way,” Leslie said. “A needle and some morphine. A large enough dose to put her to sleep for good.”

“Morphine?” I said.

Everyone turned to me, surprised by the sound of my voice.

“Is that what you used to kill Mrs. Pastor?”

“Yes,” Leslie said. “There was plenty left over from when the first Mrs. Dutton was alive.”

Perhaps some of Mrs. Pastor's spirit was still present, guiding my thoughts. Or maybe, after thinking about it for days, a new insight had occurred on its own. Either way, the situation became clear. It was as if someone had wiped grime away from a window, finally allowing me to see through the glass.

“You didn't kill Mrs. Pastor,” I told Leslie Dutton. “No one in this room did.”

“But she confessed,” Robert Pastor said. “She admitted plunging that needle into my wife's neck.”

“And so she did,” I said, “leaving a needle mark to prove it. But your wife was poisoned with bee venom. Not morphine. Which means your wife was already dead when Mrs. Dutton got to her.”

I turned to Lucy, who appeared just as dumbfounded as everyone else. “Send Thomas out to summon Inspector Barclay and the police. Don't let anyone leave until they arrive.”

I then hurried out of the room. Lucy followed me, barely able to keep up as I headed to the front door.

“How am I going to do that?”

“You'll find a way,” I said. “Use your gun, if necessary.”

“What should I do when the police get here?” Lucy asked.

“Tell them that Mrs. Dutton killed her predecessor,” I replied. “Then send Barclay to the Pastor residence.”

“Why there?”

I flung open the door and stepped outside. “Because it's where he'll find the person who really did kill Lenora Grimes Pastor.”

I
ran from Lucy's house, heading westward. No doubt I looked like a madman as I dodged pedestrians and flew past lamplighters brightening the city flame by flame. When the sidewalks got too crowded, I veered into the street, mud sucking at my shoes and carriages brushing my elbows. None of it slowed me.

Common sense told me that I should have gone straight to Barclay. Or at least grabbed the nearest policeman for help. Yet I forced myself to ignore common sense's nagging voice.

I had spent the week in a fog of suspicion. My fiancée was lost, as was my job. The only thing I had of any worth was my good name, and even that was fake. I needed to immediately uncover the truth about Mrs. Pastor's death.

Within ten minutes, I had reached my destination. I longed to pause, just for a second, to catch my breath. My body, still shaken from whatever it was that had happened at Lucy's house, begged for rest. Pain hummed in my legs. My chest heaved. Yet I pressed on, running up the front steps and bursting into the former home of Lenora Grimes Pastor.

“Stokely!” My shout ricocheted off the bare walls. “Where are you?”

I peeked into the séance room to the left. Seeing that it was empty, I pushed farther down the hallway. “Stokely?”

This time, there was an answer. “Is that you, Mister Clark?”

It came from the kitchen, exactly where I was headed. Reaching it, I found Stokely near the door that led to the cellar, standing straight backed and unsmiling, arms at his sides.

“Did you tell Claudia about our plans for the séance?”

“Yes'sir,” he said slowly. “I reckon I did.”

“And where is she?”

Instead of giving an answer, Stokely winced in pain.

I stepped deeper into the room, moving slightly to the side. Just behind Stokely, almost hidden by his massive frame, was Claudia. A knife was in her hand, the tip pressed against the small of his back.

“You're one of them, aren't you?” I asked her. “One of the Praediti?”

Claudia didn't move. She simply peered out from behind Stokely, eyes as wide as saucers. The knife, I noticed, poked farther into his back, the tip all but vanishing into the fabric of his shirt.

“You killed Mrs. Pastor and Sophie Kruger because they wouldn't join you,” I said.

She had been Sophie's friend, the one Louisa Kruger knew about but had never seen. I knew that because Claudia had made the mistake of writing down that she hailed from Fishtown, the same place the Krugers lived. The Praediti had likely told her to befriend the girl, to gain her confidence. I suspected Claudia knew what Sophie had been capable of, was aware of the power she possessed.

With Mrs. Pastor, she pretended to be in need, knowing she would be taken in. That way Claudia could get closer to her, to assess her skills, and, if necessary, kill her.

“Did you kill Sophie the same way you killed Mrs. Pastor? With a glass of poisoned lemonade?”

Claudia spoke, just as I suspected she could. Her voice, bearing a slight German accent, was hoarse and uncertain, no doubt the result of being forced to remain silent for such a long time.

“Yes,” she said.

Not that I needed an answer. It was now clear to me that Mrs. Pastor's poisoning had begun before the door to the séance room was locked. It had started when Claudia brought in cups of lemonade. She had let most of us choose which cup to drink from. Mrs. Pastor was the only person handed a cup directly. When she drank from it, her death was all but inevitable. It happened slowly,
unnoticed as the séance progressed. I had an inkling the conversation with my mother ended so abruptly because Mrs. Pastor's death had at last been complete.

“Someone put you up to it, didn't they?” I asked. “You were ordered to kill them both.”

“Yes,” Claudia said again.

This was no surprise. The girl was nothing more than a worker bee. One of the many who protected the hive.

“Was it Corinthian Black?”

This time, Claudia shook her head. “You'll never understand. We serve a higher purpose.”

“What did you get for killing them?” I asked. “Money? A reward?”

“Glory,” she said. “That is my reward.”

“And now that they're dead, what will you do?”

Claudia blinked once. “I shall claim it.”

Stokely remained motionless as we spoke, eyes forward, head held high. But his right hand, I noticed, had lifted slightly, fingers curling into a fist. He suddenly lurched forward and, in a flash, spun around to face Claudia, fist flying.

Claudia, lightning quick herself, dodged the blow. With a sneer, she thrust her knife forward, plunging it deep into Stokely's stomach.

He stumbled backward, pulling himself off the blade. Blood poured from the wound—a crimson flow that wouldn't stop, not even when he placed both hands against it. Then he dropped to the floor. At the same moment, Claudia let go of the knife and rushed into the cellar.

I flew to Stokely's side, grabbing a towel sitting by the sink and pressing it to his stomach. The white cloth turned red in an instant.

“I'm going to get help,” I told him. “Just keep still.”

“No,” Stokely said, a wet gurgle accompanying his words. “Catch Claudia.”

I looked to the cellar door. Claudia was down there, yes, but trapped.

“She's not going anywhere,” I said. “There's no way out.”

Stokely shook his head. The motion pushed another tide of blood from his stomach that bubbled from beneath the towel.

“The . . . tunnel.” Each word pained him. I could tell by the way he paused between them. “Rail . . . road.”

Of course. I had forgotten all about the Underground Railroad tunnel that ran directly beneath the house. It was how Stokely had come to stay at the Pastor residence, following it all the way to the basement. Reminded once again, I realized that if there was a way into the cellar, then there was also a way out. Claudia, I was certain, realized it, too.

“Let her escape,” I said. “I won't leave you.”

“Go.” Stokely gulped, the pain obviously unbearable.

“I'm staying. Help is on the way.”

At least, I hoped it would be. I had no idea how long it would take Thomas to fetch the police, nor did I know how soon Barclay would get there. Meanwhile, Claudia was somewhere underground, making her escape.

Stokely sensed this, because he said, “Go. Do it . . . for Missus . . . Pastor.”

I didn't want his last words to be wasted pleading with me. So I pressed the towel firmly against his stomach. I placed his hands on top of it, telling him to try to put as much pressure on the wound as possible and that help would be there soon. Then I was up, running across the blood-streaked floor and hurrying through the cellar door.

I found myself at the top of a narrow set of steps that descended into inky darkness. I went down them as fast as possible, feeling my way along the stone walls. The darkness was leavened somewhat by the light trickling in from the kitchen, and by the time I reached bottom, my eyes had adjusted to the gloom. I could make out
support beams overhead, a few barrels in the corner, and, directly across from me, several shelves lined with jars of preserved vegetables.

One of the shelves had been moved, its contents now on the floor in a heap of broken glass. Behind it was a wooden door no higher than my waist. That, too, had been opened to reveal a dirt tunnel.

The hole resembled a large rabbit burrow dug into the wall. I dropped to my knees and poked my head inside, unable to see more than a few inches in front of me. Although wooden boards had been placed along the sides, with additional planks crisscrossed overhead for support, the tunnel didn't come close to appearing safe. The thought of squeezing into it filled me with dread. I didn't want to get halfway through the tunnel only to have it collapse around me.

But then I thought of Claudia, already worming her way through it. I couldn't let her escape. Stokely was right. I had to go.

I crawled forward, the darkness overtaking me. For a moment, I froze, overwhelmed by the sudden absence of most of my senses. There was no light. There was no sound. Scent was useless to me, what with my nose filled with nothing but the odor of earth.

That left only my sense of touch, which was aflame with alertness. As I resumed crawling, I felt the damp ground slicking my bare hands and seeping into the fabric of my trousers. One of my shoulders pressed against the tunnel's walls—a series of wood, then dirt, then wood again, like a rib cage.

And so it went for what seemed like fifteen minutes. Possibly longer. The farther I traveled, the more my other senses slowly came to life again. Sight, naturally, was impossible. Down there, I was as blind as Homer. But my nostrils started to detect more than wet earth. I could also smell my fearful sweat and, from somewhere far ahead of me, water. I heard it, too, a rushing sound in the distance. And, just beneath that, strained breathing.

It was Claudia, still working her way through the tunnel.

I picked up the pace, crawling as fast as my hands and knees would allow. Beneath me, the ground grew soft, almost muddy. This was a blessing, because it allowed me to move even faster as I slid along the slick bottom of the tunnel.

The rushing noise ahead of me got louder, as did the sound of breathing. Not only was I getting closer to Claudia, but both of us were nearing the exit. Yet there was no gentle receding of the darkness. Light, it seemed, was not at the end of this tunnel.

But there
was
mud. Plenty of it. The tunnel's walls and ceiling were by that point completely wood—the only way to hold back the softened earth. The hole also descended sharply, turning from relative flatness to a steep decline.

The angle, coupled with the mud, caused me to slide. It was smooth, at first, a welcome acceleration. Soon, though, I couldn't stop myself, my arms struggling to keep up. I started hurtling forward on my stomach, sliding faster.

The tunnel's end point came quickly—a gaping mouth made of wood that spit me out into more darkness. I tumbled through the gloom, limbs flailing, my fall broken by a shallow pool of water.

Unharmed, I was able to quickly get to my feet and collect my bearings. While still dark, I could see slightly better than in the tunnel. I was in a channel of some sort, narrow but with high ceilings. The walls were stone, as was the floor.

Ahead of me, a square had been cut into the wall to let water pass through. Just beyond that, unseen but most definitely heard, was what sounded like rushing water, grinding gears, and the pressurized hiss of a steam engine.

The tunnel had taken me from the Pastor home all the way to the Fairmount Water Works.

I waded forward, water sloshing at my knees, and ducked through the opening in the wall. There was light on the other side, courtesy of oil lamps hanging from the walls. I could see clearly at last.

Spread out before me like a giant mechanical beast was the heart of the waterworks. Turbines moved iron arms, which connected to turning wheels twice my height. Spinning around them were gears and pulleys and more arms and wheels. Coursing through it all was water pulled in from the Schuylkill River, flowing and trickling and rising and falling. Steam floated around and through the heaving contraption.