Smoke and Mirrors Read online

  ‘Mr Hollister thought I might be in danger.’ I smiled at our Lizard Man as a way of conveying my thanks. Later, when he was calm and when my lungs weren’t on fire and my blood wasn’t racing, I would remind him that though I appreciated him coming to what he thought was my rescue, violence would not be tolerated inside the walls of the museum. ‘I am very fortunate, indeed, to have him here looking after me.’

  Just as I’d hoped, this comment elicited a small smile from my protector.

  ‘Thank you very much, Mr Hollister,’ I told him and stepped back so he might return to the Waxworks Room. ‘I am grateful for your care and concern.’

  Jeffrey mumbled something that might have been ‘You’re welcome,’ and disappeared back into the room from which he had come.

  Andrew’s stovepipe hat was on the floor and, gulping down breath after breath, he bent to retrieve it. ‘You know I didn’t mean anything of it, Evie. You know I would never hurt you.’

  There was no truth to the rumor that I had once given Andrew Emerson the mitten. We were never engaged to be married and, had we been, I never would have broken it off. I wasn’t in love with Andrew. I never had been. But he was a good man and there was honor in him. For all the world, I could not have broken my promise to him and risked breaking his heart.

  Just because I did not love him did not mean I wasn’t moved by the softness of his smile.

  Drat it all, he saw the softening of my resolve and his eyes pleaded with me. ‘Please give me a few moments. For the sake of the friendship we shared. For the sake of everything that happened back in Bethel.’

  If only he knew! It was what had happened back in Bethel that worried me so, and what would happen – to me and to my family – if the truth of the matter became public. Two years previously, I had convinced myself the only way to assure secrecy was to never let down my guard and to never reveal my secrets.

  I had never loved Andrew Emerson, but I valued our friendship.

  I knew if I took the time to talk to him, both my safety and those secrets might be put at risk.

  I inched my shoulders back. ‘I am grateful Mr Hollister didn’t injure you and I hope you will forgive him. As you might imagine, he has not had an easy life. He is well-intentioned in spite of his temper. For reasons I cannot explain, he feels proprietary when it comes to me.’

  ‘Perhaps he recognizes the goodness that has always been inside you, dear Evie.’ I thought Andrew might take my hand, but one look over my shoulder toward the Waxworks Room and he changed his mind. ‘I recognize the strength of your character, too. That’s why I’ve come to see you. Evie, please listen.’ He reached into the pocket of his frock coat and pulled out a single piece of paper, folded in half. ‘Let me show you something. Just so you might read it. Just so you might understand. Then you’ll surely see why I need your help.’

  He was so sincere and I was terrified I might be convinced. Panic spread through my bloodstream and quickened my pulse. My stomach clutched. ‘I wish I could, Andrew. But no matter what you think I can do for you, I cannot.’

  The pain of his expression was too much to bear, so I refused to look him in the face.

  ‘But for the sake of our friendship!’ He made to press the paper into my hand, but I closed my fingers tight over my palm and refused to yield. ‘Please, Evie.’

  I shook my head. ‘I am not the girl you knew back in Bethel.’

  Before he could question my statement or once again pull me in with reminders of our long acquaintance, I turned on my heel and swept into the Waxworks Room.

  Andrew came as far as the doorway, his voice rough with emotion and touched with desperation.

  ‘Please, Evie, please,’ he called after me. ‘Don’t you see? I need your help. She … she needs your help!’

  I need your help.

  She needs your help.

  The words echoed through my mind all morning, shaming me for my callousness. They did not, however, change my heart or dampen my resolve. That day, I kept myself safely behind the closed door of my office, coming out only once at two and only because every Friday at that time I shared a meal with Madame Chantilly DePris (who was, in reality, a woman named Bess Buttle), our most current Bearded Lady. I will admit that while it was off-putting at first, after these few months, I hardly noticed Bess’s full growth of facial hair and was, in fact, more interested in the amusing stories she told of her life back in London and her time on the road in freak shows and circuses both in this country and abroad. Not only would I miss seeing Bess this Friday, but she would not easily forgive me if I cancelled.

  With Bess and luncheon in mind and, feeling very much like the coward I was, I inched open my office door and peeked outside. The room where I looked over the ledgers and handled other portions of the administrative duties that kept the museum operating smoothly was directly beyond the Waxworks Room and, from there, I could see the knots of people gathered in front of our exhibits, engaged in lively conversation. There were more patrons in the Portrait Gallery, I could hear their voices and, when I stepped outside the office, I saw what I expected – most of them were gathered around the mermaid, their mouths open in wonder, their eyes wide with amazement. Still more of them tramped up the steps to visit our Feejee beauty.

  I was relieved to see that none of these was Andrew Emerson.

  After luncheon I handed out wages to our oddities, then I returned to my office and spent the rest of the day closed in there. At dinnertime, I might have called for a carriage to take me to Castle Garden and – thanks to the largesse of my brother – paid five dollars to stroll the grounds, relax and sip a mint julep. Or I might have gone to Delmonico’s, where the same amount of money would have bought me dinner, including a slice of oyster pie.

  But that day I did none of those things. I stayed in my office, the door closed against old friends and the memories of my past.

  By nine, I was sorely tired of looking through the ledgers, and though I knew Phin would be pleased I had accomplished so much that day in terms of examining our incoming funds (colossal, indeed!) and our outgoing expenses, after so many hours the figures swam before my eyes. Another hour and the museum would close. Surely, after all this time, Andrew Emerson would no longer be lying in wait for me.

  My neck ached and I rubbed it with one hand, gathered my reticule and left my office. I would stop on the first floor and tell Mr Dewey, the assistant manager of the museum, that I was leaving early, and I knew he would not mind. I had put in a full day’s work, and besides, Mr Dewey was always obliging. The fact that I was P.T. Barnum’s sister might have had something to do with it.

  The Waxworks Room was empty of patrons and, as I did each night, I strolled through it to make sure all was in order, stopping for a moment to look at the wax miniatures of thirty eminent Mexican generals and statesmen. Though I was not especially fond of the exhibit, finding no interest in the colorful and rich costumes of the figures, the nearby placard declared it of ‘universal interest.’ Since, at the moment, I was the only one in the Waxworks Room, this might not have been completely true.

  The thought amused me, and for the first time in the hours since I’d seen Andrew Emerson, I found myself smiling. I completed my circuit of the Waxworks Room and proceeded on to the Portrait Gallery. It, too, appeared to be empty at this late hour, and I could only imagine that our patrons, so eager to see the mermaid when they first arrived, had proceeded on to the other exhibits: live animals and stuffed specimens, mummies and statues that had been carved in antiquity, recreated scenes of the great cities of the world and, of course, those poor souls, our human oddities.

  No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than I swore I saw a flash of dull green somewhere to my left. I turned that way and called out, ‘Mr Hollister, is that you?’ but I must surely have been mistaken. Though Jeffrey Hollister could be sullen, he was never impolite, and he did not respond. Or perhaps I simply did not hear him thanks to the lively chatter of our Happy Family monkeys.

 
Eager to get home, to put up my feet and to eat whatever might be left from Phin and Charity’s dinner, I hurried to the stairway but stopped at the top of the steps. There was a curious and unfamiliar aroma in the room, the faintest smell of rusting metal that mingled with the slightly fishy odor of the burning whale oil lamps and the scent of joss sticks that wafted from a nearby exhibit of Oriental wonders.

  Curious, I turned and glanced toward the mermaid and, when I did, my heart banged against my ribs then stopped, its beat frozen, as was my breath.

  Tan sit-down-upons. A black frock coat. A stovepipe hat beneath the glass case that contained the mermaid.

  And Andrew Emerson’s body sprawled on the floor, his arms flung out at his sides, his legs twisted at an unnatural angle and those genial blue eyes of his open and staring. A river of blood bubbled from the open wound at the top of his head, and there were bits of skull and brain matter splattered on the floor and the glass case where the mermaid watched the scene, her mouth open in a silent scream.

  TWO

  As soon as I was able to swallow my horror and find my voice, I summoned an attendant and told him to find Mr Dewey, who in turn sent for another attendant and instructed him to usher our patrons out of the building by way of a back staircase so they would not catch sight of the gruesome scene there in the Portrait Gallery. A third attendant, one who usually sat near the front door so he might answer visitors’ questions, was sent in search of a constable. As he was assistant manager of the museum and it was his place to convey the terrible news, Mr Dewey himself, visibly shaken though he was, departed to fetch my brother.

  That left me alone with Andrew Emerson’s body.

  His body and my stinging conscience.

  ‘You said you needed my help. You said she … she needed my help, though I cannot imagine who you were talking about. Andrew …’ I stared at Andrew’s lifeless body and pictured in my mind’s eye the energetic and able-bodied young man who had always had an ear for my troubles and an arm to steady me when we walked together through Bethel. Though the scene before my eyes repulsed me, I was powerless to fight against its lodestone strength. I stepped nearer to the body.

  Might I have changed the outcome to that tragic day if I had taken the time to listen to Andrew?

  In answer to my own question, I shook my head and stared at Andrew and the ever-growing pool of blood that flowed around him, reaching its red tentacles across the floor, soaking into the spaces between the boards.

  My palms were hot and moist and I scraped them against the skirt of my gown. I had never been particularly queasy when it came to things like injuries or blood, but I had never before seen a murder victim. And surely poor Andrew had been murdered, for there was nothing in the vicinity that could have injured him so grievously by accident and nothing else that could explain what happened.

  But who?

  I had never been one to panic, either, yet I could not help myself. I glanced around, examining the shadows, peering into the Waxworks Room and reflexively moving toward the stairway when I thought I heard the creak of a floorboard when I should have been the only person about. There were attendants still downstairs near the front door, and I had no doubt they had their heads together, discussing the tragedy. I would be safe with them until Phin arrived, I told myself, and I would find comfort in their company.

  Safety and comfort, yes, but downstairs I would not find the answers to the questions that pounded through my brain.

  ‘Why?’ My voice was small and lost in the gray shadows that seemed to have grown ever deeper in each corner of the gallery. ‘Who would do this, Andrew? And why? And how …’ When I swallowed, my throat ached. ‘How did you think I might help you?’

  As far as I could see, there was only one way to find out.

  I peered down the stairway to be sure none of the staff was anywhere near and, my resolution more steady than my shaking hands, I lifted my skirts to keep them out of the blood and closed in on Andrew’s body.

  ‘Ooh, do be careful there, Miss Barnum!’

  At the sound of Bess Buttle’s high-pitched voice, I clutched a hand to my heart and spun around.

  ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you like that.’ A smile showed through the four-inch growth of dark whiskers that covered Bess’s chin. ‘Just didn’t want you getting your skirts all soaked up in the blood.’ Her eyes wide and her cheeks shot through with color, she scooted closer. ‘Is that him? Well, of course it is, ain’t it? There can’t be two dead bodies in the museum. They’re talking about this one downstairs. Talking about some man who went and got himself killed. Well, if that don’t cap the climax! So that’s him?’

  ‘Andrew Emerson, yes.’ Bess’s chattering had given my heart a moment to settle and I released a long breath. ‘He was a friend of mine. In fact, he stopped earlier today and we chatted.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Truly.’ In spite of the beard as bushy as any man’s, Bess was a woman through and through. She had dainty hands and a compact, curved figure. She took a lace-edged handkerchief from her sleeve and touched it to her eyes. ‘It’s an awful thing, ain’t it, and I can understand how you would want to pay your respects and all, but really, should you be here? I mean, begging your pardon, Miss Barnum, but the man’s been hatcheted in the head, if I’m any judge. Should you be here? Alone?’

  ‘I’m perfectly safe,’ I told her, hoping I sounded as confident as I wanted her – and myself – to believe I was. ‘There are attendants downstairs should I need assistance.’

  ‘There were attendants down there a while ago, too.’ Beneath the whiskers that matched the inky color of her hair, Bess’s face paled to a shade not unlike her dove-gray gown. ‘That didn’t do him no good, did it?’

  It went without saying.

  And made me think.

  ‘He must have been come upon unawares,’ I told Bess. ‘Otherwise, as you say, he would have cried out and someone would have heard him. He would have fought back and there would be some evidence of the ensuing scuffle.’ I craned my neck, trying for a better look at Andrew but, from this distance, it was impossible so, once again, I lifted my skirts and moved closer to the body.

  ‘You’re not going to—’ Bess clapped a hand on my arm. ‘You don’t mean to get nearer to him, do you?’

  ‘That is exactly what I mean to do.’ I shook off her ministering touch. ‘Do you mean to fetch an attendant to stop me?’

  Bess chewed her lower lip but it took her only a moment to make up her mind. ‘Here, then.’ She scooted behind me, reached down and gathered my skirts and petticoats into her hands then, with one swift motion, raised them all above my knees. ‘If you’re going to take a close look you don’t want to end up covered with blood. I’ll hang on. You be careful.’

  Careful, indeed, for if anyone came upon us they would see not only my chemise but my ankles where they showed above the tops of my boots!

  The thought encouraged me to move quickly and, with Bess trailing behind and tugging at my skirts, I bent to study the wound at the top of Andrew’s head.

  ‘The wound is perfectly round,’ I pointed out, in case Bess could not so easily see it from her vantage point. ‘It is perhaps three inches in circumference. It looks as if …’ I stood so quickly to demonstrate that Bess nearly lost her footing and her hold on my skirts. She grabbed them up before they could sink into the stream of blood near my feet and, once she’d gotten a good grip, I demonstrated, using some invisible weapon in my right hand as if to attack her.

  ‘It looks as if his skull has been pierced by a sharp object applied quickly and with great force,’ I said, acting out the motion before bringing my hand back to my side. ‘It takes little imagination to think what would have happened after that. His skull gave way; his brain was punctured. I know very little about anatomy or science but I believe death would have come very quickly.’

  ‘Thank goodness,’ she muttered, looking down at the corpse.

  Wondering what the murder weapon might be, I glanced around the ar
ea but saw nothing with so singular a shape. ‘He took it with him,’ I muttered, then added for Bess’s benefit, ‘Whatever caused the wound, the killer took it with him. I see nothing like it here.’

  Done scanning the scene, I turned my attention back to Andrew and thought of what I’d told Bess earlier. Had he been surprised? Had Andrew fought back? I bent closer still and, this time, lifted Andrew’s left hand in mine.

  He was still warm, and his fingers were as supple as I remembered them when he had laid his hand on my arm earlier in the day. The skin of his hand was the same ashen color as his face. This close, I saw that his pupils were dilated, his jaw had fallen open and his skin sagged. His bow tie was slightly askew and, beneath it, I saw the purple bruising on his neck.

  ‘Looks as if someone likely tried to choke the life out of him first. What does that tell you, Miss Barnum?’ As if afraid to speak the words outright, Bess whispered the question.

  ‘The marks on his neck are not from the attack that killed him,’ I told her, though I didn’t bother to explain how I knew. ‘But look at his hands. You see here, there are no bruises on his knuckles, no cuts or scratches. I do believe it is as we said earlier – Mr Emerson was come upon unawares.’