Edith awoke the next morning feeling bold and defiant. She ate a grand breakfast, then filled several pages with a speed and bravura befitting a master swordsman. Normally when she wrote that well, she felt a pleasant exhaustion. Deserving of tea or a long, slow walk in the garden. Today, her appetite for work was boundless. In a fit of good will, she told White she and Teddy would visit the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals that afternoon. Then she called the bellboy to give Choumai a trot around the block. “Mind, he picks up things from the street. You must pull them from his mouth. He may bite, but his teeth are minuscule, you’ll barely feel it.”
After that, she set her mind on what to wear to the Appleton offices.
She had, she told herself, ample reason to visit Mr. Jewett at Appleton. She had promised—hadn’t she?—Mrs. Frevert. That lady’s eccentric fears about her brother’s murder could not be helped. But Edith could certainly advocate that Mr. Phillips’s last work be published as he had written it, not censored nor bowdlerized. Also—was it not her duty to make sure that the overwhelmed and underworldly Mrs. Frevert had her interests protected? Edith had never heard that Appleton actively cheated their authors. Of course publishers did so little actively, conducting their, which was to say her, business with a delicacy that bordered on languor, if not outright neglect …
She paused to remind herself that her frustrations with Scribner’s were not the point.
But if the Bible instructed one to protect the widows and orphans … well, Mrs. Frevert seemed to be both and so doubly in need of aid. It was the right thing to do, Edith instructed herself. As a woman and an author.
Before leaving her suite, she telephoned Henry James in his rooms on the twelfth floor. “I’m going to pay a visit to Rutger Bleecker Jewett at Appleton. I thought you might like to come with me. Venture to new pastures to see if, perchance, they really are greener.”
HJ was never not expressive, even in silence. His pause was a low chord on the piano, full of foreboding.
“Come,” she insisted. “Mr. Jewett will be impressed.”
A deep rumbling sigh. “Not by me. Not anymore. You go. When you return on the whirlwind of your determination, come and tell me how it went.”
“If I have time,” she said, tetchy. This was an evasion. Trapped in New York, awaiting Teddy’s doctor, she had nothing but time.
One thing she already liked about Appleton: They spent money. Lavishly. Too lavishly, some might say. The company had been placed into receivership ten years ago. They had recently moved to handsome new offices on Fifth Avenue and Thirty-Ninth Street, only a few blocks from the Belmont. To buck up her confidence before meeting a new editor, Edith perused the window of a bookshop, hoping to see Tales of Men and Ghosts prominently displayed. Instead, piled high and triumphant, was the latest Mary Roberts Rinehart mystery, The Window at the White Cat. Crowded around that book was Mrs. Rinehart’s huge success of a few years ago, The Circular Staircase.
Of Edith’s books, there was no sign. Scribner’s, she thought darkly, should be held to account. It would do them good to have a rival for her affections.
But her hopes of a grand welcome were quickly dashed. The juvenile at the reception desk struck her as too young to be able to read, much less work in publishing. Also apparently too young to know or care who she was. He made it clear: Edith was neither expected nor planned for, and so she was a problem and would have to sit until he could decide what to do with her. It had been many years since her name failed to gain entrance, and while she knew very well she should have made an appointment, Edith was miffed. She took a seat but planned revenge. An offer from Appleton moved down several places on her list of things she wanted; then moved several places back up, if only so she might dismiss them as she now felt dismissed. The chairs were offensive, built to accommodate a man’s slim trousers, rather than a lady’s skirts. The infant at the front desk was insufferable. Surveying the bookshelves on the nearby wall, where the pride of the house was displayed, she noted The Red Badge of Courage, by Mr. Crane. Works by Mr. Kipling and Mr. Darwin. Both sides of the Civil War were represented in books by Jefferson Davis and General Sherman. The sole female on the shelf was Mr. Carroll’s invention, Alice.
There was a chance this visit had been a mistake.
In fairness, there did seem to be some sort of meeting taking place. From beyond the glass-paned door, she could hear voices, one vague and mollifying, the other barking and agitated. She tried to pick out words, but every time the barker got up speed, the murmurer was able to break his momentum. Shouting was not the usual thing at publishing houses, and she leaned forward, intrigued. But there were doors and walls between her and the argument, and to her annoyance, she couldn’t make it out. She looked to the young gentleman, now neatly folding letters into envelopes. He raised his brows to acknowledge the discord but said nothing.
Edith looked at the clock. She had now been kept waiting for six minutes. As she pondered the effect of rising without explanation versus a gentle but pointed inquiry as to when she might be seen, her thoughts were interrupted as the barker broke through with, “You can’t mean to publish!”
The murmurer went even lower, but she could detect from the brevity and the rhythm of speech that yes, they did mean to publish.
“But not now! Publish now and it ruins me!” shrilled the other man.
The voices grew suddenly louder—she realized a door had been opened. She could now hear the murmurer clearly as he said, “Oh, now…” She knew that Oh, now. She had heard it in various forms from Brownell and Burlingame. It never meant your complaint was wrong. It meant your complaint was pointless; they weren’t going to do as you asked, and they felt it was high time you realized it. Before, she had disliked the barker on principle. Now, she recognized him as a fellow author and her sympathy changed in his favor.
But it disappeared altogether as he burst into the waiting room. Attuned to proportion, Edith found his face simply … wrong. His head bulged at the top and all but disappeared at the bottom in a dab of a chin. The eyes were so prominent, they suggested a vitamin deficiency; the nose was delicate to the point of insignificance. The ears were large and flapping; a few strands of dishwater-brown hair lay in a desultory way across his scalp. The rest of him was no better: small and thin with a paunchy belly.
He stalked past the desk where the secretary was resolutely focused on his envelopes. Suddenly aware that Edith was his only audience, the little man advanced on her and hissed, “Ruined!” Then he gave the desk a vicious kick and tore out of the Appleton offices.
“Oh, dear,” said Edith.
The secretary did not deign to respond. Instead, he set aside the envelope, rose, and went through the door to the back. After a few moments, she heard, “Really?” A moment later, Rutger Bleecker Jewett sailed through the door, arms outstretched in welcome.
Once again, she was enchanted by his resemblance to a penguin. In some ways, it was an unremarkable face: egg-shaped, smooth except for a tidily trimmed ruff of gray around the back. His belly was expansive, his shape soft, the muscles of youth having given way long ago and with good grace. But he was a tall man and carried the excess of fifty-some-odd years on this earth well. His ears were largish, eyes warm and humorous with lively brows. He seemed to find life a cheerful business, endlessly fascinating. But he approached with the humility of a man peeking around the door at a wedding to which he was not invited but must linger because the bride is so beautiful, and the flowers smell so wonderful.
“Mrs. Wharton!” he exclaimed. “They told me you were here and I did not believe them. Come, come … and tell me why I am so fortunate.”
“I should have made an appointment,” she said.
Gravely, he gave the right answer. “The author of The House of Mirth does not need an appointment. She graces us if she chooses and when she will.” A smile allowed for the possibility that he was not quite so deferential and she not really in need of such deference. They were, actually, two old pros. “Come.”
As they made their way down the hall, she said, “You’ve had an exciting morning.”
Glancing back to the door through which the misshapen gentleman had exited, he sighed, “Disgruntled author, I’m afraid.”
“Are there gruntled ones?”
“An author’s state of gruntledness matters not,” he said, opening the door to his office. “Only her talent.”
She liked Mr. Jewett and she liked his office, large with high ceilings and expansive windows, the space crowded solely by books. An oriental rug in reds, browns, and orange showed some wit. A small Tiffany desk lamp, the glass shaped like a pale gold tulip, a willingness to indulge good taste. The chairs were broad, well cushioned, but not so hard and slippery as some leather armchairs were. When he had resumed his place behind his desk, she announced, “I come on behalf of another writer.”
Steepling his fingers, he said, “Mr. James?”
“No. David Graham Phillips. I saw you at his funeral yesterday.”
He shook his head, amazed. “I had no idea you were acquainted.”
“We met briefly at the Belmont Hotel. I spoke with his sister after the service. The poor woman is convinced there is a conspiracy against her brother and his work.”
The bulk of Mr. Jewett’s upper body rose and fell on a heavy sigh. “Yes. I urged Graham for months to go to the police.”
Startled, she said, “The police? Why?”
He was equally startled she should ask; she watched him debate how much to disclose.
Finally, he said, “Prior to the shooting, David Graham Phillips received several death threats.”
“Death threats?”
“By mail and by telephone.”
Chagrined, Edith sat back in her chair. She had been wrong, a thing she hated to be. But she also found herself strangely exhilarated. David Graham Phillips’s death had not been a random incident or a robbery. His killer knew who he was and meant to take his life. Threats meant notes, notes meant writing, writing meant narrative.
“But then you must have some idea who did it,” she said.
“Alas, the notes were unsigned.”
“All the same, the style of writing should tell you something about the person who wrote them.” Suddenly eager, she said, “You don’t have one I might look at?”
Jewett glanced about his desk, then leaned toward a drawer. “I do. Graham refused to take it seriously. He said he’d always been troubled by cranks and this was no different. He was going to throw it away, but I took it, thinking perhaps…”
“You would go to the police yourself.”
“Then of course I felt foolish and didn’t. Here it is.” He held up a folded piece of paper. “I suppose it’s evidence now. Perhaps we shouldn’t…”
“It has been in your drawer for some time. And I am wearing gloves.” She showed her hands to prove it.
Carefully, he unfolded the paper on his leather blotter, holding it down at the edges.
“It’s good stock,” she observed.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The paper it’s written on, it’s good quality. Is it watermarked?”
Turning toward the window, Mr. Jewett held it up to the light. They both squinted, murmuring “Yes” and “I think so.”
“Crane’s,” she said. “That’s unusual, surely.”
“Is it? What sort of paper do assassins generally use?”
She had no idea. Until now, she had imagined Mr. Phillips’s killer to be … well, not the sort of person able to purchase or even be aware of fine-grain paper. The handwriting was excellent as well, the letters beautifully formed in strong black ink.
It read:
You are a vampire and must die.
“Vampire—that’s an odd term.”
“What do you mean?” asked Jewett.
She wasn’t sure and had to think. “Mr. Phillips’s sister believes that he was killed by someone who wished to silence him. But ‘You are a vampire’ is hardly political language. You’d expect something more along the lines of Sic semper tyrannis. Or ‘Stop writing these awful things about Senator Click-and-Cluck.’ How did the messages come to him?”
“Some came to his house, I believe. One or two to his club.”
“And of course you’d never give out an author’s home address.” Mr. Jewett looked inquiring. “I only wonder how the assailant knew where Mr. Phillips lived. Was he listed?”
The editor shook his head, gesturing to the note. “Due to this sort of thing.”
“Precisely. In fact, how did the killer even know who he was? I am certain I don’t know what—”
Casting about for the name of a writer she might wish ill, she remembered the mystery novels piled high in the shop window.
“—what Mary Roberts Rinehart looks like well enough to shoot her.”
Mr. Jewett pointed to the wall where several framed author photos hung. “David Graham Phillips was a singular figure.”
Looking at the scowling face, Edith remembered the white suit. The chrysanthemum. The dark hair and dynamic movement. Maybe it wouldn’t be difficult to identify David Graham Phillips in a crowd. But the question remained: How did the letter writer know where to send his threats?
“You don’t think it possible that his killer knew him personally?”
Mr. Jewett took his time. “As brash as Mr. Phillips was, as little concerned with the sensitivities of some, he was truly loved by those who knew him, Mrs. Wharton.”
There was the gentlest hint of rebuke; she had been cavalier about his colleague’s death, treating it as a parlor game rather than a loss. Straightening in her chair, she said, “Yes. You remind me of the purpose of my visit. You may have heard, I like to be helpful to writers.”
He nodded gravely.
“They do not always welcome my assistance, and I feel certain that were Mr. Phillips still with us, he would tell me to go hang. But he is not here to defend himself—against me or others—and his sister has asked for my help. Mrs. Frevert confided in me her worries about her brother’s final work. I gather the subject matter is provocative.”
“It is.”
“She is concerned there will be pressure to make it less so.”
“I shall resist, you need not fear.”
“I am sure you will. But she thinks it would help if other writers gave their support. If there is anything I can do to bring Susan Lenox to light whole and … unmucked with, I should like to do it.”
She was surprised to find herself sincere. She had come with the purpose of charming Mr. Jewett. But people could be arrogant and destructive about a writer’s words, thinking because they read them, they could cut, twist, and classify them as they liked. Of course a reader had the right to dislike a book; she herself disliked hundreds, some of them written by dear friends. But there were those who wanted to control what they had not created. To say a thing should never have been written. People for whom a book was not merely bad but wicked. Remembering Brownell’s anxious, clammy attempts to steer her to the subject he thought she should be writing about, she felt indignant. Writers should not be told what to write, and they should not have their words altered by those who had no idea what it cost to put them on the page.
To Jewett, she said, “But I cannot speak for a book I have not read.”
Now that they were at the point, he hesitated, his gaze sliding off. “Difficult…”
“Is it?” She smiled. “I have been able to read since I was a very small child.”
“It is a manuscript of great interest, as you can appreciate. I can’t let it out of the office.”
“Oh, that’s no difficulty. I’m staying at the Belmont, which is close. I would be glad to read it here.”
It was a long book. That meant at least three, four days away from Teddy. More than enough time for the malingering Dr. Kinnicutt to come.
“If you can read it on the premises, and you promise not to divulge its contents…” He struggled. “I warn you, Mrs. Wharton. Mrs. Frevert is right when she says people will oppose this book. Powerful people, with considerable influence.”
“Well, let the battle be joined,” she said lightly. “We are unafraid.”
He asked when she would like to read the manuscript. She said whatever time served him. He suggested tomorrow and she answered with, “Then it shall be tomorrow.”
Looking at the vampire note still on his desk, she said, “It’s odd how we respond to shock. When my mother died, I thought how she would have detested the shoes I wore to the service. With Mr. Phillips, I become fixated on writing paper.”
“It is excellent paper,” he said kindly. “I use it myself.”
It occurred to her to say that of course he would never have killed so successful an author. Then it occurred to her that it would be a joke in very poor taste. Still, the quality of the paper, the sort of person who used it, its presence at the publishing house, writers and their jealousies stayed stubbornly on her mind.
Mr. Jewett escorted her to the lobby, informing the youth at the desk that she would return tomorrow and that he should find a space for her. Then, opening the front door for her, he said, “If it is not presumptuous to say…”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I very much look forward to reading your next book, Mrs. Wharton.”
She gave him her hand. “You are kind.”
He waited with her at the elevator bank just outside the office doors. She raised her hand to thank him for his gallantry, saying, “I’ve taken up so much of your time. Don’t wait on my account.” With a last smile, he returned to his desk.
Once he was gone, Edith hurried back inside the Appleton waiting room, where the bored secretary was still at his desk. Advancing swiftly before he could say her name out loud, she whispered, “I wonder if you could tell me the name of the writer who stormed out earlier.”
He peered at her, suspicious. Information was his sole currency, but disdain his sole pleasure, and so he said, “Algernon Okrent,” in a tone that suggested anyone who named their child such a thing should be flogged.
“Does he by any chance write novels with strong social themes?”
“He writes novels that don’t sell,” said the youth, still annoyed over the kick to his desk. Then, realizing this was not the line to take with an author, he said mechanically, “He has an upcoming novel that we’re all tremendously excited about.”
“What is the title? I’ll look for it.”
He met her gaze, holding it just long to express disbelief. “No Shame but Ours. Regrettably, it’s been postponed.”
Pointedly, he looked toward the back office to indicate that had been the cause of the fight. But not the sole cause, Edith remembered. Mr. Okrent had been shouting about another book. By another author. One he felt should not be published because it would “ruin” his.
She had a very strong feeling that the other author was David Graham Phillips. And the other book was Susan Lenox.