These Shallow Graves Read online

  Then she had an even more chilling thought: Maybe Eleanor Owens was the child of her father and his mistress—a child who had come of age and wanted money. Maybe she was blackmailing him and that was why he had all that cash.

  “Maybe I’m losing my mind,” Jo said out loud.

  Her father was an upstanding man. He went to church every Sunday and dined at home most every night. He sent her mother flowers every week. He was as likely to have a mistress as he was to vote Democrat.

  The more she thought about the whole thing, the more outlandish it sounded.

  Why was I so quick to believe Eddie Gallagher? she asked herself. He’s probably one of those reporters who’ll do anything to get a story—even if it means making one up. The notations could have something to do with papa’s work, and his death might truly have been an accident.

  Even as she thought these things, Jo didn’t quite believe them. Yet, if her father had killed himself, there had to be a reason. What was it?

  She paged back, reading every entry for the months of September and August, but saw nothing else unusual. She paged forward, too, looking at her father’s future appointments. Again, nothing jumped out at her—until she got to October 15. Kinch, VHW, 11 p.m. was written on the page.

  What does it mean? Jo wondered.

  The clock downstairs struck the hour—three a.m. Jo knew she would be wrecked tomorrow if she didn’t get some sleep. She tucked the agenda into a pocket in her robe and replaced the floorboard. As she picked up her candle, she heard a noise from the street—a loud, metallic crash.

  Curious, she walked to the windows to see what had caused it. The glow from the streetlamps revealed a woman righting an upended garbage can. She was a ragpicker—Mad Mary. Jo knew her. Everyone did. Mary roamed the city day and night, muttering to herself as she dug through trash and ashes, looking for bones to sell to glue factories, rags used in paper-making, or anything else that might bring a few pennies.

  Jo’s father, kind to a fault, had always made sure that Mrs. Nelson wrapped up leftovers for Mary if Mary came by during daylight hours. It had irritated Jo’s mother, because Mary would sit on their stoop while she ate, then linger to watch the children play in the park. Friends coming to call had to step around the piteous figure in her dirty, threadbare clothing.

  Mary finished digging and put her finds in her small wooden cart. There were bells on it, and they jingled softly as she went on her way. Jo turned to go back to her room, but as she did, something else caught her eye—a man.

  He was standing directly across from her house, staring up at her father’s window—at her.

  Startled, Jo blew out her candle and shrank into the draperies, hiding from view. She stood frozen for a few seconds until she worked up the nerve to peer out again. The man was still there, standing in the gaslight. He was smoking. His clothes were rough. His dark hair was gathered and tied at the nape of his neck. And his face … it must’ve been a trick of the light, but it seemed to be streaked with something. Dirt? Ash?

  As Jo watched, her heart pounding, he flicked the remains of his cigarette into the gutter and walked away. She tried to tell herself that he was only a vagrant, but she knew it wasn’t so. He’d been staring directly at the windows—the same windows where her father used to stand night after night, gazing out into the darkness. Watching. Waiting.

  In that instant, Jo became certain that Eddie Gallagher had told her the truth. The names in her father’s diary and the dark figure watching her house … they had something to do with his death. She felt it in her bones.

  She slipped back to the desk, lit her candle again, and returned to her bedroom. After hiding her father’s agenda inside a fur muff in her closet, she crawled back under her covers, feeling dispirited. She had found the agenda, but it had given her no answers, only more questions.

  With mounting dread, Jo realized she would have to ask her questions of the living, not the dead.

  She would have to go to her uncle.

  Admiral William Montfort gazed down at Jo with eyes as gray as flint and every bit as hard.

  The fearsome admiral had been painted aboard his warship in 1664, only days before he’d taken the colony of Nieuw Amsterdam from the Dutch and renamed it New York. His portrait now hung in Phillip Montfort’s front hall. The Montfort coat of arms, with its Latin motto, appeared in the canvas’s bottom left corner.

  “ ‘Fac quod faciendum est,’ ” Jo read aloud. “Do what must be done.”

  William Montfort had lived by that motto, and his descendants were expected to as well. Montfort children learned to say it while still in their cradles. Jo took strength from the words now. If the admiral could confront the entire Dutch navy, she could confront her uncle. She had no choice.

  People didn’t just kill themselves; they did so because they were distraught. If something had been troubling her father so deeply that he wished to end his life, Phillip might know why. The two brothers had been very close.

  The decision to speak with him was a daunting one, though; Jo knew it would lead to trouble. Asking questions, demanding explanations—these things always led to trouble. The moment a girl learned how to talk, she was told not to.

  “This way, please, Miss Josephine,” said Harney, her uncle’s butler. He’d gone to Phillip’s study to announce her and had just returned.

  “My darling Jo! What a lovely surprise!” Phillip exclaimed as she joined him. He rose from his chair by the fireplace and enfolded her in an embrace.

  He looks so much like Papa, Jo thought, with a stab of pain. Phillip Montfort was older by two years—forty-six to her father’s forty-four—and a little taller, but the gray eyes, the shock of black hair, and the smile were the same. And like her father, Phillip had a certain courtly formality about him. He was wearing a three-piece suit even though he was alone in his own study on a Saturday.

  “Come and sit down,” he said. “Your timing is perfect. I’ve just had Harney bring a fresh pot of tea. May I offer you a cup? I’m afraid you’ve missed your aunt and cousin, though. They’re out visiting Madeleine’s mother.”

  Jo knew that Madeleine and Caroline always paid social calls on Saturday afternoons. That was why she’d picked this time. Caroline’s brother, Robert, was away at school.

  “I’m sorry to miss them, but to be truthful, I came at this time because I want to speak with you alone,” Jo said, settling herself across from him.

  Her uncle’s smile turned to a frown of concern. “Is everything all right?” he asked.

  Jo decided not to beat around the bush. She took a deep breath, then said, “No, Uncle Phillip, it isn’t. I’m afraid I have a difficult question to ask you. … Did Papa kill himself?”

  Phillip blinked, taken aback. “Of course not! My goodness, Jo, where did you get such a dreadful idea?”

  For a second, Jo was tempted to fib, but she knew better. Like her father, her uncle was no fool. He’d see right through her lie, and she’d only get herself into more trouble. She bravely plunged ahead.

  “After I delivered Papa’s bequest to Reverend Willis, I delivered Mr. Stoatman’s,” she explained. “While I was there, I overheard some reporters talking. They said that Papa committed suicide.”

  Phillip’s cheeks flushed. Here it comes, Jo thought grimly. And it did.

  “Josephine Montfort, what the devil were you thinking?” he thundered. “Cavorting through the city unescorted! And to Park Row, of all places! What if someone had seen you? Bram or Addie or Grandmama?”

  “Grandmama wouldn’t have seen me at the Standard. She only reads the World,” Jo said, trying to soften her uncle’s anger with a bit of levity. Grandmama Aldrich was as likely to read the World—much less visit its offices—as she was to wear red garters.

  “That is not funny, Josephine. I’m far too angry for jokes at the moment. In fact, I’m livid!”

  Jo f
linched. “Please don’t shout, Uncle Phillip. I only went to Park Row because I didn’t want to go home. I can’t bear it there anymore.”

  Phillip was unmoved. “That’s hardly an excuse!” he said.

  “But you don’t know what it’s like!” Jo argued. “Papa’s gone and Mama barely comes out of her room and the blinds are drawn all day and I feel like I’ve been shut up in a tomb!” A frightening thought suddenly gripped her. “You won’t tell Mama I went to the paper, will you? She’ll never let me out of the house again.”

  “That is just like you to worry more about having your wings clipped than about the wrongness of your actions,” Philip said, still fuming. “You’ve always been a headstrong girl, and you’ve never heeded a scolding. Not about climbing too high in trees—”

  “Caro’s cat was stuck!”

  “Or swimming out too far from shore—”

  “I had to rescue Aunt Maddie’s hat!”

  “Or knocking the Beekman boy off his bicycle!”

  “He deserved it! He was bullying Robert!”

  Phillip closed his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “What am I going to do with you?” he said. After a moment, he opened his eyes again. “I won’t tell your mother. Not this time. Partly because I feel she is somewhat to blame for this, keeping you as confined as she does. But on one condition—you must promise me you will never, ever do it again.”

  “I promise,” Jo said. “And I’m sorry.” She truly was. She felt terrible for upsetting him. His burdens were heavy enough without her adding to them. “I know I shouldn’t have gone, but I did, and then I overheard the reporters talking, and … well, I have to know if they’re right. I have to, Uncle Phillip. I think about Papa all the time. His death makes no sense to me. He knew better than to clean a loaded gun. I know better than to clean a loaded gun.”

  Phillip looked away. “We all make mistakes. Perhaps he was preoccupied. Perhaps he only thought he had unloaded the chamber,” he said.

  He was lying. Jo could hear it in his voice; she could see it in his face. “Tell me the truth, Uncle Phillip. That’s why I came to you. Because I want to know the truth.”

  “The truth can be a hard thing, Jo. It’s often best left hidden,” Phillip said quietly.

  “I can cope with hard things. I’m not a child anymore. I’m grown. I’m seventeen years old.”

  “Yes, I suppose you are,” Phillip allowed, looking at Jo again. “But when I look at you, I still see the child you once were, and I want to protect that child. From grief. From pain. From all the ugliness of the world.”

  “Please, Uncle,” Jo begged.

  Phillip’s eyes filled with sadness. He suddenly looked old and weary. “My dearest girl,” he said. “How I hoped I would never have to have this conversation. Yes. Charles killed himself. I’m sorry, Jo. I’m so very, very sorry.”

  Although Jo had steeled herself, her uncle’s words still hit her hard.

  Oh dear God, it’s true, she thought. Eddie Gallagher was right.

  “I blame myself entirely,” Phillip said, his voice ragged with grief. “I saw Charles on the day of his death. We, the partners, had a meeting in his study about a ship we wanted to buy. There was something wrong; Charles wasn’t himself. He and I talked after the others left and he admitted he was troubled. He was talking wildly.”

  “What did he say?” asked Jo.

  “That he felt hopeless. That he’d be better off dead.”

  “Papa said such things?” Jo said, bewildered. That didn’t sound like her father at all.

  “He did, and I became angry with him for saying them. I reminded him of his family, his many friends. We argued. How I wish to God we hadn’t. I begged him to confide in me, to tell what was troubling him, but he refused, so I took my leave. I went to the kitchen on my way out. We’d had a luncheon before the meeting, and I wanted to give Mrs. Nelson my compliments. I spoke with her and left, and that night my brother shot himself.”

  Phillip covered his face with his hands. “I saw him. Lying dead on the floor of his study. I’ll never get that image out of my head. Never. I relive that day over and over again, knowing I might have prevented Charles’s death if I hadn’t argued with him. If I’d convinced him to share his worries with me. How could I have failed him so badly?”

  “It’s not your fault,” Jo said fervently, her heart aching for her uncle. “If there was anyone he would have confided in, it was you.”

  Phillip lowered his hands. He nodded, but Jo could see he didn’t believe her. If only she could find the reason for her father’s death, she could convince him that he wasn’t to blame.

  “Something drove Papa to do what he did,” she said. “Could it have been money worries? His business? Did he have a disagreement with one of the partners?”

  “Your father’s finances are not a suitable topic of discussion,” Phillip said. “But to answer your questions—no, they were sound, and as far as I know, he had no disagreements with anyone.”

  Jo took her father’s agenda from her purse. “I found this in Papa’s office,” she said, thinking it best not to explain how she’d found it. Her uncle didn’t approve of snooping. “Papa made some puzzling notations in it. Do you think they might have anything to do with his death?” She showed him the page for September 15 and pointed at the notations Kinch, VHW, 11 p.m. and Eleanor Owens, b. 1874. Then she showed him September 17, with Kinch, VHW, 11 p.m. repeated.

  Phillip peered at them, then shook his head. “I’m afraid those names don’t mean anything to me,” he said.

  Jo’s heart sank. She felt certain that Eleanor Owens had some role in her father’s death and had hoped her uncle could tell her who she was.

  “If you’d like to leave the agenda with me, I could ask the other partners,” Phillip offered, reaching for it.

  But Jo was loath to part with it. “I’d like to hold on to it. It reminds me of Papa,” she explained. “I’ll write the names down for you.”

  Phillip nodded. “Very well,” he said.

  Jo pressed on with her questions. “Do you know why Papa would have seen his banker the day he died?” she pressed, pointing at the words A. Jamison, 4 p.m. written under September 16. “He’d withdrawn money. It was tucked inside the agenda. I thought it best to leave it at home.”

  “No, but it doesn’t strike me as unusual. He often met with them,” Phillip replied. “As for the money, I know he’d been talking about buying a new pair of carriage horses. Maybe he found some he liked.”

  “Did he leave a note behind?” Jo asked hopefully.

  Phillip shook his head. “Jo, I think that’s quite—”

  Enough. Jo knew what he was going to say. He wanted to end this discussion, but she didn’t let him.

  “I don’t know if this has anything to do with Papa’s death,” she quickly cut in, “but there was a strange man outside our house late last night. He had something on his face, some sort of markings. Did Papa know such a man? Did he ever mention him to you?”

  “No, he didn’t,” Phillip said, visibly alarmed. “What was this man doing? Was he trying to break in?”

  “No, he stood by the streetlamp and stared up at the windows to Papa’s study. Then he left.”

  “He was probably only a vagrant,” said Phillip, relaxing a bit. “But if you see him again, have Theakston fetch the police.”

  Jo had to work up her courage to ask her next question. “Did Papa … Did he have someone? Someone else, I mean.”

  Phillip looked confused. “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “Someone besides my mother. Could Eleanor Owens be that someone?”

  “Good God, Josephine!” Phillip exclaimed, upset again. “How does a well-brought-up young lady even know to ask such a thing? There certainly was not someone besides your mother!”

  Jo winced at her uncle’s sharp tone, but s
he was relieved to know her father had not kept a mistress.

  “I’ve had quite enough of these questions,” Phillip warned. “I know why you’re asking them, but you must stop. It’s not healthy. You won’t find a reason. I’ve already tried. All you’ll do is torture yourself.”

  Jo started to protest, to tell him she was sure they could find the reason, if only they kept looking, but he held up a finger, silencing her.

  “Don’t speak. Think, Jo. Think of what you’ve just said. You’ve talked about disagreements with the partners and the possibility of your father consorting with strange-looking men and inappropriate women. Does any of that sound like him? Does it explain why he took his life? No. All it does is dishonor his memory,” Phillip said angrily.

  Jo didn’t reply; she just looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. Her uncle’s words, she knew, were intended to make her feel ashamed of herself. That was what people did when they wanted to stop a girl from doing something—they shamed her.

  Don’t fill your plate; it’s greedy. Don’t wear bright colors; you’ll look fast. Don’t ask so many questions; people will think you bold.

  “Think, too, of how irresponsibly you behaved,” Phillip continued. “You’re lucky you were not seen at Park Row. Not by anyone who matters, I mean. We’re all lucky.”

  “What do you mean all?” Jo asked, lifting her eyes to his.

  Phillip didn’t reply right away. When he did, Jo sensed he was choosing his words carefully.

  “I’ve worked very hard to keep the truth of your father’s death out of the newspapers. Had I not, your chances of making a good match would’ve been ruined. There was talk in the days following his passing, and I don’t want it stirred up again. When you go places you shouldn’t, and speak with people you shouldn’t, you risk doing just that. I know how deeply you’re grieving, Jo, but don’t let that grief be your undoing. That’s the last thing your father would’ve wanted.”