Not that Abraham or Lawson could prove that Marcus had made up the story. True to the nature of a mob, no one had seen anything. Not Marcus. Not the letter. Not even the man who’d hefted the brick through the window, despite the cheers that had accompanied the sound of shattering glass.
Abraham’s jaw tightened until his teeth ached.
Praise God for Lawson’s quick reflexes. Miss Pelton was no wilting miss, but being hit by a brick might have sent her into hysterics. Worse, she might have been injured. Lawson had a bully of a bruise that he tried to hide the discomfort of, but Abraham saw the older detective wince each time he leaned his back against a chair. If a man with enough grit to smooth wood felt the pain of it, what would a delicate woman have suffered?
Although, in truth, the worddelicatedid not describe Miss Lydia Pelton. Foolish? Yes. Dramatic? The queen of it. A liar and a thief? Facts no jury could ignore. But not delicate. No woman who wrote what she did and refused to feel remorse for it or accept responsibility for the murders penned by her hand could be called delicate. Callous, more like it. And selfish. All that time wasted on finding Dupin because she refused to speak one word.
If he never saw Miss Pelton again, it would be too soon.
Tightness between his brows indicated he’d started to scowl. A passing lady glanced at him, then gave him a wide berth, meaning it must be a fierce one. He massaged his forehead to erase the tension. His family did not need him bringing home the stress and anger this case and Miss Pelton created in him. They didn’t expect him to pretend all was well, but they certainly didn’t deserve a quick temper.
He blew out a breath. Miss Pelton was of no use to his case. They’d interviewed a few admirers who’d corresponded with her. So far that had proven fruitless. Only one had the physical potential for murder, and his alibi had been confirmed by three reliable witnesses. The remaining people on their list were unlikely candidates but would still need to be contacted.
The best evidence they had for determining Poe’s true identity were the notes he’d left behind. The unique handwriting would make matching it to its owner simple. Unfortunately, at least for now, it effectively disproved Monroe as the author. Still, something about it didn’t feel natural. It was both controlled and uncoordinated at the same time. The letter formations were shaky and slanted at an odd angle, as if created by a child just learning penmanship. However, there was a sense of skill in that each character was compact both in width and height—something a new writer rarely achieved. But how could an author be both proficient and amateur with the use of a pen? Given that the readability improved with each message, Abraham would bet Lucian a dinner at the Hotel Emery that Poe was disguising his handwriting. But how to prove it?
Abraham turned the corner to his street, and the hairs on his neck rose. A closed carriage stood in front of his house. Who in their right mind would travel with the curtains drawn tighter than a hangman’s noose on a day like today? With the temperatures above eighty and the humidity thick enough to bathe in, anyone inside would simmer in their sweat. Too long in that oven box, and the meat would fall right off their bones.
Even rumbles announced the driver asleep before Abraham reached him. Leaning at a dangerous angle, the man slouched in his seat with crossed arms and a tugged-down hat. The tall pile of dung and ammonia-rich puddle beneath the horses indicated they’d been here for some time.
Sunday sometimes meant guests, but usually Mother warned him beforehand, and rarely did anyone have a carriage wait for them. He glanced at the front door for a clue to who had come. He was in no mood for Mother’s matchmaking schemes, and even a visit from the minister would be unwelcome today.
Jake shot through the door. “Don’t go inside!”
The driver startled but resettled into sleep at a safer angle, so Abraham faced his brother, who spoke in wide-eyed horror.
“Girls are inside, and it’s all squeals and prattle. I’m going to Michael’s.” He glanced over his shoulder like he feared the women chased him. “Don’t send for me until they’re gone.”
Abraham collared Jake before he could run. “What girls?”
It wasn’t unusual for Jake to make himself scarce when Clara’s friends visited, but unease wended through Abraham and coiled with warning.
“Dunno. Some author lady and her family.”
God wouldn’t be so cruel, would He? “Do you mean Miss Pelton?”
“Sounds right.” The scamp wriggled free and called back, “Good luck withher.” Then he darted down the street at jailbreak speed.
A wise man would follow suit. And Abraham was no fool.
“There you are.” Mother’s voice came from behind.
Curse his hesitation. He turned, and she stood on the stoop with far too bright a smile.
“Hurry inside and freshen up.” Mother held the door open for him. “We have guests.”
“I’m in no mood for guests. Especially not Miss Pelton.”
“Nonsense. She risked her safety just to have a private audience with you.”
“You should have sent her away the moment she arrived.”
“Abraham!” The shock mixed with reprimand declared she’d raised him better than that, but Mother had no idea of the viper she’d let in.
“She’s a fraud and a schemer. What’s more, she feels no remorse for writing the stories that have cost the lives of four men. Do you really want her to influence Clara?”
As if to emphasize his point, Clara’s breathless voice carried outside. “I’ve found it! Would you sign this one too?”
Mother tugged the door closed. “Miss Pelton arrived on our doorstep as the picture of repentance and remorse. She’s done nothing but encourage Clara to be a better woman than she. I’d say that humility is a beneficial example to your sister.”
