Thirty-Seven

I’m very sorry, my dear, but my cousin George led a blameless life. He suffered when his wife left him, but his most reprehensible act was to sit for hours in a nickelodeon.” Mrs. Busse was so kind and helpful, I was fairly bursting to find an object for my anger and frustration.

Fitz watched me with apprehension from the other side of the drawing room table, where we’d spread out the contents of Mr. Hyde’s box of belongings, which Mrs. Busse had brought back from the funeral in Indiana. I’d been pawing through them—mostly ledgers and correspondence—for almost an hour and I could tell that Fitz thought our time was up. I was still convinced there had to be something useful in the material, though.

“And you’re certain you never heard him mention Mr. Edison?” I asked.

“No, never. I would have remembered that. I’m afraid he had no secrets to discover.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I said, surrendering with bad grace.

Mrs. Busse sympathized with my disappointment. “It’s just that there wouldn’t be anything he could have been blackmailed for. Poor George.” Mrs. Busse turned over a picture in a flimsy frame. It was a wedding picture of a bride and groom. “His only fault was in loving a girl who was unfaithful. It’s so sad, really.”

I squinted, trying to see the picture, then asked, “May I look?”

With a little shake of her head expressing regret, she passed it to me. “I wasn’t at the wedding, you know. George must have hidden that photo away. I’ve never seen it before.” There was Hyde, in a morning suit with a striped ascot, his square face beaming, and a carnation in his lapel. Beside him, a slim girl smiled shyly, her face almost covered by a beautiful lace veil resting on her dark curls and falling close to her face, then down her shoulders to the floor. It was only when my eye traveled back up to the face that I felt a jolt of recognition. It was Babe Greer.

§

“I don’t know how he’ll react to your presence,” Fitz told me, as his driver navigated through the crowded streets of the Loop. “Perhaps I should go in and bring him the news without you.”

“No. I want to see his face,” I said. I was holding the wedding photograph, which Mrs. Busse had reluctantly allowed us to take. She was as shocked as we were. She didn’t know what to make of the fact that Babe Greer had been her cousin’s bride. In the end, she let us leave with the picture.

I knew Fitz was very uncomfortable with the whole thing, but I was determined to show the picture to Detective Whitbread. Here at last was something he’d failed to find on his own. He would have to listen to me now, even if Fitz had doubts about the relevance of the connection. Of course there was something there! Babe Greer was Hyde’s runaway bride. Why would she have concealed that fact, unless she had something to hide? Whitbread had missed this and I was going to confront him with it.

But we were forced to wait. We had to cool our heels for half an hour outside the same large interview room where Whitbread had informed Clara and me of Alden’s arrest. Finally, a rather distressed-looking Alonzo Swift exited the room and we were invited in.

I ignored Whitbread’s chilly reception and presented him with the bridal picture, demanding he get Babe to explain herself, and that he release my brother. I was still convinced that Col. Selig was at the root of all of this, although Whitbread and Fitz would never acknowledge that possibility. I was wary of making the accusation but sure that if they questioned Babe the truth would come out.

Whitbread listened to my rant for several minutes without speaking. When I ran out of breath he picked up the photograph and examined it closely. To my exasperation, he remained silent for some time. I was determined to force him to respond, so I kept my peace with some difficulty. Fitz looked back and forth between the two of us, obviously apprehensive that one of us would explode.

“We will question Miss Greer about it. May I keep the picture?” Whitbread asked Fitz, declining to look at me.

“Question her?” I burst out. “Of course you have to question her. But how can you keep my brother in custody, when you know about this and you know someone tried to have me killed?”

Whitbread continued to look at the picture in his hands. He was ignoring me and planning something. But he wasn’t going to inform me of his plans. I knew it. He was still punishing me for my betrayal. It was too late to repair that, but there was no reason to punish Alden. I had to convince him to release my brother.

Fitz coughed. “The picture belongs to Mrs. Busse, the mayor’s wife. It’ll need to be returned to her…eventually,” he said.

Whitbread frowned. “Fine. It will be returned to the mayor’s wife when we’re finished with it. Meanwhile, I must insist that you keep this matter to yourselves.” He looked pointedly at me. “And you, Mrs. Chapman, stay away from Miss Greer…and all of the film people, for that matter. Go home and take care of your children.”

“What will you do?” I asked. I didn’t care what he insisted on, he couldn’t ignore this matter. “Won’t you even pursue this?”

He stood up. “Of course I’ll pursue it. I’ll visit Miss Greer today. But, even if what you suspect is true, if Miss Greer was married to Mr. Hyde, that does nothing to prove your brother innocent of the crime to which he has confessed.” He put both hands on the table and leaned across it. “I tell you again, Mrs. Chapman, go home. If I find out that you have contacted Miss Greer or Mr. Swift, or any of the people connected to the Selig or Essanay film studios, I promise you I’ll lock you in a jail cell myself.”

He strode from the room. Fitz waved a hand at me to sit and wait as he hurried after Whitbread.

Of course, I was furious. Whitbread was blinded by his anger at me. How could he find out the truth if he went on like this? It was a sore thing to admit to myself, but I was truly afraid he could believe that I might have schemed with Kathlyn Williams to stage a fake leopard attack in order to free my brother. I didn’t know how to disprove that accusation and I was frustrated to realize how little trust my former mentor had in me.

Fitz returned. He would go with Whitbread to confront Babe Greer with the photograph. He tried to convince me it was the best, and only, way for me to find out what occurred at that meeting. He begged me to return home and promised to report to me there. I wasn’t sure if it was me or the film industry he wanted to protect, or if he just wanted to ensure the photograph was returned to Mrs. Busse, but I had no recourse in the matter. They would never allow me to accompany them.

But that didn’t mean I couldn’t follow them. Nothing could prevent me from going to the Bedford myself. I knew Babe Greer had her own suite, one floor below Alonzo Swift’s apartment.