landing down by the Customs House.”
Sylvia and I gasped; Wortham grew strangely calm, and smiled.
“Well, then,” he said with hearty good humor, “it can’t be her. She had no business down by the wharves. It is not her part of town. You’ve come to the wrong house. Yes, the wrong house.” He rocked back and forth on his heels with relief.
The patrolman cleared his throat once more. “Sir,” he said, “we must, of course, have a proper identification of the person. But the fact is, her purse was in her hand and we found some correspondence in it with her name on it, and this address.”
“Constable, have you brought the purse with you?” I stood and extended my hand toward him.
“Ah. Yes. A little wet there, miss . . .” He passed me the sodden needlepoint bag, its design of roses and cupids now almost buried under harbor muck. I showed it to Preston.
“It’s Dot’s. Oh, God!” He groaned, sitting back down.
Slowly, with a little click, I twisted the purse open and gazed inside at a handkerchief with a fancy D embroidered in the corner, a little gold case that, when forced open, revealed several of Dot’s own calling cards, and a soggy and disintegrating envelope addressed to Mrs. Preston Wortham. There was nothing else in the purse. Looking back, I realize this was the moment that my mental training, aided by judicious reading of Poe, began to take effect. It began with a simple conjecture: The moneyless purse seemed odd, sinister perhaps, for, even when out for a mere walk, a lady did not leave home without a coin purse for tipping doormen and such.
No one had spoken after the officer made his announcement. Preston seemed to be in a state of incomprehension, frowning and trying to make sense of the aberrant situation, as if English had become a foreign language. Edgar had put down his teacup and sat with his hands in his lap, pressing his thumbs against each other and grimacing.
“This will seem the stupidest of questions, Constable, but by any chance was there a bakery box found with the body? Perhaps floating, and with a raisin cake inside?” I asked.
Constable Cobban frowned at what he perceived to be a strange, even trivial, question. “No, miss. No cake. But we will need someone to come to the morgue and properly identify the body.”
“The morgue.” Preston Wortham’s voice was terrible. “My Dottie . . . No, it isn’t possible. This is a mistake. We breakfasted together. She had tea and toast and marmalade. She gave half her toast to Lily. . . .”
“Lily?” Cobban repeated.
“Her little spaniel,” I told him.
“Ah,” the officer said. He studied his shoes.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Well, there was a dog found with the woman. Drowned, just like her.”
“Oh, Dottie.” I sighed. It was the dog, finally, that convinced us, that made this truth inescapable. The tears gathered and clouded my vision, and I felt them rolling down my pale cheeks.
But it was Preston Wortham who rolled his eyes up, went limp at the knees, and fell to the floor in a faint. Just like the husband would in a play.
CHAPTER FOUR
Reflections at the Morgue
AS PRESTON SEEMED unable to attend to the tragic task alone, none of the terrible siblings seemed to have a free hour (suddenly Edgar had acquired a whole Wall Street of appointments), and Dottie’s mother was an invalid, it was left to me to accompany Mr. Wortham to the morgue that afternoon to certify whether or not the drowning victim was, indeed, his wife, Dot.
The morgue was a rough, cold room beneath City Hall, poorly lit, but even the few gas lamps revealed all too clearly the face and figure of Mrs. Preston Wortham, née Dorothy Brownly, there on the morgue table.
She had been twenty-one years of age. Young to die, I thought, studying her through swimming eyes. Dot’s hair and clothes had dried but still clung to her, almost lovingly, as if reluctant to be parted from the spirit that had brightened them for so short a time.
Yet
Sylvia and I gasped; Wortham grew strangely calm, and smiled.
“Well, then,” he said with hearty good humor, “it can’t be her. She had no business down by the wharves. It is not her part of town. You’ve come to the wrong house. Yes, the wrong house.” He rocked back and forth on his heels with relief.
The patrolman cleared his throat once more. “Sir,” he said, “we must, of course, have a proper identification of the person. But the fact is, her purse was in her hand and we found some correspondence in it with her name on it, and this address.”
“Constable, have you brought the purse with you?” I stood and extended my hand toward him.
“Ah. Yes. A little wet there, miss . . .” He passed me the sodden needlepoint bag, its design of roses and cupids now almost buried under harbor muck. I showed it to Preston.
“It’s Dot’s. Oh, God!” He groaned, sitting back down.
Slowly, with a little click, I twisted the purse open and gazed inside at a handkerchief with a fancy D embroidered in the corner, a little gold case that, when forced open, revealed several of Dot’s own calling cards, and a soggy and disintegrating envelope addressed to Mrs. Preston Wortham. There was nothing else in the purse. Looking back, I realize this was the moment that my mental training, aided by judicious reading of Poe, began to take effect. It began with a simple conjecture: The moneyless purse seemed odd, sinister perhaps, for, even when out for a mere walk, a lady did not leave home without a coin purse for tipping doormen and such.
No one had spoken after the officer made his announcement. Preston seemed to be in a state of incomprehension, frowning and trying to make sense of the aberrant situation, as if English had become a foreign language. Edgar had put down his teacup and sat with his hands in his lap, pressing his thumbs against each other and grimacing.
“This will seem the stupidest of questions, Constable, but by any chance was there a bakery box found with the body? Perhaps floating, and with a raisin cake inside?” I asked.
Constable Cobban frowned at what he perceived to be a strange, even trivial, question. “No, miss. No cake. But we will need someone to come to the morgue and properly identify the body.”
“The morgue.” Preston Wortham’s voice was terrible. “My Dottie . . . No, it isn’t possible. This is a mistake. We breakfasted together. She had tea and toast and marmalade. She gave half her toast to Lily. . . .”
“Lily?” Cobban repeated.
“Her little spaniel,” I told him.
“Ah,” the officer said. He studied his shoes.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Well, there was a dog found with the woman. Drowned, just like her.”
“Oh, Dottie.” I sighed. It was the dog, finally, that convinced us, that made this truth inescapable. The tears gathered and clouded my vision, and I felt them rolling down my pale cheeks.
But it was Preston Wortham who rolled his eyes up, went limp at the knees, and fell to the floor in a faint. Just like the husband would in a play.
CHAPTER FOUR
Reflections at the Morgue
AS PRESTON SEEMED unable to attend to the tragic task alone, none of the terrible siblings seemed to have a free hour (suddenly Edgar had acquired a whole Wall Street of appointments), and Dottie’s mother was an invalid, it was left to me to accompany Mr. Wortham to the morgue that afternoon to certify whether or not the drowning victim was, indeed, his wife, Dot.
The morgue was a rough, cold room beneath City Hall, poorly lit, but even the few gas lamps revealed all too clearly the face and figure of Mrs. Preston Wortham, née Dorothy Brownly, there on the morgue table.
She had been twenty-one years of age. Young to die, I thought, studying her through swimming eyes. Dot’s hair and clothes had dried but still clung to her, almost lovingly, as if reluctant to be parted from the spirit that had brightened them for so short a time.
Yet
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