I told them everything. My theory about why someone would kill for Papa’s notes and about the coveted Edison Medal that electric industrialists were fighting over. They would be of great value to only a few people. Mr. Edison was my top suspect. How did one go about investigating a man so famous?
It wasn’t my problem. Late in the night, Captain Dunkin left with fresh determination to bring the thief to justice.
The doctor cleansed my eyes, put a salve in them, and recommended a fortnight in bandages to let them heal, but I was certain we all had a different idea in mind.
The same idea.
Morning dawned and after a prolonged attempt to make myself presentable, I was met on the staircase by two very repentant boys. This I gauged from the tone of their voices, as I kept my eyes shut as much as possible.
“Good morning, Miss Brown,” Harry said. “We’re to escort you to the library.”
“Cook is sending your breakfast up,” Henry said, taking my elbow and helping me down the stairs.
“She’s not pleased with us right now,” Harry muttered, following. “We’re to eat there, too.”
“I should think not,” I said. The familiarity of the house helped guide me along with Henry’s hand. “You’re lucky you didn’t do more damage.”
My shirtwaist, covered in wax and soot, was ruined. Cook had gone into hysterics over her kitchen and nearly quit.
“We’re very sorry, Miss Brown,” Henry said, sitting me in my library chair.
“And Father said to tell you to choose any book you want from the library to take with you,” Harry added. “We’re to help you with your bags.”
They weren’t sure what to do with themselves and fidgeted.
“Which one of you blew the powder over the candles?”
They met my question with profound silence.
“It was corn starch,” Harry finally admitted. “I knew it was going to work because of the funnel. We needed a fine cloud of it.”
“A huge cloud, you mean,” I said in a tone of reproach.
“It was supposed to be the thief!” Henry said. “We didn’t know you were coming with him!”
“How did you get my journal?” I asked. My eyes were closed, but my frown was fierce.
More shuffling, then Harry said, “I went up to your room and got it when you answered the door.”
“We thought we could catch him,” Henry said. “How come you were there?” He finished with a decidedly unchivalrous snicker.
“How can you laugh at such a thing?” I asked, appalled. “He’s a killer.”
Harry snorted. He tried to cover it with a cough, but I knew instinctively there was more to their story.
“What?” I demanded.
“I’m sorry, Miss Brown,” Harry said, and broke another giggle. “But. Your eyebrows. And you frowned…” He choked his laughter down.
My fingers flew to my face. I had no eyebrows. Further investigation told me my eyelashes were missing. Although I’d dragged a comb through my curls, I hadn’t realized there was now a tattered fringe of hair along my hairline.
The library door opened and I dropped my hands. I heard the tray set on the table and the door close again. The scent of toast, coffee, and marmalade wafted my way.
I kept my eyes closed and sighed heavily. “Boys.” I hesitated. “I need help with something.”
“Anything at all, Miss Brown,” Harry said.
“This.” I reached into my pocket and removed the telegram. “I don’t know what’s in it. It could be anything. But will you tell me what it says?”
Whatever it was couldn’t be worse than last night, and no one else needed to be privy to yet another of my personal blows.
One of them took the telegram from me and I listened as the paper crinkled.
“It looks old,” Harry said. “There’s another address on it, crossed through.” More rustling. “It’s from someone named Mr. Orin Montgomery. California.”
“Uncle Orin?” I sat up straight. “In Pasadena?”
“It says Los Angeles. Main Street.”
“I have an uncle there,” I murmured to myself. “I forgot. Mama’s baby brother.” I hadn’t heard from him when my parents died. I’d assumed he was either too grief stricken, or couldn’t be bothered with a charity case orphan, or hadn’t known where to write. The crossed out address seemed to indicate the latter. I hadn’t seen Uncle Orin since I was a child.
I swallowed. “The news?”
“It’s short. He asks if you want to move there. He sells automobiles. And he has a little daughter named Maria.” Harry paused. “He says his wife died from influenza.”
“He married?” Uncle Orin had an entire life I knew nothing about. “What else?”
“That’s all.” I felt the telegram pushed back into my hands. “And here.” The cool, delicate chain pooled in my palm and I felt the familiar medallion. “You dropped it last night.”
I slipped them both into my pocket as a rap sounded on the door. It was inconceivable that such a telegram could drop into my lap right when I most needed it. I gulped down the tears that threatened and tried to picture Papa. Tried to imagine his strong arms holding me safe. Tried to tell him goodbye.
The spinning compass had come to rest.
“Is Miss Brown here?” asked a timid voice.
“Come in, Miss Calabria,” I said. “I’ve been expecting you.”
I cracked my eyes open as the boys shuffled. “No. Stay here, boys. You can eat your breakfast.”
Bea came and sat down beside me, and Harry offered me a cup of coffee. I took it to have something soothing in my hands. My stomach was in knots and my eyes shut against the warm steam.
“The cook didn’t want to let me in,” Bea said. “But she knew you were leaving in an hour and I begged my way up.” She paused. “Are you hurt? Can you… Can you see?”
“Yes. The doctor says my eyes will heal.” I took a breath. “Bea. Why didn’t you warn me?”
Her words came fast. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You were the only one who knew the journal was in the library. All of this for a book full of scribbles? I know they didn’t mean anything to you. But I thought I did.”
“Loveda don’t,” she said. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You already hurt me.” My chest was tight and my heart raced. How could she do this to me? “I trusted you,” I whispered.
Bea didn’t answer. The boys had gone still.
“It was of no use to you,” she whispered. “You kept it as a memento, but it’s five years of pay for us. I made him swear that he wouldn’t harm you.”
I bowed my head. Her brother was a murderer all the same.
“You are proud of your papa,” I said. “I am proud of mine. What if someone stole your papa’s recipes? He deserves the credit for his ideas.”
Bea stood up. “Your papa is dead! Mine is alive and struggling to feed his children!”
Her words were a slap in my face. “Where is Giuseppe, Beatrice? Where is my journal?”
“Gone. He left a large packet of money in the kitchen last night and a farewell note.”
“Farewell?”
There were tears in her voice. “He’s gone back. This was his last job. He took passage this morning on a ship bound for Italy.” Her voice came from across the room now. “He immigrated with Mama and Papa when he was only a child. They began with nothing. He struggled his whole life, and he found a way to make it stop.”
The doorknob turned and I had a moment of déjà vu.
“Bea.”
I pulled the medallion from my pocket. “This is his.”
“Keep it.” I could tell it cost her something. “You’ll need it. Goodbye, Miss Brown.”
We were all silent as her footsteps faded.
“The Count of Monte Cristo,” I said.
“What?” Harry asked.
“I’m taking Dumas with me.”
* * *
The train lurched and with a shriek from the whistle and clang of the bell and pulled slowly away from the station. Sitting in my seat, a net veil pulled forward over most of my face, I gave my pocket a reassuring pat. Papa’s watch ticked contentedly next to Uncle Orin’s telegram.
I coughed a little as the coal engine belched smoke, throwing Boston and the past into obscurity behind us. It made my eyes water.
But I wasn’t ready to close my window yet.
I gathered the chain in my hand and carefully removed the small gold oval. I gave St. Christopher a grimace and sent him flying out at the fast-moving landscape. We tore away from the seafront, chasing the sun west, and I closed the window with a bang.
Then I fastened the chain around my neck and let it drop inside my shirtwaist.
I leaned back against the rhythmic rocking seat and closed my eyes.
“Look to the future, darling girl,” I murmured.