A Ring of Truth Read online

  In order for the plan of capturing Henrietta to work, Neptune had needed Clive out of the way, so they had staged the fake call to Clancy to lure Clive back to the city. It had been child’s play to capture the unwitting Clancy, holding him at an abandoned loft on Pearson, where they commanded a perfect view of the Water Tower, the rendezvous point with Clive. When Clive had failed to show after two hours, however, they had, as they’d previously been instructed, abandoned the plan and had Clancy beaten and driven to a remote woods near Joliet, where he was dumped and left for dead. Some kids had found him in the morning, though, and he had then been taken to the hospital, where, the chief related to Clive via telephone the next day, Clancy had been able, despite his rather serious injuries, to confirm that Neptune had had a two-pronged plan. Not only was he to break out of jail and escape with Henrietta, the object of desire in his warped mind, but he would also at the same time muscle out Moretti for control of the Chicago underworld. He had hoped to frame Moretti by using nameless, faceless volunteers, such as Jack Fletcher, to kill young women around the city with stiletto knives and dump them.

  Clive’s heart constricted at the thought of how close they had come to abducting Henrietta. Worse was the knowledge that his nemesis was now at large again, and in a near fit of anxiety, Clive vowed to keep Henrietta safe at all costs. But how? His parents had been quite ruffled by the night’s events and of course took advantage of the situation to point out that the sooner Clive was done with this nasty business, the better. Clive was privately inclined to agree, but how could he give up now that Neptune was free? That being said, Clive knew that whether he was an inspector or not, Neptune wouldn’t rest until he had Henrietta, and, as this whole episode had proven, Henrietta’s being at Highbury did not necessarily protect her. Neptune’s fingers, as Jack had chillingly relayed to Henrietta in the cottage, did indeed reach far.

  Upsetting as all this police business was, Mrs. Howard could not afford to dwell upon it for too long; after all, there was much to be discussed regarding how the party had gone and what steps needed to be taken toward their next big undertaking, the wedding itself. She was impatient to have everything back to normal and the whole unpleasant business put behind them, but she managed to nevertheless maintain a respectable somberness all the next day.

  With perfect tact, then, and just the right amount of pleasantry, considering the situation, she bid her houseguests goodbye the next morning and apologized to them for the disturbing events of the evening. She had very much enjoyed meeting Henrietta’s family, she had told them, and she sent her love to Mrs. Von Harmon with hopes that they would meet very soon.

  Eugene had not said much when told about what had happened the night before, except to sullenly mutter that he should have been woken, as Henrietta’s brother, but Stan had replied that he hadn’t really thought anything much would have come from their moonlight search for Henrietta. If he had, he said diplomatically, he surely would have. Eugene had looked unconvinced but had not bothered to reply with anything more. Instead, he went back to smoking his cigarette, limply leaning against one of the large columns holding up the stone portico under which the party stood to say their goodbyes.

  Henrietta squeezed Elsie’s hand and kissed her, telling her she would see her soon at home, whenever that might be. And Stan, too, had kissed her briefly on the cheek and told her to take care of herself and had warned Clive likewise to watch out for her.

  “That’s my department now, old boy,” Clive said with forced confidence, though his insides were churning, and he gripped Stan’s hand with unusual firmness before the three of them piled into the old truck, Stan, of course, in the driver’s set. As he watched them roll slowly down the lane, Clive couldn’t help but feel that Stan’s words held a degree of well-deserved admonishment, conscious of the fact that he had twice now put Henrietta in fatal danger.

  Their guests having finally departed, Mrs. Howard telephoned the hospital to again check on Helen’s condition and to see what could be done for her, but so far she had not regained consciousness. As Antonia hung up the receiver with a sigh, she told Alcott that she supposed the two of them would have to go and see her later in the day, that it was the only decent thing to do, really.

  Mr. Howard had responded with an absent, “Quite so, quite so,” just as Arthur, a junior footman obliged to take James’s place for the day and clearly sensitive to this elevated duty, delivered the tea with only mildly shaking hands. The four of them exhaustedly sat down, each brooding on their own thoughts, Henrietta not being able to stop thinking about poor Helen and the dreadful events of the past evening, discreetly wiping tears every so often.

  Mrs. Howard, for her part, tried to brighten the mood by informing them that the Exleys were quite taken with Henrietta, and with Elsie, actually, and had already issued an invitation to them to come to dinner next week. “And,” she said waggishly, looking at Mr. Howard over her cup of tea, “tell them what old Exley told you, Alcott.”

  Mr. Howard shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. “Really, my dear. Perhaps now is not the time.”

  “Nonsense! We need something to take our minds off this dreadful business. I insist! Come now, let’s hear it.”

  Mr. Howard cleared his throat and said somewhat begrudgingly, “It’s just that Exley’s quite distressed to discover that his daughter and eight grandchildren are living in . . .” (He was about to say squalor, but he stopped himself in time.) “. . . reduced conditions, shall we say, and is insisting on providing for them.”

  “Oh, no!” Henrietta said, sitting upright now. “Ma . . . Mother . . . would never allow that.”

  “Be that as it may, those were Exley’s words to me, my dear. And I daresay, he won’t be thwarted this time in taking responsibility for them,” Mr. Howard said matter-of-factly.

  Henrietta sank back in her chair, wondering what all this would mean for them. She knew Ma would hate it, maybe even refuse help for herself, but surely she would let the boys be educated at least?

  “And there’s something else, Alcott,” Mrs. Howard said delicately, swirling more sugar into her tea. “Apparently, there’s been another incident of theft, Billings tells me.”

  Mr. Howard grunted. “Not again. What is it this time?”

  Henrietta braced herself for what she felt sure was going to be an accusation against Edna regarding the hairpin she had given her. She had seen her wearing it the other day and had meant to inform Mrs. Howard, but it had been such a terribly busy day that she had forgotten . . .

  “A set of the Fabergé eggs, I’m told.”

  Henrietta breathed an unexpected sigh of relief but was intrigued all the same.

  “Not the ones that we brought back from St. Petersburg on our honeymoon?” Mr. Howard said, disturbed.

  “I’m afraid so, my dear.”

  “That’s it, Antonia! I won’t be dissuaded this time; we’ve got to get the police involved.”

  “The problem, darling, is that I’m not sure when they were taken. Billings said that the contents of that particular curio cabinet have not been dusted in several months, so it very well could have been the work of Fritz.”

  “Actually,” interjected Henrietta, glad to have something to contribute, “I’m pretty sure that Jack . . . I mean Fletcher, was responsible for all those thefts. He told me so in the cottage,” she said, hesitantly looking over at Clive. She had no wish to further disturb him by bringing up yet again her encounter with Fetcher in the cottage. His mood ever since had been very dark. “He had to find a reason to get Fritz fired, so he staged a bunch of thefts so that he could get himself the job.”

  “I say! This is a bit out of order,” grumbled Mr. Howard. “I’ll have words with Billings.”

  “But what I don’t understand is how he managed it when he wasn’t even an employee here yet,” Henrietta mused, taking a thoughtful sip of her tea. “He must have had help,” she said, her eyes narrowing now. “Someone like Virgil, maybe . . .”

  “Henriet
ta,” Clive warned, finally breaking his silence, “we’ve already been through this with Virgil . . .”

  “Yes,” she said hurriedly before he put a premature end to her theory, “but Elsie told me that when she and Stan came looking for me, they saw Virgil coming down the servant’s stairway into the kitchen last night.”

  “Whatever was he doing up there?” Mrs. Howard asked indignantly.

  “Are they sure that it was him?” Clive asked skeptically, his head still resting on his fist, propped along the back of the settee where he sat across from Henrietta.

  “Well,” Henrietta said, a bit annoyed at Clive’s tone, “they asked him his name, and he said Virgil, so maybe that’s a clue.”

  Virgil was forthwith summoned to the library before an irritated Clive and a somewhat-puzzled Mr. Howard only, Clive insisting that Henrietta not be part of the interview. Upon being ushered into the room, Virgil had sullenly removed his hat and was offered a chair, which he refused.

  “Sit!” Clive commanded, generating a look of concern, but no comment, from his father.

  Shooting daggers at Clive with his eyes, Virgil then took the chair offered, but with exaggerated slowness. “Yes? Sir?” Virgil added with disgust.

  Clive cleared his throat and cut out any preamble. “You were spotted last night in the house. Coming down from the maids’ quarters, to be exact. Is this true?”

  Virgil paused, looking from one to the other and shifting slightly in his chair. “Yeah. It’s true.”

  “I say!” blustered Mr. Howard.

  “For what purpose?” Clive asked crisply.

  Virgil shrugged.

  “Listen, Higgins. Are you aware that another theft from this house was discovered last night?” Clive asked him evenly as he leaned casually against the desk, his arms crossed in front of him.

  Virgil shook his head but held Clive’s eye.

  “Are you aware that it has come to light that Jack Fletcher was working with someone inside this house before he was hired on here, to steal various items and to make it look like it was the work of Fritz?”

  Virgil’s eyes flickered apprehensively, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Now are you, or are you not, going to tell us what you were doing in the house last night?”

  Still Virgil remained silent, looking down at the ground.

  “Right!” Clive said, banging his hand on his father’s desk. “I’m turning you over to the local police,” he said, reaching for his father’s telephone. “Let’s see how you like doing time.”

  “Okay! Stop! I . . . I didn’t do it,” he said with slow deliberation, though he fitfully twisted his cap in his hands.

  “Well?” Clive said expectantly, still holding the receiver in his hand.

  “Promise you won’t dismiss her if I tell you?” he asked pleadingly, looking up into Clive’s eyes. “Promise you won’t blame her,” he begged.

  “Blame who?” Mr. Howard asked, confused.

  “Spit it out, Higgins.”

  “I . . . I was in the house, but I didn’t steal anythin’! I . . . I snuck up to the maids’ wing. I wanted to see Edna.”

  “You what?!” Mr. Howard sputtered, but Clive gestured for him to let Virgil continue.

  “Did she let you in?” Clive asked.

  Virgil looked at him as if assessing whether or not he could trust him before admitting, “Yeah. She let me in.”

  “Do you realize that’s grounds for dismissal? For both of you?” Mr. Howard butted in.

  “You promised!”

  “I did not promise, actually,” said Clive. “But I will do what I can. If you cooperate, that is.”

  “That or you’ll beat my face to a pulp again?” Virgil said bitterly, his temper flaring up.

  Mr. Howard looked sharply at Clive but did not say anything.

  “How long were you with her?” Clive asked bluntly, again ignoring his father’s critical gaze.

  “Not long. She gives me a kiss or two then says I have to go. Says we could get into too much trouble. So you see, she shouldn’ be blamed for it.”

  “Were you working with Fletcher?”

  “No.”

  “The truth.”

  “No!” he said more vehemently. “I hated him!”

  “Why?”

  “I knew he was up to no good. Knew it from the first minute. Somethin’ about him. I keep myself to myself, but when he started getting overly friendly, first with Kitty and then Edna, I just saw red all the time. I was lookin’ for a chance to trip him up, but he was always too smooth, always covering his tracks, always scootin’ off to town or sneakin’, using Mr. McCreanney’s telephone.”

  Clive quickly wondered if this was how he had kept in touch with Neptune’s gang. “Go on.”

  “I don’t mind sayin’ I might have tried to hurt him if I got the chance,” Virgil admitted. “Not kill him, like, but I did want to hurt him,” he said angrily, and Clive began to feel a drop of respect for Virgil, having felt similarly himself where Fletcher was concerned.

  Clive thought for a moment. “And this Kitty. He was friendly with her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Perhaps we should summon her as well,” Clive said, glancing over at his father.

  “Can’t,” Virgil said before Mr. Howard could even agree.

  “Why not?” Clive asked.

  “She quit. A few days ago.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Take a guess,” Clive said, annoyed.

  “Mighta been ’cause of him. Always after her, he was. Edna says he got too familiar. Took advantage,” he said, looking Clive straight in the eye. “Wanted her to do stuff she didn’ want to do. Some men are like that, ya see.” Clive got the unmistakable feeling he was trying to imply something and had the urge to thrash him again. Manfully, however, he contained his emotion and merely stared at him, his fury obvious.

  “Get out, Higgins,” Clive muttered finally, dropping his gaze as he said it.

  Virgil stood up unsteadily but did not yet leave the room. He stood there wavering until Clive finally looked over at him again.

  “I . . . I want my money back.”

  “What money?”

  “The money I spent on the ring. That or the ring. It’s mine, and you’ve no right to keep it.”

  “What’s all this about a ring, Clive?” Mr. Howard asked, bewildered.

  “I’ll explain it later, Father,” Clive said, looking coolly at Virgil, considering. He stood up, then, and drew out his wallet, placing a ten-dollar bill in Virgil’s outstretched hand. “I’ll keep the ring for now,” he said to Virgil, who merely tightened his fist around the money. “You can keep the change.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said with a scowl as he slunk off out of the library.

  Henrietta spent most of the afternoon in her room sleeping after the night’s ordeal, trying in her own mind to put what had happened into perspective. Earlier in the day, when they had all sat having tea, she had been intrigued by the discussion of the thefts and was particularly hurt when Clive then forbade—yes, forbade her!—to be part of Virgil’s questioning. It was her theory! Clive’s behavior was really too much to be endured, and she had accordingly gone upstairs to lie down, where she had lain, fuming about it, until she had finally drifted off, exhausted.

  When she awoke, she did not feel particularly rested, however, but she dutifully changed and did her own hair for dinner, which turned out to be a quiet affair all around. Henrietta did not have much of an appetite and, in truth, spent much of the dinner still sulking about the Virgil interview. Mrs. Howard had insisted that the whole sordid business not be discussed at dinner, so Henrietta was not able to ask about the outcome of the interview, nor was Clive able to share that after a careful search of the woods, a long stiletto knife had indeed been found. Clive had since given it to the Winnetka police, who were trying even now to obtain fingerprints from it.

  After dinner, Clive had the obligatory
glass of port with his father while the ladies waited in the drawing room, Henrietta’s mind still a confused turmoil of thoughts and emotions regarding the whole of last night, all the while having to endure Mrs. Howard drone on about the various gowns worn at the engagement party and who had said what to whom. Henrietta found it absolutely incredible that Antonia chose to dwell only on the minutiae, the social mores of the evening’s party, as if what had happened with Fletcher was a minor inconvenience, like James’s procuring the flu.

  After what seemed like ages, Clive appeared, looking distressed, and asked if Henrietta might care to join him on the terrace. Mrs. Howard, not getting much out of Henrietta in the way of conversation anyway, thought this an excellent idea. Henrietta apathetically declined at first, but after continued urging on the part of Clive, she agreed to follow him out.

  The air was unbearably warm, though no heat lightning appeared on the horizon this evening to fool them. Likewise, Henrietta could not make out the sound of the waves tonight through the steady buzz of the cicadas that must have come to life just this week. Still, their droning hum had a similar hypnotic effect as she stood with her back to Clive, looking out in the direction of the lake. She shuddered as she recalled once again the image of Helen tied up in the dark. Her mind jumped then to an image of Jack leaning over her, roughly forcing a kiss from her, and remembered how her heart had beaten so fast that she had felt in danger of it stopping altogether. It reminded her of what had happened at the Marlowe, though all that ever came back to her regarding that night were vague images and feelings of terror. Absently, now, she took the glass of brandy Clive was holding out to her.

  “Was it very terrible, darling?” he asked delicately, mistaking the real cause of her silent aloofness during the whole of the evening. Besides the moments that he held her outside the boathouse while she sobbed into his chest after he had made his way back to her following the frantic chase after Fletcher and the mistaken capture of Dubowski, they had not had any time to discuss what had happened, to make sense of it with each other.