Chapter Twenty
TWENTY
The sky was an ominous pale green as Vesper stood before the steel casket.
She wasn’t alone. Around her stood most of Basalton’s high society, all dressed in formal black, all with their heads bowed in collective solemnity. A member of the clergy was standing next to the casket. He checked his pocket watch, then began.
“Good afternoon,” he murmured. “Today, we are gathered to remember the life of our dear friend Charles Michael Belver. We’ll begin with the reading of the eulogy…”
Vesper let her mind wander as he went on.
When he was finished, he gestured for Mrs. Belver to step forward.
She was wearing a black veil that covered most of her face, but Vesper still saw the woman’s bottom lip tremble as she laid a single white lily on her husband’s casket before taking her seat.
The clergyman gestured, and everyone else came forward to lay their own lilies.
Once the last person had laid theirs, the clergyman folded his hands and bowed.
“Peace be with you all,” he said gravely.
The rest of the mourners dispersed after that, but Vesper remained standing at Charles Belver’s grave. Maximilian stood next to her, and the two stayed silent as the groundskeeper lowered the casket into the ground. No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t quite accept it.
Charles Belver was dead.
The news of what had happened had spread through Basalton like an epidemic.
Vesper had heard at least three different variations of the story on the street, but the same details had cropped up enough times to paint a picture.
Belver, it seemed, had been underpaying his workers at Belver Steel, a cost-cutting measure he’d employed to try to keep the failing company afloat.
A disgruntled worker who’d been protesting at the farmer’s market had seen him, and decided to take matters into his own hands.
Now one of this city’s captains of industry was dead, and they were back to square one.
“Miss Evans?”
Finally, she looked up at Maximilian. He seemed hesitant.
“Are you … all right?”
“I’m fine,” said Vesper. “Just thinking about what I need to do for the Globe. Let’s meet at Guillermo’s tomorrow.”
Maximilian looked slightly stung, but nodded.
“O-kay,” he said slowly. “I’ll … see you tomorrow, then.
” He tipped his hat, then headed toward the cemetery’s exit.
Vesper knew she should have gone after him, but something kept her feet rooted to where she stood.
Now that she was alone, an emotion she’d kept tamped down over the last five days was finally bubbling to the surface. It took her a moment to name it.
Anger.
She knew that that wasn’t the right emotion. Anger wasn’t what she should have felt in the wake of a man’s murder. But the longer Vesper stared at Charles Belver’s grave, the angrier she became.
She’d had him.
She’d been close, so close, to concluding this investigation.
The pieces had been set on the chessboard, and she’d only been a few moves away from taking the queen.
Then, without any warning, that entire board had been overturned, cleared away, and reset as though the game had never happened.
It was easier to think about it that way than to reconcile with the other truth.
She’d missed her chance.
Belver was dead, and with his death any chance for a confession and the truth was gone.
Without a confession, Maximilian wasn’t exonerated, and without that exoneration, she wouldn’t be able to collect the money for the Globe.
She had no other leads to chase, and she was running out of time.
Belver was dead, and so was her investigation.
She turned away from the grave and left the private section of the cemetery, but she continued to walk among the dirt paths between the rows of headstones.
In the past, walking had sometimes shaken loose new ideas in her mind, and she was going to need a new idea fast. It was the eighteenth, which meant she only had one week and five days to figure this out.
It’s not enough time, a panicked voice whispered. You can’t solve a crime in twelve days with no suspects or leads.
Vesper frowned, then promptly smothered that voice.
“Vesper?”
She turned to find Ada coming her way. This afternoon, she was wearing an elegant black lace dress that Vesper suspected cost more than some people in Basalton made in a whole month. The young woman stopped before her, her expression cautious.
“You’re upset,” she murmured. “I can see it all over your face.”
Vesper didn’t answer.
“It’s not because of Belver though,” Ada pressed. “Is it?”
Vesper sighed, and felt her shoulders relax slightly.
She couldn’t explain it, but there was something refreshing about Ada’s candor, her directness.
For the last week, she’d been asked any number of times if she was all right; it was a relief, for the first time, to speak to someone who knew she wasn’t all right.
Ada pointed to a wooden bench beneath a large oak tree. “Join me?”
Together, they settled on the bench, and for several seconds, the two of them simply sat in silence. Finally, Vesper broke it.
“Have your parents said anything else about your wedding to Mr. Calhoun?”
Ada shook her head and shrugged. “I convinced my mother to hold off until at least spring so that we can incorporate the florals she likes.” She laughed humorlessly. “That at least buys me a little more time.” She turned to Vesper. “But you’re deflecting. Tell me what’s bothering you, really.”
Vesper shook her head. “I can’t talk about it.”
Ada’s expression turned briefly teasing. “Why? Because you’re a reporter and you deal with sensitive information?” She crossed her arms. “You know, I may not be a reporter, Vesper, but I know how to be a decent friend.” She reached out and squeezed Vesper’s hand. “You can trust me too.”
They were simple words, but something in Vesper softened.
She’d had a real family once, and found a second one at the Globe, but Vesper realized she’d never really had any female friends.
Most of the young women her age weren’t interested in the same things she was, and though she’d tried a few times to strike up friendships with other girls on her block, few had taken interest in a girl who preferred to bury her nose in a book over discussing which boy was cutest. She’d always felt that ever-present split, the decision to be herself, or to be acceptable.
With Ada though, Vesper found that she didn’t have to choose.
It was easy to talk to her, to be herself.
She took a deep breath, and made a decision.
“I need to tell you something,” she whispered. “I’m not really writing an exposé on the rich. I’m investigating Francis Gladwell’s murder to try to find out who killed him. It … isn’t going well.”
For a long while, Ada said nothing. Then: “You’re trying to help prove Maximilian is innocent,” she said slowly.
Vesper nodded. “But I’m stuck. All this time, I thought it was Belver, but with him dead and no confession, I’m back to square one.”
Ada pursed her lips. “If you still believe it was him, you could take the information you have to the police?”
Vesper shook her head. “There’s not enough evidence, and there are still too many unanswered questions.”
Ada sat back on the bench. “Maybe he left clues, something that could still tie him to Francis’s murder.”
Vesper pulled the journal out from the folds of her dress. “All I have is this.”
Ada frowned. “What is it?”
“I’m not sure.” Vesper opened it up and began flipping through the pages while Ada looked over her shoulder. “I found it in Belver’s office,” she explained. “I think it may have belonged to him or maybe Francis, but I can’t prove it. There’s no name anywhere in the journal.”
Ada held her hand out. “May I?”
Vesper handed her the journal, and watched as Ada went through the pages more slowly. Her brow furrowed, then she looked up at Vesper and shrugged.
“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” she said, shaking her head. “It looks rather technical.”
Vesper nodded. “I don’t know what the figures mean, or what they even are.”
Ada pinched her chin. “It almost looks like the figures our family’s accountant creates at the end of each year.
I’ve seen them on my father’s desk.” She paused, thoughtful.
“I could show this to him, if you’d like?
He won’t know whose journal it is, but he might be able to tell me what the numbers and calculations mean? ”
Vesper hesitated. Until now, her investigation of Francis Gladwell’s murder had stayed between her and Maximilian. She didn’t mind Ada knowing, she trusted her, but she wasn’t sure about anyone else knowing. On the other hand …
You only have twelve days left, that needling voice she’d tried to smother returned. If you want different results, you have to try a different approach.
She looked from the journal, then back to Ada, then nodded.
“Thank you,” she said, “I appreciate it.”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I hear from him.” Ada stood. “I’ve got to go, my parents are waiting for me. Are you going to be all right here?”
Vesper nodded. Ada started to walk, then stopped.
“For what it’s worth,” she said. “If there’s anyone I believe can solve this murder, it’s you, Vesper.” She left without another word.
Vesper stayed on the bench, staring past the oak tree’s thick branches.
Storm clouds were gathering now, she knew it was likely about to rain, but she couldn’t make herself move.
The fourth stage of an investigation was deduction, when the investigator took all the information they’d gathered and analyzed and used it to tie everything together and ultimately come up with a conclusion and verdict.
But every time Vesper tried to grasp at the strings of this investigation they seemed to slip from her fingers.
Even if Ada’s accountant could tell her what the numbers in the journal meant, she still had several unanswered questions.
Who had really killed Francis, and why?
What had happened to the champagne bottle?
How had the killer gotten in and out of the maze?
Who had Francis Gladwell really been, and where had he gotten his money?
Vesper sighed and stood. She wasn’t going to answer any of her questions sitting alone in a cemetery.
Gradually, she made her way back into Basalton proper, grateful that the threatening rain hadn’t started yet.
It was past two, late in the day. She might have time to work on at least one of her articles this afternoon if she hurried back to the Globe.
She was at the intersection of Oliver Avenue and Pierce Street when she looked up and saw something that stopped her.
At first, she didn’t believe her eyes. The man walking toward her was slim, slightly haggard. His head was bent and his eyes were downcast as the wind picked up. But those eyes were green. Vesper would have recognized them anywhere.
They were Francis Gladwell’s eyes.