Chapter 13
“Let me be dress’d fine as I will,/Flies, worms, and flowers exceed me still.”
Isaac Watts
“Not all of them,” Marigold was honest enough to admit. “I do not even know the name of the young woman who died.”
Mr. Wilkerson’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. “Still no leads as to her identity, huh? Now, that would be a shame to have to bury a pretty young woman in an unmarked, paupers grave.”
“Gracious, but that’s a melodramatic take. This is the 1890s, sir, not the Middle Ages. I have confidence that she will soon be given her rightful name.”
“But surely she’s just a Wellesley student.”
His casual dismissal of the place that gave her life meaning and shape was insulting. “There is no such thing as just a Wellesley student, sir.”
“Call me James, please.”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Wilkerson. Which paper did you say you wrote for?”
He looked a bit sheepish, as if he really did not want to answer, before he finally admitted, “The only paper really interested in the story is the Boston Evening Journal.”
“Naturally,” was her tart response. The very tabloid that had splashed the photogravure across its front page, jumped to unfounded conclusions and told the story of finding the poor girl’s body in the most lurid way possible.
“Your work is a prime example of Mr. Pulitzer’s style of yellow journalism that has taken over the newspapers. ”
He seemed to enjoy matching wits with her—his smile was amused.
“Mr. Pulitzer says the American people want something terse, forcible, picturesque, and striking. Something that will arrest the public’s attention, enlist their sympathy, arouse their indignation, stimulate their imagination, convince their reason, and awaken their conscience. ”
“Memorized that from the masthead, have you?”
“You’ve got me there, Miss Manners. May I call you Marigold?”
“No, I don’t think so,” she responded pertly. As engaging as he was, she knew nothing of him, nothing of his background. Nothing of his credentials.
But she was having fun. It was something of a pleasure to engage in such lively, spirited debate. But her debate had a purpose. “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Wilkerson—I will do an interview with your Boston Evening Journal on one condition.”
“Now what could that be?”
“That you, and thereby the Journal, truly investigate the death of this girl. No throwaway assumptions about her cause of death being a suicide without any shred of evidence.”
“And you think evidence of whatever it was that might have happened actually exists?” he countered.
“Isn’t that what an investigative journalist is supposed to find out?”
“I could find out if you let me interview you.” His smiling charm was on full display. “Find out everything you seem to know.”
Marigold saw her own opening. “I will tell you what I suppose, if you meet my condition.”
“Well, that’s not rightly my decision to make,” he hedged. “I’m just a lowly scribe, not the almighty editor.”
“I should think a thorough investigation into a potential murder would suit the Journal far better than a lovelorn drowning.”
He looked alarmed. “Now, who said anything about murder? If she wasn’t a suicide, she drowned, surely? You found her in the water, didn’t you?”
Marigold felt all the assurance of knowing she was in the right. “My condition, Mr. Wilkerson.”
He eyed her for the barest moment before he tipped his hat back off his forehead and smiled warmly. “You sure are a peculiar thinking woman.”
Marigold felt her spine stiffen and soften all at the same moment.
This was not a new insult, this charge of peculiarity, but it had never been delivered in such a charming manner.
It was almost disarming. Almost. “I am not peculiar, Mr. Wilkerson. I am educated, trained in the use of logic and reason and facts. There is nothing peculiar about that. This place abounds in such women.”
“Maybe so,” he conceded, even as he lowered his chin to look up at her from under his brows. “But most of them aren’t as pretty as you.”
Marigold refused to be taken in by such an obvious piece of flattery. “And how is that of any significance? Many women are prettier. Many are smarter.” She gave him what she hoped was a leveling gaze. “Many are much more patient with importuning men.”
His laugh was surprisingly good-natured. “Well, aren’t you just a peach. I guess there’s just something about you.” He offered his smile to her as if it were a gift. “Something fine.”
She did not disagree. But neither would she agree. “That is good of you to say. But to what end do you say it?”
He laughed. “You take a compliment all peculiarly too.”
“Am I meant to be coy and pretending?” Marigold challenged. “I have a mirror, Mr. Wilkerson, as well as a very keen sense of who I am.” And while she knew she was no great beauty, Marigold knew without a doubt that she had something more—she had panache.
And she wasn’t afraid to use it. For any ends she deemed necessary.
And murder was one of them.
But clearly the journalist felt the same. “And who are you, Miss Marigold Manners?” James Wilkerson pressed his question as assertively as he did his smile. “Our readers surely want to know. I want to write your account of finding the drowned body—it might make you famous.”
Marigold nearly laughed at the repetition of the offer. And immediately chided herself—she ought to have thought her own offer through before she made it.
As she had told Eliza Anthony, she was only interested in being famous on her own terms, which frankly included keeping her account for herself.
If there might be a story in how the unfortunate young woman was murdered, Marigold would want to pen her own account for The Argosy.
And hopefully make some money—spondulicks were still very much in demand.
But she had already given her word. “Do we have a deal?”
He stuck out his hand for a delightfully firm, decidedly equitable handshake—no limp wrist for Mr. Wilkerson. “Meet me tomorrow evening, at …”
“Marigold?” It was Isabella at the window of her elegant private carriage, which Marigold had been too involved to hear drive up.
“Isabella!” Marigold took a deep calming breath to fight the rise of any blush in her cheeks. She hated to admit to Isabella any connection with the opposite sex—she invariably got ideas. “How lovely. I was just on my way to you when—”
“Yes. I can see that.” Isabella made no subterfuge of her frank assessment of Mr. Wilkerson’s admittedly fine person.
“James Wilkerson, ma’am.” The journalist swept his hat from his head and made a respectable sort of little bow. “How do you do?”
“Mr. Wilkerson” was all Isabella would deign to say before she turned her gaze decidedly to Marigold. “I was worried for your curfew, so I rang up the Hall and told them to expect me to collect you.”
“How thoughtful, Isabella. Thank you. Clearly, I left before your message could be relayed.”
“Yes, I can see—you’re dressed more for sport than for a dinner engagement.”
“Yes, but never think I have not come prepared.” Marigold indicated her satchel, but also saw her opportunity for a neat end to her encounter with Mr. Wilkerson. “Perhaps you could take me up?”
“But of course,” Isabella said brightly. “I shall conduct you there directly.” With a wave, she directed her groom up on the box with her driver to assist Marigold by storing her bicycle in the boot.
Marigold surrendered her bicycle but turned back to Wilkerson—one might alter one’s manners but never forget them entirely. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Wilkerson, I have, as you can see, a prior appointment.”
“I won’t try to keep you,” he said graciously. “But you think about my offer for that interview.”
“Only if you will honor my offer, sir. You can leave word for me at the lodge at the gate.” Which he should not have been able to pass without the specific invitation to enter. “They’ll get any message up to the college. Or telephone, if you’re modern.”
James Wilkerson settled his hat back upon his head. “I’ll do that, Miss Marigold Manners. You can bet that I will.”
Marigold accepted the groom’s assistance into the carriage and settled in for the interrogation she knew was coming.
“Who was that?”
Marigold did not demure. “A journalist looking for an angle on reportage of the as yet unidentified girl.”
“Still?” Isabella cradled her furs closer to her body in a gesture of ill ease. “Poor thing.”
“Indeed. But I have hope that you might be able to assist me. I have some of her actual clothing—only a glove and a button, which I just found, but I’m sure you can trick some information out of them, however muddy they might be.”
“Hmm.” Isabella turned over the items carefully so as not to soil her own gloves.
“Also.” Marigold felt the information well up out of her, like floodwaters behind a dam.
“The label inside her jacket—black velvet, very much à la mode with stiffened gigot sleeves and a rounded, edged collar dotted with these glass bead buttons, which I judged had been recently purchased—read Madame Watteau of Beacon Street.”
“Oh, yes, I know her. Her shop is just down the block from my atelier,” Isabella acknowledged with a smile that hinted at the corners.
“Madame Watteau is really plain Essie Waters, from the far side of Dorchester. Not that there’s anything wrong with changing one’s name to suit the current mode.
” Isabella was as egalitarian in her praise as she was with her condemnation.
“She’s a very competent, clever seamstress and frock maker, even if she does lack some originality.
But she uses good quality fabric, I’ll give her that.
Has a good eye and an elegant touch. Silk velvet with these buttons, you said? ”
“I didn’t say, but very likely.” Marigold recalled the feel of the jacket in her hands. “The fabric felt remarkably soft and plush, which is why I thought the jacket was new, despite having been immersed in the lake.”
“And what was she wearing with it—the whole of her ensemble?”
“A well-tailored skirt of a plaid wool. Mostly blue. I’d judge it was also good fabric well made, even though it ripped while getting her out.
” Marigold controlled the shiver that stole under her skin at the memory of that moment.
“The velvet jacket was worn over a plaid-patterned blouse, gathered at the neckline, under a high, lace collar that came almost up to her chin.”
“Forest green, black, aubergine, and royal blue?”
“Yes!” Marigold ought not be surprised at Isabella’s acuity, but this kind of clairvoyance was a little unnerving. “How did you know? The blue of the plaid almost exactly matched the velvet of the hat—a tam which I am sure came from—”
“Jordan Marsh.” Isabella nodded. “Stylish for someone of good but not unlimited means. Not custom—Watteau has a version of the same ensemble in her window now, as we speak—or at least she did yesterday, when I departed the city.”
“You check your competitor’s windows every day?”
“Not a competitor really—my clients are more interested in exclusive designs. Watteau sells ready-made ensembles. Very good at their price, but not … exactly the equal of the House of Dana.”
“Naturally,” Marigold said. “Forgive me for my lapse of understanding.”
“You are always forgiven,” Isabella answered. “We’re almost to my inn. So.” She began to sum up. “Your girl is well-heeled enough to buy her clothes at Madame Watteau on Beacon Street but not—”
“—rich enough to venture up Beacon Street to the House of Dana?”
“Indeed,” Isabella affirmed.
“What does that tell us?” Marigold posited.
“Is she a local girl? Does a girl who is not from the area come to Wellesley College, but take the train into the city and venture up to Beacon Street to shop for a wardrobe?” To Marigold’s mind, anyone who would be so concerned about her appearance would already know where to shop.
“Or would she be someone local who knew Watteau’s would have high-quality ready-made clothing that was better than what might be available on Wellesley’s commercial street? ”
“Why don’t I just ask her who bought that ensemble?”
“Ask Madame Watteau?”
“Essie.” Isabella smiled in her assured, serene way. “I’ll invite her to dinner. Explain it all—about your dead girl and how you need to know. She’s a good egg, our Essie Waters. She’ll tell me, even without the good champagne.”
“You’re a wonder, Isabella.” Marigold reached out to touch her friend’s hand—briefly. One never wanted to make too much of oneself or one’s sentiments. “Give her the good champagne anyway.”
“Of course I will, darling. I always do.”