Chapter Twenty-One
The offices of Scribner’s Monthly were just off Union Square on Fifteenth Street. Along with Harper’s and The Atlantic, Scribner’s was the most admired magazine in America. In 1880, it had officially changed its name to The Century, after the club of its new publishers and editor in chief, Richard Gilder. Before the arrival of Gilder and his wife, Helena DeKay Gilder, Scribner’s had been considered a third-tier publication among the nation’s intellectual magazines. The Gilders, however, managed to attract the great writers and illustrators of the day, from Mark Twain, Henry James, and Edith Wharton to James Whistler, Edward Penfield, and Winslow Homer. Helena had more of the artistic eye, at a time where the public valued illustrations as much as text, and Richard more of the literary and business eye. They were, in the competitive world of publishing, a formidable team.
Helena DeKay Gilder was by all accounts Emma Lazarus’s closest friend. With a shadow cast over Emma’s death, it was only natural that Nellie would meet with Helena, and ordinarily a woman would have cooperated fully to bring the killer of her best friend to justice. The problem, of course, was that the person who may well have carried out that murder was Helena’s brother, Charles. Helena’s efforts in landing Charles a position at the Times made clear where her loyalties would fall if forced to choose between her family and justice for a friend.
Nevertheless Nellie thought Helena could be helpful. Nellie needed to know more about Charles and Emma, Helena’s brother and best friend. As an editor, it would go against Helena’s nature to refuse to speak with Nellie altogether. She would be coy and oblique rather than flatly uncooperative. In fact, from what Nellie had heard of Helena’s pride of wit, and from what she had seen of Helena’s brother, Charles, Helena would enjoy sparring with Nellie and tying her up in verbal knots.
To prepare for her meeting, Nellie had scoured the numerous biographical accounts of Helena that had circulated when she joined Scribner’s and, of course, that had accompanied her marriage to Richard Gilder. Both were seminal events in the literary world. Helena, like Charles, had spent her early years in Germany, then attended a girls’ boarding school in Connecticut where the class notes described her as “strong-willed” and “independent.” She studied for four years at Cooper Union, where she became an accomplished artist, then settled in New York City, where she shared a studio with her close friend from college, the western illustrator and author Mary Hallock Foote. In 1872, she married Richard and started a family of her own, raising a boy and a girl. Richard was the son of a clergyman and the only male student at his father’s female academy outside of Flushing. He had fought at the Battle of Gettysburg and following the Civil War had entered the literary world, moving easily among the salons and editorial rooms. Well-known writers trusted him with their work, and yet he could speak as easily to businessmen and held positions on numerous civic and social organizations. Where Helena was artistic but flighty, Richard was grounded, a man of the business world. Friday nights at their New York apartment, nicknamed the Studio, were the most sought-after invitations in literary New York.
The one thing that struck Nellie in all the news articles was that both men and women seemed to fall hopelessly in love with Helena DeKay Gilder. Winslow Homer used her likeness in a dozen paintings, including “Waiting for an Answer” (depicting a young man awaiting a romantic decision from a young woman), and was said to have been devastated when Helena declined his offer of marriage. Charles Dudley Warner, Mark Twain’s co-author of The Gilded Age, said to Helena, “I’m not going to Egypt! I think you are the finest girl I ever saw.” Mary Hallock Foote had serialized a rhapsodic portrayal of Helena as a fictionalized main character in what would eventually become the novel Edith Bonham. Richard Gilder had won her favor with sonnets published in Scribner’s before they were married. Flirtatious charm must run in the family, thought Nellie.
The Century offices were not particularly large. The printing warehouse was located in Queens, and the editorial side of the enterprise was a medium-sized brownstone just off Union Square. The reception area was the foyer, with lush European area rugs and stained oak shelves holding first editions from the magazine’s many authors. On the walls hung past covers of Century and Scribner’s. Nellie almost stopped in her tracks wide-eyed when she saw a drawing by Winslow Homer on a magazine cover, trumpeting the latest story by Mark Twain.
“May I help you?” asked a young woman Nellie’s age, whose accent and dress clearly reflected her privileged class.
“I am here to see Mrs. Gilder.”
“Your name, please?”
“Miss Nellie Bly. She is expecting me.”
“One moment,” the young woman said with condescension, eyeing with distaste the mud on Nellie’s skirt hem. “Please remain here.”
Nellie felt like an applicant for a custodial job. She was used to similar dismissal from men in such situations, but haughtiness from a woman her own age made her bristle. As she reviewed the supercilious people she kept encountering in this investigation—Hilton, DeKay, Barker—her temper started roiling, but she forced herself to suppress it. She had worked too hard to get to this point to allow snubs or pettiness to interfere. She could take it out on all of them later, in the story that would expose just how vacuous and vile they all were.
“Good afternoon, Miss Bly.”
Nellie turned to behold one of the most beautiful women she had ever laid eyes on. Helena DeKay Gilder was in her early forties but possessed the kind of beauty age would never touch. Her emerald green eyes, shimmering and alive, took in everything. Her auburn hair, piled atop her head, made those heavenly eyes all the more pronounced. The sharpness and excitement of the eyes was offset by a soft mouth and a ready smile that was perfectly symmetrical and brightened the entire house. Lustrous. That’s what she was, thought Nellie. Radiant and lustrous. Helena’s beauty went far beyond anything Nellie could capture in writing. It was a task best left to artists. And, Nellie realized, Helena had only said hello.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Gilder,” said Nellie. She wished she had come up with something more winning, but “Good afternoon” was the best she could muster.
“Would you like some tea?”
“No, thank you.”
“Do you mind if I have some? We’ll make enough in case you change your mind. Martha, some tea for myself and Miss Bly.”
“Right away, Mrs. Gilder.”
Helena beckoned to Nellie. “Please.”
Helena turned away from the reception area and, with a walk befitting royalty, led Nellie into what was originally a parlor room but now served as Helena’s office. By the window was an oak desk with manuscripts piled high. Near the fireplace was a chartreuse couch with tassels on the bottom, a royal blue wing chair, and a finely polished table for tea or coffee. On the walls were paintings of museum quality, including one of Helena done by Homer himself.
“I was pleased to receive your telegram,” said Helena. “I had been thinking of approaching you to write something for our magazine.”
“I’m well below your literary level, Mrs. Gilder. I write only for newspapers.”
“You have set New York journalism on fire. Your modesty suggests you are not a good judge of literary talent.”
Nellie saw a framed magazine cover on the wall. She walked over and peered at it closely.
“Edward Penfield?”
“Yes. Are you an admirer?”
“Very much so.”
The etching showed ladies on a train, with ruffled bonnets, reading books. It was early Penfield; the artist would not achieve real fame for several more years. But to those fortunate enough to be exposed to him, his ability was undeniable.
“He submitted a drawing to a newspaper where I worked,” Nellie said, studying it closely. “I urged the editors to buy it, but they refused—”
She turned around and caught Helena staring at her. Not at her face but at her waist and hips, the way men eyed her. Helena was not the least bit embarrassed. She made no attempt to avert her eyes, as if perusing Nellie’s body was the most natural thing in the world. As if she were entitled to do it.
“Refused what, my dear?” asked Helena.
“Refused to go along,” said Nellie, recovering her train of thought. She walked back to the couch. Helena continued to appraise her physically, and with approval. Nellie wondered if Helena was simply trying to make her uncomfortable. If so, she was succeeding. Yet Nellie had to admit a certain pleasure that such a beautiful woman would look at her admiringly.
“I gather you are here to talk about Emma.”
“Yes.”
“Charles told me your theory that she was murdered.”
“It is more than a theory. We have a scientist who can prove it.”
“Dr. Ingram.”
“Yes.” Nellie regretted that Ingram had been dragged into this. Another mark against Charles, she thought, for telling Helena all about Ingram.
“I am not surprised,” Helena nodded unexpectedly, as if her worst suspicions were confirmed.
“Oh?”
“When someone so young and vital as Emma passes away suddenly, one naturally thinks the worst.”
“Then you suspected someone of taking her life?”
“I did. But certainly not Charles.”
“Why ‘certainly not’?”
“Charles was devoted to Emma. He admired her and protected her. He would never have harmed her.”
“Judge Hilton is under the impression that Charles is responsible for her death and has even rewarded him for it.”
“Yes, I am aware of that,” said Helena without skipping a beat. Her aplomb in the face of disquieting facts was disarming. “Charles has a great deal to gain from his association with Judge Hilton. If the judge believes he is in Charles’ debt, I see no reason for Charles to disabuse him.”
“In that case, you won’t mind showing me Emma’s manuscript.”
“Her manuscript?”
“The one that she gave you before her last trip to England.”
For the first time, uncertainty crept into in Helena’s manner. “There was no such manuscript.”
“I met with a Montauk tribeswoman whom Miss Lazarus was eager to help. Right before she left for Europe, Miss Lazarus told the woman that she was using every means at her disposal to seek justice.”
“That could mean anything—”
“No, not when she was about to embark on a long journey. Miss Lazarus had taken her cause to heart. She would have relied on what she did best: writing something for publication, with her name attached to it.”
“But why give it to us? This is a literary magazine.”
“I agree; Mr. Pulitzer would have been a better choice. He would have happily published it. But he knew nothing about it. I suspect your brother convinced her to give it to you because you and your husband would make sure it was published in her preferred form. But you did nothing with it, as Charles knew you wouldn’t. You betrayed her.”
Helena stiffened. Another small crack in that aura of supreme self-confidence appeared.
“Why would I ever decline to publish something Emma had written?”
“Because your brother begged you not to, for fear of damaging his arrangement with Judge Hilton.”
Helena’s eyes narrowed with a flash of violent anger. Nellie knew she had hit the mark. Before Helena could reply, the young receptionist tapped on the half-open door and walked in carrying a tray with a teapot, two porcelain cups, a bowl of sugar, and a small pitcher of milk.
“Ah, Martha. Thank you.” The young woman set the tray down on a table in front of Nellie. “Have Mr. Gilder come in please, would you?”
“Right away, Mrs. Gilder.”
Martha walked out. Helena followed her with her eyes, the same way she had stared at Nellie. The interruption had allowed Helena to regain her psychological footing.
“I’m sorry, Miss Bly. I cannot produce a manuscript I never saw.”
Helena braced for more questions about the manuscript, but Nellie changed the subject, like a field general opening a second front.
“You say Charles was devoted to Miss Lazarus. That he would have never harmed her.”
“Yes.”
“Did they speak of marriage?”
“No.”
“Why not? They were companions for years, as I understand it.”
“For one thing, Emma was not of the proper social class.”
“But her family had all the respectability there is. Her father was an original member of the Union Club. They owned a mansion in Newport. Her close friend was Julia Ward Howe. What else could she possibly lack?”
“Emma was a Jew. Charles would never have married a Jew.” She said it so emphatically, Nellie almost shuddered.
“Was she in love with him?”
“No.” She seemed to smirk when she said it.
“And yet they remained together for ten years.”
“They enjoyed each other’s company. Charles admired Emma. She was a remarkable poet and provided a valuable entrée for him into the literary world. Have you changed your mind about the tea?” asked Helena, pouring herself a cup.
“I will have some, yes. Thank you.” Helena leaned forward and poured her some tea.
“And Miss Lazarus? What did she derive from the arrangement?”
“The mantle of respectability.”
“Surely she had that without your brother.”
“Among her literary peers, yes. But not among her social peers.”
There was another tap at the door. A thin man in his midforties with a thick, graying walrus mustache and narrow eyes stood there, mildly impatient. His waistcoat and vest had a tailored flair that set him apart from the commercial world.
“You wanted to see me, Helena?”
“Yes. Richard, this is Miss Nellie Bly. My husband, Richard.”
Richard frowned. “The Cuban woman who lost her memory. Good afternoon.”
He nodded formally.
“Good afternoon.”
“Miss Bly is not here to write a magazine piece, dear.” Gilder relaxed.
“Richard has no use for newspaper writers. He feels we are putting out a literary magazine. Miss Bly is writing about Emma, Richard.”
“Oh? What about Emma?” It was the perfectly natural thing to say, but Richard did not say it in a perfectly natural way.
“The manner of her death,” said Nellie.
“Miss Bly seems to think that before she left for Europe, Emma submitted a manuscript involving the Montauk tribe. Do you know anything about that?”
“Not a thing,” he said, without bothering to search his memory.
“Did she submit any manuscripts at all around that time?” asked Nellie.
“None that I saw. She was immersed in her political activities. We hadn’t seen any submissions from her for months.”
“And after she returned?”
“She was deathly ill. She devoted her dwindling energies to arranging her writings in a proper order.”
“Before her sisters gained control of her work.”
“Yes,” he said sadly. “We met almost every day. But that was not enough.”
Helena looked over at Nellie. “There you have it, Miss Bly,” she said. “Is there anything else you would like to ask my husband?”
“Would you care to join us for tea?”
“Thank you, but I must decline. I have pressing work to complete.”
“Richard is not one for tea. He prefers coffee. To him tea tastes like water.”
“Good day, Miss Bly.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gilder. Good day.”
He walked out. Helena did not follow him with her eyes as she had Martha and Nellie. Instead she sipped her tea and glanced at Nellie’s breasts. Helena enjoyed making people uncomfortable.
“You were saying that Emma sought a ‘mantle of respectability,’ I believe is the way you put it, from your brother,” said Nellie. “Why, because she was a Jew?”
“She needed the appearance of male companions.”
Nellie looked puzzled.
“In literary and artistic circles,” Helena continued, “Emma’s choice of companions would never raise a second thought. But in others … well, let us say that as her world became more one of politics, appearances became increasingly important. Charles, at some considerable sacrifice to himself, agreed to provide Emma the necessary respectability for almost ten years. He received something from the arrangement, granted. But a man of his appetites was forced to make definite … compromises.”
“And once Emma had died, Charles could ask for Miss Coffey’s hand in marriage.”
“Yes. They had been meeting quietly for some time. He would call upon her at her home. She never knew about Emma.”
Helena expected Nellie to be shocked, but Nellie had no surprise to hide. All along Charles had seemed too shallow a person to hold Emma’s interest for that length of time.
“Who was Miss Lazarus’s companion?”
“I am not at liberty to say.”
Helena sipped her tea. The topic, as far as she was concerned, was closed. But they both knew the answer to the question, and Nellie saw no reason to pretend otherwise.
“Did your husband know about the arrangement?” Helena stiffened at the impudence.
“Did he?” repeated Nellie.
“No. Charles went to great lengths to protect me.”
“And repay his debt to you for getting him a position after his scandal.”
“Possibly that as well.”
She sipped her tea again.
“You are convinced your brother did not poison Miss Lazarus,” pressed Nellie.
“Yes.”
“Then who did?”
“She had many visitors her last three months. It could have been any of them.”
“It would have to be someone she saw frequently. Someone she trusted enough to eat from a plate that person handed her. The poisoning was gradual, not immediate.”
“I have no idea who that might be. I wouldn’t even know where to begin to look.”
Nellie set down the teacup. “Well, thank you for your time, Mrs. Gilder.”
“You do believe me when I say it was not Charles?”
“I believe you are convinced of his innocence. Let us leave it at that.” She stood up. “I can show myself out.”
Nellie walked out of the office. She could feel Helena’s eyes following her until she closed the door behind her. She walked through the reception area, where Martha was sitting at her desk. As Nellie reached the front door, she stopped.
“Martha, is it?”
“Yes.”
“How did you enjoy Miss Lazarus’s manuscript? The one about the Montauks?”
“Mrs. Gilder would not allow me to read it.”
“A pity. I think it was her finest work.” Nellie walked out the door.