Chapter Twenty-Six
The next day, Nellie went to the fourth floor of the Tenth Street Studio Building, the most famous studio in New York. Her head and chest ached from the assault in Brooklyn, and every breath made her wince. Ingram and Dale had urged her to rest for a few days, but the attack and the speeches before the play only motivated her to go after Hilton with even greater vigor. Time was getting short. Hilton might never be held legally responsible for Emma’s death, but Nellie would settle for destroying his reputation. All she needed were a few facts. Hilton might be able to control a prosecutor or a jury, but he would never be able to control Joseph Pulitzer.
The Tenth Street Studio housed a dozen artists at any one time, including William Merritt Chase, Winslow Homer, and, when she was in New York, Mary Hallock Foote. Despite her romantic portrayals of the American West, Dale pointed out snidely, Foote found the Idaho winters too harsh and quietly spent those months in New York. As a first-rate illustrator and storyteller of the exotic West, as well as an inveterate charmer, she was always assured of space at the Tenth Street Studio.
Inside the large warehouse building, makeshift partitions separated the work areas and artists conversed freely. At the far end of the corridor, Nellie saw a striking, vivacious woman in her early forties holding court, surrounded by a bevy of male artists. By her uninhibited affect, denim western skirt, and siren-like effect on the male admirers, Nellie knew it was Molly Foote.
Even from afar, Nellie had never beheld anyone quite so vibrant in her entire life. Helena DeKay was beautiful and witty, but within the confines of a conventional, eastern, blueblood mold. Mary Hallock Foote’s allure was one of the spirit, of total independence and freedom, a true artist in both her manner and her work. Foote had forged her way into obscure towns in Colorado and Idaho, towns with scarcely any other women within hundreds of miles, and had written compelling stories and drawn vivid illustrations of the life there. Like so many others, Nellie was drawn to that spirit and looked forward to meeting Foote for herself.
But Nellie was also ill at ease. She had heard from Dale, and it was borne out in the writings, that Mary Hallock Foote could be extremely difficult. Her courage and talent were undeniable, but her writings conveyed an insufferably arrogant easterner. She portrayed people in the West as crude and uneducated, and while the territory itself was rugged and magnificent, its people, as presented by Foote, most decidedly were not.
Foote had made a strong point in her magazine pieces of sending her son back East for school at the nation’s oldest prep school, St. Paul’s in Massachusetts, and then on to M.I.T. to study engineering. Nellie, on the other hand, identified much more with the western settlers than the upper-crust easterners—Pittsburg was considered the Gateway to the West—and Molly’s caustic remarks rankled her. It bothered Nellie that on some level she still wanted the acceptance of these people, given all she had seen of them since moving to New York.
Nevertheless, she was there on a critical mission, and natural reporter that she was, she willed herself to put aside personal antipathies and insecurities as she approached Molly’s work area. She was struck by Molly’s latest painting, portraying a mother in her thirties carrying a baby down to a creek in a lovely mountain setting. It was done on a large canvas and somehow captured the ruggedness and beauty of both the setting and the woman. Rather than join the crowd of Molly’s would-be suitors, Nellie stayed back and admired the painting.
“What do you think?”
Mary Hallock Foote approached Nellie, her eyes locked on hers, demanding an answer like an impatient schoolmarm. She had a wildness about her, an excitement that was incredibly seductive, enhanced by shimmering blue eyes, auburn hair, and a nearly perfect mouth. Few men or women, Nellie saw instantly, could resist the charms of Mary Hallock Foote. Then again, Nellie had considerable charms in her own right.
“I think it is marvelous,” said Nellie. “You must love the West.”
“I love my West when I am in the East,” she said, drawing a chuckle from Nellie. Molly was pleased for both the laugh and the anticipation of continuing the conversation in a more intimate setting. “Are you a painter?”
“No. Only a reporter, I’m afraid.”
“Even better.” She perked up. “Then I am entirely at your disposal.”
“I’m not a reporter for the arts. I want to ask you about something else.”
“Ah.” Molly did not hide her disappointment. “Miss Bly, I presume.”
“I take it Mrs. Gilder spoke to you.”
“She sent a note, actually. That is our preferred way of communicating these days.” Molly Foote was the kind who placed a value judgment with every statement. That she and Helena communicated only through letters was mentioned with the irritation of a spoiled child who must follow silly rules.
“Why is that?” asked Nellie, all innocence. “You are in the same city.”
Nellie, of course, knew perfectly well the answer to the question. Alan Dale had told her the story of Helena DeKay and Mary Hallock Foote. The two had met at Cooper Union College and become intimate friends—most probably very intimate, according to Dale. Following college, they had moved to a studio apartment together in New York, where they lived for eight years until Richard Gilder came in and swept Helena off her feet. Molly had taken it hard when Helena accepted Richard’s proposal of marriage. Shattered, Molly married Arthur Foote, an engineer, weeks later and moved west with him. Helena and Molly corresponded frequently, and the Century regularly published Molly’s illustrations and writings—a good thing, too, noted Dale, because Arthur Foote was a fine engineer but his income was not dependable. Molly rarely saw Helena or Richard on her trips to New York, even though they were her editors and publisher; it was simply too painful for her to see Helena with someone else. Nellie, however, acted oblivious when asking Molly about Helena. The subject was obviously a sore one. Molly’s countenance changed immediately.
“How can I help you, Miss Bly?” she asked with a chill, ignoring the question.
“I understand you visited Miss Lazarus before her death.”
“That’s right.”
“On two occasions, I’m told.”
“Yes.”
“And the first one ended with you shouting at her.”
“And in the second one I apologized for my behavior.”
“What was it that made you scream at a dying woman?”
“Jealousy.” Unlike Helena, Molly spoke impulsively, uncensored. “I learned that Miss Lazarus had taken my place as Helena’s … confidante. After she returned from England, I visited her and behaved badly. Years of frustration came out, I’m sorry to say.”
“You had no idea Helena and Emma were intimate?”
“Helena had lied to me. She said that Charles had taken up with a Jewess and that of course it would lead nowhere. I believed her until Richard mentioned in passing that Emma had taken my place.”
Molly winced as she heard herself utter those words.
“Why did it bother you so? You had moved away and started a family, made a life for yourself in the West.”
“Helena and I had vowed that our souls would remain as one forever.” She said it with pride and defiance.
“And what made you apologize to Miss Lazarus?”
“Helena convinced me that nothing had changed. Emma was simply keeping my seat warm. I paid Emma another visit, to offer an apology, and she graciously accepted.”
The callousness of these women was appalling. Helena and Molly deserved each other. But Nellie remained focused on the task at hand.
“I need to know who poisoned Emma, Mrs. Foote. I know it was not you.”
“Why is that? Do I strike you as too genteel?”
“No. I’m sure you would have considered it if you’d had the chance. But whoever poisoned her did it over the course of several weeks. You were there only twice.”
“I am relieved to be out from under your suspicions,” she said caustically.
“Did you see anyone put unusual items in her food or drink? Some powder? Or liquids? Anything that might have been out of the ordinary?”
“No one. And certainly not Charles. He did not poison Emma.”
“I take it Mr. and Mrs. Gilder urged you to tell me that.”
“Not at all.”
“But then, you would not tell me if they had,” Nellie said, not intimidated by the eastern artist. “They are your publishers and your primary source of income, now that your husband’s engineering firm is struggling. No doubt that is another reason you communicate with Mrs. Gilder in writing rather than in person: Mr. Gilder must have no reason to end your publishing relationship.”
Molly blanched. She wasn’t used to being spoken to this way by someone of inferior stock. Nellie could tell the words hit home. Molly Foote prided herself on saying or doing whatever she pleased, but she was beholden to Richard Gilder, the man who had taken the love of her life, and it made her chafe inside.
“If you knew I would heed Mr. and Mrs. Gilder,” Molly said, containing her ire, “then why are you here?”
“You apologized to Miss Lazarus. That means you respected her.”
“Yes. I did. As a woman and as a writer.”
“Then I assume you want to see her murderer brought to justice.”
“Possibly. But the murderer was not Charles.”
“He had every opportunity for it. Miss Lazarus always took tea in the afternoon, a habit she developed in England. I’m told he visited then and often prepared her tea.”
“So did several other people. Her sisters. Her maidservant. Other friends.”
“But none of them had reason to kill Miss Lazarus. I assume Helena told you about his arrangement with Judge Hilton.”
“Helena has always confided in me and always will, until the day she dies. Whatever his arrangement with Judge Hilton, Charles is not a murderer. He lacks the stomach. I learned that living in the West. Some men are sickened at the sight of blood; others see it as a fact of life. Charles was seventeen when the war ended and never had to serve. He was extremely relieved. He would have paid whatever it took to stay out.”
“He is a champion fencer. He founded the New York Fencers Club.”
“There is a big difference between a college fencer and a swordsman. Charles is a critic, not a player.” It was true, Nellie realized. She had suspected all along but had resisted facing it. She remembered Charles when he begged her not to publish the first article. He was lying that day, but she saw that he lacked the ruthlessness of Hilton, or of Carnegie or Frick or Gould, men who would vanquish anything in their path if necessary. Molly Foote was right: Charles DeKay had never killed another person, and he never committed murder for one, either.
“Then who poisoned Miss Lazarus?”
“What difference does it make?” shrugged Molly. “Emma is dead and buried.”
“She was a great woman. I would like to know how she died.”
“The public does not care. No one cares, not even her family. Most of the public do not know Emma Lazarus or appreciate her.”
“But I know her. And I appreciate her. And apparently so did Mrs. DeKay.”
Molly went flush. The old jealousy was not completely put to rest, even after a year. “I cannot help you, Miss Bly. If you’ll excuse me, I have business to tend to.”
She headed off to a group of male artists who were delighted to receive her.
Nellie was short of breath and sick to her stomach. Her entire theory of the case—that Charles had poisoned Emma at Henry Hilton’s bidding—had just exploded in her face. It caused her to question everything about the story. She wondered if Hilton was even behind it and how it had been done. She even wondered if Ingram was wrong and Emma had not been poisoned at all but instead had died of cancer, as Barker had insisted.
She decided to clear her head and walk back to the World along Tenth Avenue instead of taking a streetcar. It was a cool January day, much like when she’d entered the asylum a year before. That had been an incredibly exhilarating moment, filled as it was with opportunity. This was the opposite, a sinking feeling, the air leaving a balloon. She had been so close, and now everything was falling apart. It had happened so many times in her life. The jury finding in her favor against that thief Jackson and then the judge stealing it. The front-page stories in the Pittsburg papers that riveted the public but then the publisher assigning her to garden stories and fashion. The beautiful house she lived in as a little girl that was suddenly taken from her, consigning her to live in tenements and scrub floors as a ten-year-old. That was the pattern, she reflected bitterly; that would always be the pattern.
She forced away the panic and tried to think rationally. Emma had been murdered. That was a fact. Ingram had found arsenic on both the pillowcase and the letters to Julia. Whoever had administered the poison had been part of her inner circle. That was another fact. They may have had their own reasons, which she could not fathom as yet, but they were almost certainly acting at the behest of Henry Hilton, who had more than enough reason to want Emma Lazarus dead: revenge for the boycott that damaged his fortune and reputation, plus the threat she posed to the new port at Montauk.
She went over the list in her mind of everyone who had been with Emma during those final months, and one by one eliminated each one as a suspect. Helena was in love with Emma and too haughty to do Hilton’s bidding. Richard was editing Emma’s papers and would want to keep his literary star alive as long as possible. Charles, as Molly had pointed out, lacked the backbone to kill anyone, especially someone whose murder would require repeated acts of chilling betrayal. Sarah was the only servant Emma allowed near her, and by her actions and demeanor, it was obvious Sarah was not the murderer.
Then who could it be?
Without realizing it, Nellie had arrived at Battery Park. She looked around at the chaos surrounding the arriving immigrants at Castle Garden, the poverty-stricken families carrying little more than the clothes on their backs, descended on by hustlers preying on their innocence and dreams. Relatives who had gone ahead to America fought through the hordes to locate loved ones. Over by the docks, two tall sailing ships were joined by a giant steamship that dwarfed the older ships. An endless stream of passengers disembarked from the ships. Nellie could swear the hustlers’ eyes got wider and wider.
By the entrance to the Garden a play was going on in Yiddish. The audience, children and adults waiting for their next step in the New World, was enthralled. Nellie had to smile. Emma would have liked this.
She surveyed the bay, crowded with ferries shuttling passengers from New Jersey and Long Island to Manhattan. In the distance she saw the Statue of Liberty, shiny and gleaming in its copper patina. Not far from the statue, dozens of workers removed sand from a giant barge and shoveled landfill on to tiny Ellis Island, the home of the new federal immigration center. Two huge barges loaded with sand headed toward the island, and Nellie followed the line back to the dock at Battery Park, where twenty or so horse-drawn carriages piled high with sand were lined up one after the other, and workmen transferred the sand to another huge barge waiting on the dock.
Nellie walked over to the carriages. An officious man in his early forties, with a bushy mustache and suit and tie, made notes and kept a tally on a tablet.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“We are doubling the size of Ellis Island, miss,” he said proudly.
“The island is not big enough as it is?”
“No, miss. The new center will accommodate twice as many people as pass through Castle Gardens every day.”
“Twice as many?” she said. “Are there that many ships coming over?”
“Same number of ships, miss. But these new steel hulls can carry three times the number of people. Eleven hundred passengers, eight hundred crew. We can’t keep them waiting on the ships for a week.”
“But if you add to the size of the island, won’t they run aground?”
“A good question, miss. The new land has to go straight down rather than gradual. We have divers making sure of that. If it sets like a continental shelf, that’s right, the ships can’t land.”
Something went off in her brain.
“How deep is the harbor here?” she asked.
“Twenty-four feet here at Castle Garden. Ellis Island is farther out, about thirty feet.”
“Is thirty feet enough to accommodate the new ships?”
“Barely. It used to be seventeen feet here. It took years and years to get it to twenty-four. But we’re blessed that this is an island rather than part of the shelf. It’s easier to dig near an island.”
“And if this were part of the shelf and not an island?”
“Then the federal government would have to look elsewhere for its new immigration depot.”
Once again she could scarcely breathe, only this time it was from excitement. It didn’t make complete sense quite yet, but she knew she was on to something.
“Thank you, sir,” she said effusively. “You have been most helpful.”
“Not at all, miss.”