asked him if he’d heard from Peter, he shook his head and said kindly, “No, ma’am, not today.”
It wasn’t until the following day, when three policemen showed up at my door, that I understood I should have been very worried indeed.
3
_
M ORBID T HOUGHTS
F OUR D AYS A FTER THE S PIRIT C IRCLE
M y first reaction upon hearing Kitty’s announcement that the police were waiting in the parlor was a panicked urge to run; I’d grown up in a world where they were just another Irish gang with a liking for rowdyism and brutality, and their main duty was strong-arming men into voting for whichever candidate they favored on election day. Though I was now of the class that the police served, I was nervous as I went to meet them. “Mrs. Atherton, I’m Robert Callahan, with the police department,” said the tallest of the three, and the only one not wearing the customary blue wool frock coat, copper badge, and leather cap of the New York City police. He wore brown, with a frayed checked vest and a cheap top hat worn shiny in spots, which he took off to reveal shaggy brown hair. The three of them seemed clumsily out of place in the parlor, which was mostly appointed in my late mother-in-law’s taste, in burgundies and Louis Seize gilt and chintz, so feminine and exquisite that even I often felt too coarse for it. He tugged nervously at his long, fuzzy sideburns as he sat, and the other two perched gingerly on the delicate settee. “Your husband never showed up in court this morning. We’ve been sent to see if he might still be at home.”
“He didn’t show up in court? But Peter would never miss a trial. Have you gone to his office?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Callahan. “No one there has seen him since after court on Thursday.”
“Thursday? You mean he wasn’t there Friday? Or Monday?”
Callahan frowned. “No, ma’am. Court was closed due to the storm. I understand Mr. Atherton’s partner is out of town?”
“Yes. In Albany.”
“Mr. Atherton didn’t go with him?”
“No. Mr. Rampling is working on another case. There was no reason for Peter to go with him.”
“What time did Mr. Atherton leave for court this morning?”
“I don’t know.” I was too worried to sit. I paced to the fire, moving the parrot-decorated fire screen away and then pushing it back again. “I didn’t see him. He wasn’t home.”
“I see.” Robert Callahan took a stub of pencil from his vest, along with a pocket notebook, and thumbed through the pages until he found what he was looking for. On the settee, one of his partners shuffled and coughed. Callahan threw him a quelling glance before he said to me, “When was the last time you saw your husband, Mrs. Atherton?”
I turned away from him and looked at the mantel, where two Parian ware dogs stared blankly back at me, their tongues hanging in perpetual greeting. “Thursday night. We were returning from a… social engagement… and he delivered me to the house and went out again.”
“Was this usual for him? To go out again that way?”
“Yes, but—”
Callahan scratched at his side whiskers. “It’s been four days since then, Mrs. Atherton. You didn’t find it odd that he was gone so long, without leaving any word?”
“It’s not uncommon for him to leave for days at a time. For his work. But on Saturday night I did grow worried. He’d promised to meet me at the Reid soiree. He never arrived.”
“I see.” He marked something in his notebook.
“And then there was the storm. I thought—I hoped—he was waiting it out at his office.”
“Did you think that’s where he went that night, Mrs. Atherton?”
I thought of the circle, the shooting. I remembered Ben’s cautions. “I suppose it’s obvious that he didn’t.”
Robert Callahan cleared his throat. “I know this is indelicate, Mrs. Atherton, but, well, it’s not unusual for men to have other… relationships.”
I stared at him in confusion.
Uneasily, he said, “I know this
It wasn’t until the following day, when three policemen showed up at my door, that I understood I should have been very worried indeed.
3
_
M ORBID T HOUGHTS
F OUR D AYS A FTER THE S PIRIT C IRCLE
M y first reaction upon hearing Kitty’s announcement that the police were waiting in the parlor was a panicked urge to run; I’d grown up in a world where they were just another Irish gang with a liking for rowdyism and brutality, and their main duty was strong-arming men into voting for whichever candidate they favored on election day. Though I was now of the class that the police served, I was nervous as I went to meet them. “Mrs. Atherton, I’m Robert Callahan, with the police department,” said the tallest of the three, and the only one not wearing the customary blue wool frock coat, copper badge, and leather cap of the New York City police. He wore brown, with a frayed checked vest and a cheap top hat worn shiny in spots, which he took off to reveal shaggy brown hair. The three of them seemed clumsily out of place in the parlor, which was mostly appointed in my late mother-in-law’s taste, in burgundies and Louis Seize gilt and chintz, so feminine and exquisite that even I often felt too coarse for it. He tugged nervously at his long, fuzzy sideburns as he sat, and the other two perched gingerly on the delicate settee. “Your husband never showed up in court this morning. We’ve been sent to see if he might still be at home.”
“He didn’t show up in court? But Peter would never miss a trial. Have you gone to his office?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Callahan. “No one there has seen him since after court on Thursday.”
“Thursday? You mean he wasn’t there Friday? Or Monday?”
Callahan frowned. “No, ma’am. Court was closed due to the storm. I understand Mr. Atherton’s partner is out of town?”
“Yes. In Albany.”
“Mr. Atherton didn’t go with him?”
“No. Mr. Rampling is working on another case. There was no reason for Peter to go with him.”
“What time did Mr. Atherton leave for court this morning?”
“I don’t know.” I was too worried to sit. I paced to the fire, moving the parrot-decorated fire screen away and then pushing it back again. “I didn’t see him. He wasn’t home.”
“I see.” Robert Callahan took a stub of pencil from his vest, along with a pocket notebook, and thumbed through the pages until he found what he was looking for. On the settee, one of his partners shuffled and coughed. Callahan threw him a quelling glance before he said to me, “When was the last time you saw your husband, Mrs. Atherton?”
I turned away from him and looked at the mantel, where two Parian ware dogs stared blankly back at me, their tongues hanging in perpetual greeting. “Thursday night. We were returning from a… social engagement… and he delivered me to the house and went out again.”
“Was this usual for him? To go out again that way?”
“Yes, but—”
Callahan scratched at his side whiskers. “It’s been four days since then, Mrs. Atherton. You didn’t find it odd that he was gone so long, without leaving any word?”
“It’s not uncommon for him to leave for days at a time. For his work. But on Saturday night I did grow worried. He’d promised to meet me at the Reid soiree. He never arrived.”
“I see.” He marked something in his notebook.
“And then there was the storm. I thought—I hoped—he was waiting it out at his office.”
“Did you think that’s where he went that night, Mrs. Atherton?”
I thought of the circle, the shooting. I remembered Ben’s cautions. “I suppose it’s obvious that he didn’t.”
Robert Callahan cleared his throat. “I know this is indelicate, Mrs. Atherton, but, well, it’s not unusual for men to have other… relationships.”
I stared at him in confusion.
Uneasily, he said, “I know this
Similar Books
