The Magnolia Palace

Chapter Nineteen

Miss Helen would like to see you.”

The chambermaid who unlocked Lillian’s door carried a tray with a bowl of tomato soup and a cup of tea. Lillian was hungry, but she took it from the girl and laid it on her dresser, then followed her downstairs. They would grow cold, but that was the least of her worries.

A flurry of activity greeted her inside Miss Helen’s bedroom. The woman was tossing clothes in the air, Bertha trailing behind to pick them up, barely missing getting hit by a brocade shoe.

“Where is it?” said Miss Helen. “I know it was here, and now it’s gone. I must find it!”

“Where is what?” asked Lillian, not moving from the doorway.

Miss Helen straightened, her mouth set in a tense line. “I sent for you because I’m hoping you know.”

Lillian inhaled. “Know what?”

“The file of letters from Sir Robert Witt. The ones where he laid out his system of classification for his London art library. I must take it with me to Eagle Rock, and I can’t find it.”

“You asked me to place it in the bowling alley, in the bookshelves reserved for correspondence.”

“I did?” Miss Helen stared just above Lillian’s head, as if the truth could be found in the crevices of the crown moldings.

“You did. May I go now and eat my rations?”

“Oh, now, don’t be so dramatic.”

That Miss Helen could say something so blithely, as if Lillian weren’t about to be hauled off to jail, infuriated her. Lillian gestured around at the riot of fabrics and books that covered the gray carpet. “I am not the one being dramatic. Bertha will now have to clean all of this up, when the file wasn’t even here in the first place.”

“Right. She will.” Miss Helen glanced over at Bertha. “She doesn’t mind, though.”

A fleeting, hateful look passed over Bertha’s face, but Miss Helen had already turned away. Nothing pierced her bubble of insularity. She motioned to Miss Lillian. “Come with me so I don’t waste another minute.”

In the basement, they headed to the work space. It seemed so long ago that they’d bowled together. A lifetime ago.

Lillian easily located the overstuffed file on the bottom shelf. “Here. It’s filed under C for Correspondence.”

Miss Helen looked at it as if she wasn’t sure why she wanted it in the first place, and sighed. “It’s awfully large. Maybe I’ll leave it here anyway.”

It was all Lillian could do not to give the woman a good shove.

“Is that all?” Lillian asked.

“Oh, don’t be like that.” Helen paused. “I have something to tell you. I mean, it’s not why I brought you down here, but while we’re alone . . .”

Lillian waited.

“The family has spoken with Mr. DeWitt, and we’ve decided that if you tell us the location of the cameo, we will set you free. It does us no good to have the Frick name dragged through the mud, which it would certainly be, if you get taken to the police station and charged.”

Always thinking of themselves. “I don’t know where it is. I didn’t take it.”

“I know you say that, but be reasonable. You will be free; we’ll all be better off if you tell us.”

“I don’t know.”

Miss Helen considered Lillian. “I still can’t believe you took off your clothes and posed for men.”

“It was how I kept myself and my mother fed and housed.”

“Still. I can’t imagine doing such a thing. When you told me before the dinner party to pretend that everyone was undressed, was that what you would do?”

“Sometimes. Once you’re used to being in the altogether, it feels quite natural. Think of all of the nudes painted by the greatest artists. Titian, Botticelli. Someone had to pose for them.”

Miss Helen cocked her head. “Funny. I had all but forgotten that there were actual people involved.”

“You approach it from a different vantage point, as an artwork to be catalogued, the value noted.”

“I can’t believe how many of you are out there, around the city.” She spoke with awe, not repulsion. “You’re everywhere.”

“They aren’t me. They’re idealized, exaggerated versions of what a man thinks a woman should be. In any event, I think it’s swell that they’re out in the world, no admission fee necessary. If the common man can look upon a statue and be moved, I find nothing offensive about that.”

“I suppose you have a point.”

“Look, more than anyone, I would like to figure out who stole the cameo. And who left the draft on the sink. Maybe, if we work together, we can figure it out.”

Miss Helen hugged the file to her chest. “But you were the only person I told about Martha’s cameo and diamond.”

“What if someone overheard us talking? What if someone was in the enamels room when you placed it with Mr. Frick, and we didn’t know it?”

Miss Helen paused. “If someone was in there, they would have heard everything. But that’s really quite a stretch.”

“What if your mother or your brother heard us coming, and hid in there?”

Miss Helen let out a harsh laugh. “Why would my mother or brother want to take the cameo?”

Lillian struggled for an answer, anything to keep this conversation going, keep Miss Helen considering other options. “Your mother might have wanted it as a remembrance of Martha, not wanted to see it be buried with your father.”

“My mother would have told me such a thing, and not allowed an innocent woman to be accused. You might as well be accusing Miss Winnie.”

“What about her? Might she have taken it?”

“To what end? She adores the entire family, has been with us for decades. What’s she going to do, steal the cameo and run off with the butler? Also, don’t forget that she’s quite deaf. She couldn’t have overheard us talking.”

That was true. And regardless, no one in the family would take the blame for this, even if they had done it. “Well then, as I said, I didn’t do it, so I can’t tell you where it is.”

“So you’d go to jail when you could be free?”

“I have no choice in the matter. Who told Mr. DeWitt that I was Angelica?”

“I can’t say.”

Not that it mattered.

“Well, I’m sorry it has to end like this,” said Miss Helen. “I valued your assistance.”

She was dismissing Lillian, as if she were moving on to take another job, not being sent to jail.

“You are cruel.” The words flew out of Lillian’s mouth.

“And you are stubborn. I’ll call for one of the footmen to take you back to your room.” She walked to the far wall of the billiard room and gave a yank on the embroidered bellpull.

Lillian’s instinct told her to run. To hide. She had only a minute or so before she’d be locked in her room again.

The basement was full of corners and hideaways. How tempting it would be to find one and tuck herself away. Or make her way up to the third floor and crawl into an empty trunk in the storage room, or one of the massive drawers in the linen closet. Then, in the dead of night, she’d figure out how to escape. After all, she’d done it before, from the apartment. But the Fricks’ servants knew the house better than she did. She’d eventually be caught.

“I will show myself to my room, I don’t need an escort.”

Lillian strode to the stairs, wondering if Miss Helen would try to stop her.

She did not.

Instead of continuing up to the third floor, Lillian walked out onto the main hallway on the first floor. A parlor maid let out a soft “Oh” as Lillian walked by, but otherwise didn’t call out. If the front door was clear, Lillian would continue, with only the clothes on her back. She had nothing to lose.

But the same beefy footman was outside, standing under the porte-cochère.

Over at the organ niche, she spied Mr. Graham’s leather case resting next to the bench. A quick glance up the stairway showed an open door to the organ chamber, where she and Mr. Danforth had shared that lethal kiss.

She tiptoed up the marble stairs and slipped inside.

Mr. Graham was inspecting one of the pipes near the window. He turned around and wiped his hands on his trousers. “Ah, Miss Lilly. I was just doing a final visit. Mrs. Frick said the sound of organ music reminds her too much of her husband. I’m to play today, but then that’s the end of it. On to bigger and better things.”

How he could blithely make small talk when Lillian’s life had been ripped to shreds infuriated her. “Or maybe they want to get rid of you, after you brought my scandal to their attention?”

“I’m sorry?”

“They know everything, now. If I wasn’t already in trouble, you doubled it.”

“How?” He pushed his glasses farther up on the bridge of his nose.

“You told the private detective who I was, and now they’re about to cart me off to jail.”

“Whatever you’re accusing me of, I didn’t do it.” His cadence was even, not the overemphatic denial of a liar. But maybe he was a good one.

“You overheard Mrs. Whitney call me Angelica. And later, you listened as I admitted the same to Mr. Danforth, in the driveway.”

“Yes, I was there on both counts. And yes, I did suspect who you were. But I would never have told anyone else.”

“I’m guessing you were recompensed generously for the information. I should have known after you came to me in the basement and threatened me.”

“I was trying to warn you.” The words tumbled out. “You see, the niche where the organ is located captures the utterances of anyone in range, like a whispering gallery. Before the family left to bury Mr. Frick in Pennsylvania, I overheard Mrs. Dixie and Mr. Childs talking about the missing cameo, mentioning your name in connection with it. I was trying to tell you to be careful.”

She revisited their conversation. Had she jumped to conclusions, having already been on the defensive, and missed his whole point? She remembered the harsh way that she’d dismissed him. “I didn’t realize . . .” She trailed off, unsure.

“In any case, I don’t find it the least bit scandalous that you are Angelica. The Fricks have quite a double standard, surrounded by hundreds of bronzed nudes yet mortified at the thought of a naked woman in the flesh.”

There was no salaciousness behind his statement. He was simply stating a fact, and his eyes didn’t wander over her body as he spoke, as Mr. Childs’s and the private detective’s had. After all this time, someone besides herself understood the bitter irony of the situation.

She believed him, and all her bluster fell away.

She walked to the small window and leaned on the sill. Too bad it was too small for her to crawl through. “I have to get out of here. I’m in terrible trouble.”

“What can I do to help?”

She turned to him. “I’m at a loss. I’ve tried everything. The family doesn’t care what the truth is. And I don’t know what the truth is, which leaves me vulnerable to their terrible accusations.”

“Defend yourself.”

“I have and they don’t care. No one cares who actually did the things that I’m accused of: killing Mr. Frick, stealing the cameo and diamond that belonged to Martha. I’m simply an easy target.”

“Then you can explain it to the police, and maybe they can investigate.”

“The private detective was hired by Mr. Childs. I don’t stand a chance, especially now they know I’m Angelica.”

“You got here in the first place, that says something. I admit I was quite impressed when I realized who you were, and that you’d been able to wrangle the position of private secretary to the Fricks.”

“That’s the thing, I didn’t mean to pull anything off. I just stumbled into this house hoping for a cup of tea.” Still, she had accomplished the impossible, moving upward in both class and circumstance, adjusting to the whims of Miss Helen, learning how to do things that three months ago she would never have dreamed of. It hadn’t just been luck; she’d used her head, relied on her own wits.

Just then, someone called out her name, followed by heavy steps. The footman was coming for her.

The sky above the park was gray, the trees stripped bare. Lillian stared out of her window and thought of all of the statues of her likeness around the city. If only she could magically trade places with one. She’d remain motionless on top of whatever pedestal she found herself on, staring silently down at the people below, and once day turned to evening, she’d crawl down in the darkness to the street, disappear into the vast anonymity of New York. The police would arrive at her room on the top floor of the Frick mansion to take her away and find only a marble figure standing by the window, as if she’d turned to stone.

“To think what that woman did before she came here.”

Mrs. Dixie’s jagged alto rose up from the garden. Lillian leaned precariously over the sill and spied the tops of the heads of Mrs. Dixie and Mr. Childs. They were standing just below her, on the steps outside that led down to the lawn.

She pulled back a little so that if they looked up, they wouldn’t see her. Their words floated up easily.

“It’s abominable,” answered Mr. Childs.

“Do you think our children were affected?”

“She was barely around them. It’s not like she was their governess.”

“Still. Helen should have known. Should have checked her references. Stupid girl. It’s a good thing Mr. Danforth reached out to you to say he wasn’t going to propose to Helen. Otherwise we’d still be completely in the dark.”

A sharp buzzing rang in Lillian’s ears. Mr. Danforth, the rat, had leaked the truth. All this time she’d thought it couldn’t have been him, and yet the more she considered it, the less she was surprised. This was exactly what Kitty had warned her of, whirlwind courtships that turned ruinous. Lillian had been too naive to realize it, swept up in the possibility that someone might love her.

“I could tell something else was eating away at the old bloke when he showed up to return Father’s check, beyond the fact that he didn’t think he and Helen would make a good match,” intoned Mr. Childs.

“You’ve always been so intuitive, my dear. How on earth did he bring it up?”

“He mentioned that he’d come upon some damaging information and couldn’t bear to see our family’s good name tarnished, then suggested we get rid of Miss Lilly sooner rather than later.”

She’d repelled Mr. Danforth’s advances and, in turn, he’d set out to ruin her. For all of her mother’s training, the caprices of the upper classes were as foreign as some European country where Lillian didn’t speak the language or understand the customs. If she had, maybe she would have realized that Mr. Danforth’s proclamations of love were like the surface of a scummy pond, brilliantly hued but slimy to the touch.

“Good thing Mr. Danforth told you,” Mrs. Dixie sniffed. “Otherwise she might have killed us all off, one by one.”

“That’s what’s odd. Helen told me she has doubts about Miss Lilly’s involvement. Or Angelica’s. Whatever you call her. She doesn’t think the woman did it. Said that there wasn’t enough time between when she told her to fetch the water and when she came after her to get it herself.” Mr. Childs let out a long, audible breath. “It’s also strange that she didn’t confess when offered her freedom.”

“Maybe she didn’t believe we’d be true to our word.”

“She’d be right about that.”

So it had been a setup after all. Lillian doubted that Miss Helen knew about that part of the deal. Yet the way Mr. Childs and Mrs. Dixie were talking, it certainly didn’t appear as if they had planted the draft or stolen the cameo. The conversation ruled them out as suspects, unless Mr. Childs hadn’t included his wife in his plans.

Lillian’s head hurt from all the second thoughts and double crosses.

“Who else had access?” asked Mrs. Dixie, after a moment. “Your mother’s room is connected to Helen’s, which is connected to your father’s.”

“You think my mother killed my father?”

“She’d put up with enough nonsense from him over the years, after all.”

“Enough, Dixie. Stop with this. My entire family was seduced by this stranger with a nefarious background, and our children’s reputations are on the line. Someone needs to be held accountable.”

“Fine.”

“By the time the police have arrived, we’ll be gone, and they can take her away and do whatever they like with her . . .”

Mr. Childs’s voice trailed off as they moved indoors, but Lillian kept thinking about what Mrs. Dixie had said. If the pair of them were innocent, as well as Helen—her grief had been deep and real, and Lillian just couldn’t imagine she had instigated her father’s demise—could it have been Mrs. Frick? She was the only one left. Along with any of the servants, supposedly.

She thought back to both incidents, when Mr. Frick had died and when the cameo had been stolen. Something connected both events.

Someone.

Next door, she heard Bertha return to her room, humming under her breath.

Bertha.

Bertha was awake and in the hallway when Miss Winnie rushed to fetch Lillian that fateful early morning of Mr. Frick’s death.

Bertha had been coming out of the art gallery when Miss Helen and Lillian went in to place the cameo in Mr. Frick’s hand.

Lillian remembered the hateful look Bertha had given Miss Helen earlier today, as Miss Helen ransacked her own bedroom searching for Sir Robert Witt’s correspondence file. It had flashed across the maid’s face quickly, but Lillian hadn’t missed it.

Early on in their friendship, Bertha had mentioned where she was from.

Pennsylvania. Where Mr. Frick had garnered many enemies, and possibly been responsible for the death of thousands.

She could hear Bertha in the room next door, opening and closing a drawer. She was so close. How to reach her?

The window was dotted with ice; it had begun sleeting. Lillian lifted it open. Below her, a very narrow ledge and balustrade ran along the exterior of the house. She carefully stepped out, holding tight to the windowsill, and then executed a sideways shuffle step to work her way over to Bertha’s window. A couple of times her foot slipped, but she clung to the side of the house as if it were a lifeboat and waited until her heart stopped pounding to continue.

She finally made it. Bertha was lying on her bed, reading a magazine, but jumped up fast when she heard Lillian’s tap on the glass.

“Let me in!” Lillian mouthed.

Bertha didn’t hesitate, opening the window and holding out a hand so that Lillian could ease her way into the room.

“You’re crazy! You could have fallen to your death, what were you thinking?”

“I have to ask you something, Bertha.” Lillian brushed the sleet off her hair and dress.

“Do you want me to help you escape?” Bertha answered. “I would if I could, it’s terrible what’s happening. But they have someone stationed at every door.”

“Bertha, where are you from in Pennsylvania?”

She looked away. “Let me make sure the window is secure. It can get drafty in here otherwise.”

“You’re from the same town as where the flood was, aren’t you?”

Bertha gave her a blank look. “What flood?”

“A dam burst and wiped out an entire town. Mr. Frick was considered negligent but never accused, never brought to trial. You’re from Pennsylvania, aren’t you? You were there.” She waited, watching as the flatness in Bertha’s eyes was replaced by fear. “It must have been terrifying.”

Bertha’s normally rosy cheeks were white, and her lower lip trembled.

“You can tell me,” urged Lillian.

“There’s nothing to tell.”

Lillian waited a beat. “You were in the gallery as well, right before Miss Helen placed the diamond in Mr. Frick’s hand. You could have been listening in at the door, returned, and stolen it.”

“What? No!”

“If you don’t talk to me, I will share my suspicions with Miss Helen in the morning.”

Bertha winced, as if protecting her body from a physical blow. She sat on the bed, her hands twisting. Finally, something in her surrendered. “They say the wave was seventy-five feet high, as tall as the treetops. I’d been with my aunt in the hills, hunting mushrooms. We watched as it wiped out a wire factory, where the furnaces exploded and rolls of barbed wire became caught up in the wave. I could see my parents and two sisters emerge from our house, drawn by the sound of explosions. It was Memorial Day, everyone was at home. I screamed at the top of my lungs, but we were too far away and the sound of the destruction was deafening. I always wonder, did they die from drowning, unable to breathe? Or did they bleed to death, after being strafed by barbed wire? Or some dreadful combination of the two?”

The effort of the confession left Bertha trembling. “So yes, it’s no coincidence that I ended up working for the Fricks. I wanted to make them pay somehow. But once I got here, my courage flagged. They were real people, not monsters. I hated myself for my weakness, but I kept on, figuring one day I’d find the strength to act.”

Lillian folded her arms. “So you finally found your courage.”

“No. I didn’t kill him. I almost did, but I couldn’t.”

“What do you mean? You were awake that night, the night of his death. I saw you.”

“I had been asked to stay up in case Mr. Frick or Miss Helen needed anything. I went into his bathroom and I saw the bottle of Veronal sitting there. My father used to take it for his insomnia and I took that as a sign that this was my chance, finally. For four years, I had bided my time.”

Bertha’s mouth contorted, as if she were about to cry. “I filled a glass with water, and then I picked up the Veronal and opened the stopper. But my hands were shaking so; I simply couldn’t go through with it. I thought of Roddy, and how we plan to be married in the spring, of our promise to each other. I realized that killing Mr. Frick wouldn’t bring my family back, but it could destroy the chance I have at making my own. So I placed the bottle back down on the side of the sink, put back the stopper, and fled. I didn’t go through with it, I swear.”

Lillian studied her. “But the bottle wasn’t next to the glass when I went into the bathroom.” She could picture it perfectly, the lone glass sitting there on the side of the sink, no Veronal in sight.

“That was how I left it.”

Which meant someone else had come in and finished off the job before spiriting away the evidence.

“I’m sorry for what I’ve done,” cried Bertha. “For what I almost did. I’ll confess, tell them everything.”

Bertha’s story broke Lillian’s heart. She couldn’t blame her, even if Lillian had gotten swept up in the aftermath. And she hadn’t done anything wrong. “No. You have Roddy. Go get married and get away from here, all right? Promise me that.”

“I promise.” Her eyes were red. “You know, I wasn’t the only person in the art gallery the day the diamond was stolen.”

“No? Miss Helen and I were in there for some time, and we didn’t see anyone else.”

“Then they were hiding.”

“Who? Where?” She paused, waiting for an answer. “Bertha?”

Bertha swallowed. And began to speak.

Lillian carefully climbed back into her own room after her talk with Bertha, still shaking from what she’d heard. She waited, standing right next to the door, until she heard footsteps, and then called out weakly. “Who’s there? Is someone out there?”

The person drew closer.

“Yes, Miss Lilly?” She recognized the voice as the head housekeeper. Perfect.

“I have to go to the women’s room. I’m not feeling well. Would you mind letting me out?”

“We were told not to.”

“I’m quite ill. I’m going to be sick. You can stand watch, if you like.”

After a moment, the key sounded in the lock and the door swung open. The housekeeper tilted her head down the hall. “Off you go. Make it quick.”

Lillian went into the women’s bathroom and locked herself in the far stall. After a few minutes, the housekeeper ventured in. “What’s going on in here? Are you finished?”

Lillian groaned. “I can’t go anywhere. Can you call for a doctor? I think it’s serious.”

“Are you sure?”

Lillian made a retching noise that surprised even her with its indelicateness.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.”

As soon as the woman left, Lillian let herself out and down the front stairs to the second floor, treading as lightly as she could. She heard a couple of servants on the main stairway, but was able to duck into the small foyer off the landing to avoid them. From there, it was easy to slip through the breakfast room and service pantry, and finally into Mrs. Frick’s boudoir.

“What on earth!”

Mrs. Frick sat behind a small desk, writing in a leather-bound book, while Miss Winnie was perched on a chaise longue along the far wall.

Lillian held out her hands. “I’m here to apologize for my untruths. I thought you should hear them from me.”

“Untruths?” sputtered Mrs. Frick. “Lies is more like it.” She gestured to Miss Winnie. “Call for Kearns at once.”

Miss Winnie rose and lumbered over to the long, tasseled cord that summoned the butler. Lillian didn’t have long. “I was fond of Mr. Frick, I would never hurt him. Please believe me.”

“I thought you were good for my daughter, but now we all know better, don’t we?” said Mrs. Frick.

Just as Miss Winnie reached for the cord, Lillian let out a low, angry growl.

Both women startled, and Mrs. Frick laid one hand on her heart. “What on earth? Are you quite mad?”

She’d gotten her answer. “No. I am not.”

But what to do now? No one would believe her accusation.

So she ran.

Back out into the smaller hallway, and then onto the landing. Mr. Graham was sliding out from the organ bench and looked up as she peered over the railing. She froze, waiting to see if he’d call out. If so, it would only be a moment before the footman at the door came after her. No doubt word was spreading fast that she’d escaped.

He didn’t speak, just glanced at the door to the organ chamber. She slid along the wall, out of sight, inching toward it, then dashed inside.

After a minute, the door opened and he joined her. “What are you doing?”

“I know who killed Mr. Frick. And who probably stole the cameo as well.”

“Who—”

“There’s no time. But I won’t take the fall for something I didn’t do. I need to get out of here.”

He paused, as if deciding something, then nodded. “I’ll do what I can to help you. But there’s someone at every door.”

She had to escape, and there was only one way that might work. “I have an idea.”

Lillian waited alone inside the organ chamber, listening to the footmen’s grunts and shouts as they lugged the family’s trunks out to the idling automobiles. After what felt like hours but was only a few minutes, Mr. Graham reappeared and gestured to her that it was safe. They took off fast, staying close to the walls. The police would be along to scoop up Lillian any moment.

She followed Mr. Graham along the hallway, past the Fricks’ bedchambers to the entrance to Mr. Frick’s sitting room. Once inside, she headed straight for the window to the left of the fireplace. She’d noticed the window’s proximity to the roof of the loggia when she’d climbed out onto the ledge to get into Bertha’s room. She would make her way to the roof’s northeast corner and crouch against the edge of the art gallery’s skylights, like a gargoyle, until she could make her escape. The sleet had stopped, and she hoped the drop would be slightly less dangerous.

Mr. Graham pulled a cashmere throw blanket from the sofa and handed it to her. “To keep you warm. I’ll run to Seventy-First Street as fast as I can.”

“I can’t thank you enough.” If this didn’t work, she would end up in jail with a broken leg, or possibly dead. That Mr. Graham was willing to put himself in harm’s way moved her greatly. Reckless with fear, she threw her arms around him and kissed him. This was nothing like the kiss she’d had with Mr. Danforth, or the one she’d watched in the silent film in Times Square. This was something else entirely, brimming with mystery yet strangely familiar and safe.

When they finally pulled apart, they were both breathing hard.

“Be careful, Miss Lilly,” said Mr. Graham, his cheeks burning red.

A noise sounded within the house, nearby. “You should go,” she said. “If they find you, they’ll want to know why you’re in this part of the house.”

After he’d left, Lillian gave a last glance at the portrait of Mr. Frick over the piano.

She’d never see this house again, if she was lucky.

She opened the window.

And jumped.