CHAPTER ELEVEN
L eona hoped she had some time before word got back to Detective Gideon Day she’d been to the Hausmann home.
If, indeed, it was the police watching the house in the Vinegar Hill neighborhood.
As the day progressed, she periodically glanced out the windows in anxious anticipation of his frowning face at her door.
Otherwise, she had much to think about and wrote it all down in her diary.
She found it difficult to analyze the information with her brain fizzing over with emotion and reaction, but as always, the writing helped.
Discovering if Benedict Van Wyn had been part of the plot to steal from Daphne would lead her to Audrey, she was sure.
And when would the coroner’s findings be made public?
Had the argument with Benedict weakened Daphne’s heart and brought on her sudden death?
Had she awakened and caught the thief in the act which frightened her enough to stop her heart?
I heard a thump and maybe a voice.
Whose voice?
***
“I T’S MR. VAN WYN I must follow,” Leona said to Ruth a few days later as they strolled arm in arm down the crowded sidewalk.
Ruth appeared tired but happy; her time at the hospital, where her father was a doctor, always seemed to rejuvenate her. “How will you do that? Without getting into trouble in those saloons and gambling halls? You can’t keep yourself safe if you never load that little gun of yours.”
How was a very good question. And how to stay out of the way of Detective Day who she was sure to cross paths with again.
“Whatever you do, I’m coming with you,” Ruth said.
Surprised, Leona said, “You are not.”
A carriage rolled by at a fast pace, and they darted away from the stones and mud its wheels flung out.
Once they were back on the sidewalk, Ruth stepped in front of her and stopped. “So help me, Leona, if you don’t let me go with you, I will tell your husband what you are about.”
Leona braced herself to keep from running into her friend, betrayal hot in her heart. “You—wouldn’t.”
Ruth tried to appear stern and failed. “No, I wouldn’t, but I can’t let you go alone. It’s not safe.”
Leona laughed. “I’m not afraid of—.” She stopped, struck by an idea. “I won’t go as myself. I’ll go as Leo.”
“Me, too, Leona. I mean it.”
Leona gazed into Ruth’s earnest face. “I know you mean it, but how can I risk your safety too? You’re more vulnerable than I am. They won’t even let you into the places he’s bound to go.”
Ruth took Leona’s hand again and tucked it into the crook of her elbow. They walked to the end of Pineapple Street and headed back to Cranberry. She leaned close to Leona.
“It’s me or load the little gun,” she whispered.
“I won’t forgive myself if something happens to you!”
They walked in silence until the house came into view.
“Are you sure you want to help me find out what exactly Van Wyn is guilty of?”
Ruth smiled. “Of course, I’m sure. We’ll get your memoir back, and the sooner we figure this out, the better. We have work to do, a magazine to prepare.”
Articles and speeches to write, petitions to circulate, envelopes to fill. Leona had misgivings about dragging Ruth with her. But she was better off with a brother—or a sister—in-arms at her side during a battle.
Upon entering the house, Leona realized what the biggest obstacle to this transformation would be.
She had male clothing destined for the charity box at her church, sitting in a spare room.
But how would they be able to leave the house without Mrs. McCarthy seeing them?
Or, God forbid, Gil coming home? And back in again.
For how long would they have to keep this masquerade going?
Ruth had her nursing position at the Colored Hospital and could only give her a few nights.
And Leona didn’t know which nights Gil would be home.
Oh, but what the blazes, she needed to do something to defend herself and get the memoir returned. Short of breaking into the Van Wynn’s mansion, that is. Perhaps Leo would have, but she wasn’t Leo anymore.
“We can change how we look.” Leona pulled shirts and trousers from the box. “But what’s our purpose? We can’t linger in the street and watch the house until Van Wyn leaves, not without someone running us off eventually.”
“We could—” Ruth contemplated a faded strip of red cloth. “We could be street sweepers. But we’ll need a broom and a shovel.”
“And a horse and a cart,” Leona mused. “If he leaves, he’ll take his own carriage, and we’ll have the cart to follow in.” She went to the door and peered out into the hallway. Mrs. McCarthy’s singing coming from the kitchen reassured her.
“What will we tell them?”
Leona returned to the boxes pushed against the wall. “We can’t tell them anything. It will cause too many problems.” She shook out a pair of pants and held them to her waist. “And we could get arrested for wearing men’s clothes.”
“We don’t give anyone a reason to stop us, then,” Ruth replied.
Anxiety gripped Leona. “I don’t know what else to do. This is dangerous, and Geneva has put me in a terrible spot.”
“I know. We only follow him until he brings us to where Audrey might be. Or until something else happens.”
“What do you mean?” She yanked on a balled-up roll of cotton. The cloth was narrow and long enough to bind her beneath the man’s shirt she’d set aside.
“You said Detective Day is out there, too. He might find something out before we do. The police are the professionals, aren’t they?”
“Well, ye-es. But I—Daphne was my friend. And if he hadn’t chased me off, I’d be doing whatever I can to bring her killer to justice, without Geneva Van Wyn forcing my hand to find out the truth.” She passed Ruth a long length of the cloth.
“As if you were still a soldier, trying to right a wrong,” her friend chided and glanced down at the cloth in her hand. “What’s this for?”
“Goes around your bosom.”
“I am not removing my corset!”
Leona laughed at her shock. “Well, we’ll loosen the laces up, just so you’ll be more comfortable sweeping or driving the cart.”
“If you say so.” Ruth folded a worn blue shirt, patched trousers, and a green wool vest into a pile. “Need a warmer jacket.”
“You need something to go around your neck, too, to hide the fact you don’t have an Adam’s apple. And a hat to cover your hair.”
“We’ll need pins for our hair. Are there boots in that box? There’s none in this one.”
“They don’t have to be a matching pair, do they?” Leona dug deeper into the box, pulled out a hat and mismatched boots. “Might have to put newspaper in the toes.”
Hands on her hips, Ruth surveyed their bounty piled together on the bed. “How did you do it, Leona? For years with the Union Army?”
“It helped to be younger then. A beardless boy.”
“What about your—monthly visitor?”
“I did what I could, buried the evidence. And after a while, all the hard marching, the short rations, it just stopped. There’s more to it than that, though, and I’ll show you once we’re dressed up.”
Ruth sighed. “All those hurt and wounded boys—I never saw any like you when I was nursing. I read about it in the paper later, though. Oh, Leona, are you sure you want to put those clothes on again?”
“Ruth, I must do something. Geneva is doing me a favor in a backhanded way with her little blackmail scheme. And I can do this alone. I don’t want you dragged into my mess.”
Ruth shook her head. “We only want to see where Mr. Van Wyn goes and if Audrey is there with him. We leave at the first sign of trouble. And if we find out anything important, we go to Detective Day right away.”
“We won’t get anywhere unless we figure out a safe place to change our clothes without Mrs. McCarthy or Pauline seeing us—wait, Charlotte, of course. If she’s home. I’ll be right back. I’ll get some old newspapers and twine, and we can tie this all up like packages.”
When she returned, the house quiet except for the sounds of industrious housekeeping, Ruth appeared pensive.
“Change your mind?” Leona asked, half hoping.
Ruth shook her head with a smile. “No, but I think I might quite like not wearing a bustle.”
***
“L ONG STRIDES,” LEONA said, not for the first time. “Don’t clasp your hands in front of you. Stick them in your pockets.”
Ruth matched Leona’s stride, thrusting her hands into the pockets of her patched jacket.
The sun warmed the day, at least. The old timers were already remarking on the mildness of the winter compared to the ones they had endured in the past. With some of the money she earned from her writing, Leona had paid for a broom and shovel.
They rented a cart with a small horse to pull it from the local stable.
She’d only told Charlotte half the tale—no mention of Geneva for fear of starting a tempest in a teapot.
Leona found herself glad Geneva forced her into the role she had to play for another reason—she didn’t relish leaving her fate for others to decide.
Staying at home worrying was not good for her spirits.
“How many nights can you spy on Benedict?” Charlotte had asked.
Gil would come home, and Ruth had to report for duty at the hospital. Leona might have to work alone, if she could get away. Or make another plan.
It turned out to be two nights outside the grand house on Columbus Avenue.
They made ten cents each in total from grateful passers-by.
The first night, Benedict stayed home. Before they could leave, a couple of drunken dandies cursed at Ruth.
Leona threw a clod of dirt and manure at one of them and knocked his fancy hat clean off, and they left, cursing her.
The second night, they ran off a gang of boys who tried to steal the horse and cart, and together they fought them off. As they stood panting in the street, Ruth tugged at Leona’s sleeve and nodded at the house.
The door had opened to reveal Benedict Van Wyn dressed for an evening out in a fine suit of clothes and an overcoat.
Leona put the reeking broom in the cart.
The groom brought Van Wyn’s brougham around with lanterns lit, pulled by two gray horses dressed in flashy livery.
The young man hopped up onto the box and leaned over for a warming slug from a flask he took from his pocket.
Benedict left the house shouting about not wanting to be late. A little boy stood in the open doorway screaming after his father. Ignored, the boy abruptly stopped crying and slumped against the door jamb until his mother came and led him back inside.
“Wicked man,” Ruth whispered.
The groom snapped the whip over the horses’ rumps.
“Let’s go.” Leona helped Ruth into the cart. She jumped up next to her and grabbed the reins.
Ruth clutched the seat with both hands as they took off behind the handsome brougham. “Oh, Lord.”
They jolted down Pierpont Street and onto Henry Street, going south.
The brougham turned onto Atlantic Avenue, which divided the wards between the Heights and Cobble Hill, and went east. The gas light lamps glowed along the way, but they spent much of the time in deepening twilight.
She didn’t want to light the carriage lamp just yet.
Leona’s hands were stiff from shoveling horse turds. The reek of the cart as it bumped over the cobbled stones came close to unbearable. But the sense of adventure exalted her. It swept her into the higher spheres of being alive like no amount of laudanum or alcohol could.
“Do you think they know we’re following?” Ruth asked.
They’d passed carts, carriages, and horseback riders. “They might suspect. But Atlantic’s a main thoroughfare so—”
“He’s going to Prospect Park?”
“Or Washington.”
“I feel like I’m in one of your stories.” Ruth laughed. “Whatever happened to those little boys Ned and Zed? The real ones, I mean.”
Leona clenched her teeth as if this would keep the red-misted memory away. “I write it, so I don’t have to talk about it.”
Ruth put her hand on her arm and squeezed. “I pray so hard for you, Leona.”
“I know you do.”
Once on Flatbush Avenue, Leona balked. “If he goes into the park, we’re turning around. Too many bad things happen there at night.”
After a few tense moments, Ruth pointed. “No, he goes around onto Park Street.”
The brougham turned again, headed for the river. When it turned onto a side street, she kept them going straight.
“I think we’re in Flatbush.” The darkness had deepened.
“Not sure though, I haven’t come this far at night before.
” At another cross street, she turned the cart west, at a moderate pace so as not to run into the slowing brougham.
“We’ll give them a few minutes to find their destination. Then we’ll follow on foot.”
Shivering, Ruth nodded. Leona put an arm around her shoulders. “I just want to see where they’re going. Once we know that, we’ll turn back and go home.”
Ruth nodded again with a sliver of a smile. “I’m accustomed to the cold, but I don’t have to like it.”
Leona pulled the cart into an alley and set the brake. “We’ll walk. That’ll warm you up.” She hopped down and held her hand out. “Come on, soldier. I need you with me.”
They heard the brougham before they saw it.
The groom singing to himself in a lovely tenor, the scent of tobacco as he smoked his pipe.
They traveled through a couple of dark and narrow alleys, the lamp they’d brought keeping them from harm.
Across the avenue, a three-storied house stood off by itself in a lot with no neighbors.
There were signs of building going on next door.
A half-finished foundation and the frame of a stable. On the other side, a cleared lot.
There were lights on in the house, a warm beckoning blaze. Leona stared hard at the sign in the window, the painted door. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Ruth frowned. “I expected a gambling house or a brothel.”
If they’d ended up in the wards near the Navy Yard, she would’ve agreed. Leona had settled on finding where Benedict Van Wyn’s mistress lived when they turned south, but this wasn’t that. Another carriage pulled up, then a third.
Benedict Van Wyn had arrived at the same house of spiritualists his grandmother and her friends attended. He’d come for a séance.