Chapter Thirty-Five

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 17, 1871

Meg closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. It didn’t help.

Nothing was wrong between the two of them, Nate had said. He wasn’t angry or offended by anything she’d said or done. She should have left it there and been satisfied. But she’d been so sensitive to the distance she feared was growing between them that she begged him to reveal whatever he was hiding. After learning Jasper’s surprising past, she was through with secrets and half-truths.

Reluctantly, he’d told her. He doubted Otto Schneider had killed Hiram. He believed, but couldn’t prove, that Otto had been paid to take the blame. “I don’t want you to worry,” he’d added after telling her all his reasons. But what she heard was, The killer is still at large, no one knows who he is, and the police aren’t investigating.

That was two days ago, and she’d carried that conversation with her ever since, along with a dread that wrapped and squeezed.

She hadn’t been able to eat all day. Now that she was standing in Mr. Jansen’s gallery moments before the Spirit of Chicago Art Show opened, she was glad of it. A hand pressed to her bodice, she smiled at Bertha Palmer and hoped her nerves were not as evident as they felt.

“You’re ready for this,” Mrs. Palmer told her with a smile. Gaslight sparkled on the diamonds in her hair and gleamed on the birch floor. Gilt frames hung at eye level on dark green papered walls. At the opposite end of the long room, a string quartet tuned their instruments and began playing, their music the perfect polish to make the evening shine.

If only Meg could concentrate on this, and not on a murderer still running free. With a silent prayer for help, she resolved to set aside her dismay and enjoy the evening. A month ago, she’d never have thought this possible.

“Maybe Father will come later,” Sylvie said.

Maybe. But crowds rattled him, and the last thing Meg wanted was for him to be out of sorts tonight. At least at home he was comfortable. Still, the fact that he was missing this event stung, no matter how good the reason for it.

“Whether Stephen comes or not, you must believe he is proud of you. We all are.” Anna Hoffman’s voice refocused Meg’s attention on what was before her, rather than what wasn’t. Having come early to donate pies and pastries to the fundraiser, she beamed as she gestured toward Meg’s work sharing wall space with several pieces Bertha had brought home from France.

Meg’s gaze blurred as she took in the scenes she’d painted around the city, from Louis Garibaldi selling a relic to Bertha Palmer, to Reverend Collyer shepherding his congregation in his burned-out Unity Church. One painting showed Sylvie working at the aid distribution center, and another showed Anna Hoffman bringing pretzels and Berliners to German families in the ravaged North Division. And there was the banker, posture erect, wearing his best suit and reciting “a heart for any fate” as his old institution came tumbling down. A handful of smaller paintings were scattered between those five. Each one told its own story, but viewed together like this, they formed a tapestry of hope.

Sylvie grasped her hand. “Just think. You never wanted to paint from life before, and now look at the life you’ve captured.”

Overcome with gratitude, Meg squeezed her sister’s hand in return. “Ten weeks ago, every woman here lost nearly everything,” she said quietly. “But look how far we’ve come. Look how far Chicago has come.”

“Yes, dear.” Mrs. Palmer nodded, taking a peek at the timepiece chained to her bodice. “Here we are, and more are soon to arrive. Are you prepared to meet them?”

While Meg and Mrs. Palmer discussed the silent bidding process, Sylvie and Anna receded to the edges of the room. From the adjacent reception area, smells of apple cider perfumed the air along with the evergreen boughs placed on the linen-covered table. Several footmen loaded silver trays with cups of cider to pass among the guests.

Not five minutes later, the first of them arrived in furs and jewels. Completely in her element, Mrs. Palmer ushered them toward Meg and introduced her in such glowing terms that Meg wasn’t sure she could live up to them.

“See for yourself,” Mrs. Palmer told her friends, sweeping an elegant arm toward the paintings. To Meg, she whispered, “Your turn.”

Swallowing her nerves, Meg followed their gazes, noting where they lingered, and began telling them about the subject portrayed.

“But I heard you burned your hands,” a gentleman said. “It must have been a rumor.”

“It isn’t,” Meg said, and his gaze dropped to her scars. Weeks ago, she would have shrunk away from his curiosity. But she’d earned this night and the attention. All she felt was pride.

“Fascinating!” He turned to the paintings with new interest.

After that, Meg could hardly keep track of how many people she met. Helene Dressler and Kirstin Lindberg were among them, chatting with Sylvie for a long while after they admired her work. Jasper was conspicuously absent. She knew it was better that way.

When Nate arrived with Frank and Edith, Meg was talking with a couple from the Prairie Avenue district. She smiled and waved discreetly, then turned back to the woman who wanted to know more about the fate of Reverend Collyer’s church. By the time the couple had moved on, Nate apparently had too.

Threading her way between guests, Meg was stopped a few more times before she finally reached the Novaks and warmly thanked them for coming.

“We wouldn’t miss it.” Edith kissed her on the cheek.

“If she weren’t already so fond of you, Meg, I’d say she’s just as happy for a night away from the kids,” Frank teased. Then his expression grew serious. “Nate told us what happened with your father this week. His urgency to get a gun, his patrolling in that building right before it collapsed? He really should see Dr. Gilbert.”

“I know. He said he’d think about it. I’d love to schedule an appointment for this week.”

“That would be wise.”

“Now, if we can only get my father to agree.” Meg looked around. “Didn’t I see Nate with you?”

Edith accepted a cup of cider from a passing footman and sipped it. “He asked after your father. Then he disappeared.”

“I think I know why.” Frank nodded toward the door.

Nate and Stephen entered together. Nate found Meg and steered her father straight toward her. Frank clapped his brother-in-law on the back and shook her father’s hand. Edith waved a footman over and passed a cup of cider to Stephen along with her greeting.

Tears gathered in Meg’s throat. “I didn’t expect to see you!”

Stephen glanced at Nate, then at her. “This is a big night for you. I said I would be here for you from now on, didn’t I? Well, here I am.”

“I can see that.” She could also see by the hunted look in his eyes that it was costing him. He was exhausted as it was. “I appreciate it more than you know. Maybe you’d like to take a seat while you drink your cider. Be sure to get a slice of Anna’s strudel too.”

One of Frank’s colleagues approached them, and Frank and Edith broke away to converse with him and his wife.

Stephen lowered his voice. “I’m not good at talking to strangers, daughter. Not unless they want to talk about books.”

“You won’t need to,” she replied. “Just sit and look at the art. That’s exactly the right thing to do.”

Nodding, he went to one of the cushioned benches and lowered himself onto it.

“You look lovely,” Nate said, “and so does your work. Enjoy yourself tonight.”

She wanted to ask if he’d learned anything new about Otto since they’d spoken on Friday but then decided that could wait. “I will,” she said. “I am.”

“Good. I don’t want to keep you from your guests, so I’ll go sit with your father. If anyone tries to talk to him, they’ll have to talk to me instead.” He was protecting Stephen. He had his own family here with whom he could spend time, but instead he was attaching himself to her father.

She reached out and grabbed his free hand, pulling him back to her. “Thank you,” she told him. “For coming and for convincing my father to come too.”

“You’re welcome.” The way he smiled at her made her wish she could sit beside him too.

A cup balanced on his knee, Nate gladly put thoughts of Otto Schneider aside for the night and focused on Meg instead.

“It means a lot to Meg that you’re here for this,” he told Stephen. “It’s good of you to come. I know it isn’t easy for you, which makes it all the more meaningful.”

Making no comment beyond a nod, Stephen sat ramrod straight on the bench, staring at Meg’s paintings while he chewed the last of his strudel.

The Garibaldi brothers walked in, and Meg clasped their hands in warm welcome.

“That boy in the painting,” Stephen said, squinting. “Who is that?”

A placard mounted beneath the frame gave general information, but Nate supposed Stephen wanted specifics. “That’s Louis Garibaldi. He and his brother Lorenzo sold fire relics in the neighborhood until the weather turned too cold.”

Stephen pulled at his collar, then stood. Taking two steps closer to the wall, he pointed at the canvas. “I’ve seen him before. Just didn’t notice it until now.”

Nate joined him. “Well, he’s right over there, talking to Meg and Mrs. Palmer.”

His brow folding, Stephen swiveled. “I know that boy. He took my gun. A man ought to have his gun, especially at a time like this.” The cup of cider shook in his right hand, spilling a few drops over the side.

“Steady, Mr. Townsend.” Nate took the cup from him and deposited it on a passing tray. “Tell me more,” he prompted. “What happened?”

“The morning after the fire, that kid offered to sell me my Colt Army revolver that I lost the night of the fire. But I couldn’t pay for it, and why should I have? It was mine. My initials were etched into the side.”

“So he sold it to someone else?”

“He must have. The next time I saw it, the police officers said it was evidence in Hiram’s murder. I want to know what Louis did with my gun after I saw it last.”

Nate was intrigued as well. “Listen. There’s a cloakroom just off the hallway where we can speak with a little more privacy. I’ll bring him over, and you can talk to him there, but only if you promise to keep your voice down. Don’t yell. Don’t touch him. Can you do that, Mr. Townsend?”

Stephen’s nostrils flared. “I’ll try.”

“Excellent. Go to the cloakroom. I’ll be right there.” Straightening his cravat, Nate ambled over to the Garibaldi brothers and inserted himself into their conversation with Meg, Edith, and Mrs. Palmer. After congratulating the boys on their new baby sister, Nate turned to Meg. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to borrow Louis for a few minutes. We have a few questions about the relic business.”

“That so? Then I ought to come too.” Lorenzo squared his shoulders. “Louis is the loudmouth of the operation. I’m the brains.”

“By all means.” Nate smiled. “Right this way.”

A forest of furs and frock coats lined the small space, dimming the sounds of conversation and music just outside it. Gaslight spilled from a single sconce, casting shadows beneath Stephen’s eyes and cheekbones.

Lorenzo tipped his hat back on his head. “Interested in purchasing a relic, mister? We closed up shop for the season, but if you have a specific item in mind, I may be able to meet your need.”

Stephen frowned at Louis. “You tried to sell me my old gun. The one with my initials on it. SJT.”

Louis’s eyes widened. “Surly Jaw T-bone?”

“Stephen James Townsend, you—” Stephen stopped himself and inhaled deeply. “You remember who I am.”

“Gentlemen,” Nate said. “This is Stephen Townsend. His daughters are Miss Meg and Miss Sylvie.”

Eyebrows spiking, Lorenzo looked between his brother and Stephen. “Stephen Townsend is their pop?”

Louis kicked one shoe against the other. The top was peeling away from the sole. “I didn’t know that. I didn’t even know Miss Meg yet.” His bravado began to falter.

“That’s all right, Louis,” Nate said. “We’d just like to know what you did with Mr. Townsend’s gun after he told you he couldn’t buy it back.”

“That gun was important to me,” Stephen added. “What happened to it is important.”

Louis scratched the back of his head and straightened his cap. “Is it important to Miss Meg and Miss Sylvie?” Gaslight flickered in his large black eyes.

“It could be, yes,” Nate told him.

Lorenzo pulled off his hat and wrung it.

“I sold it to someone else.” Louis shrugged. “I made a pretty penny off it too. As soon as this other fellow showed an interest in it, I knew he could be had. So I set the price high. He set it even higher, so long as I did him one extra favor.”

“What was that?” Nate asked.

“Didn’t make much sense, but he told me to bury the gun somewhere, real shallow, and then tell the police I saw Townsend do it. I also had to show them where to find it.”

“So you’re false witness number one.” Stephen stepped backward, his face darkening. But the slant of his shoulders made it seem like it was almost a relief to know. “You have no idea what you did.”

“How was I supposed to know? I thought, how much trouble could a guy get in for burying his own ruined gun? The man offered me cash for it, and I took it. I got a family to look out for, after all.”

Interesting. Otto Schneider said he hadn’t paid the witnesses right away.

Nate bent on one knee to the boy’s level. “Louis, do you have any idea who the other witness was? The one who said they actually saw Mr. Townsend shoot Hiram Sloane?”

Lorenzo clenched his jaw, then cleared his throat. “It doesn’t matter anymore, does it? The charges were dropped. You’re not going to put the witnesses in jail, are you?”

Straightening, Nate looked the young man in the eye. He knew something. Nate had one guess as to what it was. “Tell me, Lorenzo.”

“I’m not talking on the record,” he said. “If I sing, you have to promise not to put it in your paper. Leastwise, not the specifics. Not the names of the false witnesses. Bad for business, you know.”

Nate did. “The only reason I want to find the witnesses is so they can identify the man who put you—that is, the witnesses—up to this. He’s the real criminal. Witness names can remain confidential.”

A frown rippled across Lorenzo’s brow. Wearing fingerless gloves, he pushed his hair off his forehead. “Fine, I’ll say it. That man who paid my brother off—I followed him and asked if he had any other work he needed done. All I had to do was say one little line, and I had enough money for—well, it was a lot more than he paid Louis. My brother didn’t know I made that deal.” He turned to Stephen. “But yeah, I told the police I saw you shoot Mr. Sloane.”

Nate exhaled a long breath as he stole a glance at Stephen. It was the first confession he’d heard in a while that made any sense. “You all right, Mr. Townsend?”

Stephen rubbed his chin. “I will be once I know who was behind this scheme. If you don’t know his name, do you recall what he looked like?”

Louis bit his lip and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Not really. I see a lot of people every day.”

“Did he know the gun belonged to Mr. Townsend before you found it?” Nate asked.

The boy looked up through the thick fringe of his lashes. “That’s how I got such a high price for it. I told him it belonged to Stephen James Townsend. Now, if we’re through, I think I’ll have another slice of pie.” He scuttled away.

“If you think of anything else, contact me.” Nate handed Lorenzo his card as the young man followed his brother.

After a few minutes to allow Stephen to compose himself, they headed back into the gallery in time to see Daniel Brandon skip the cloakroom and reception area and bluster right into the main room.

“That’s the Camp Douglas photographer,” Nate told Stephen and hailed Mr. Brandon over. “This is Mr. Stephen Townsend. His photograph was one of the two we brought you. What brings you here tonight?”

After greeting Stephen, Mr. Brandon reached into his jacket and withdrew a file folder. “I found something after you and Miss Townsend left my studio, Mr. Pierce. You’ll both want to see this, I’m sure. If I hadn’t seen the notice about this show, I wouldn’t have known where to find you. Now that I’m here, I’m eager to see what she thinks of this.”

Nate’s curiosity was piqued. “She’s occupied at the moment. You could wait, but she’s bound to be talking most of the night with whoever walks through that door.”

“Then I’ll show you.” Brandon pulled a photograph from the folder. It was eight by ten inches, showing a group of about a dozen men with their right hands held aloft. “This is the last group of prisoners to take the oath of allegiance to the North. The last of the Galvanized Yankees to come out of Camp Douglas. See any familiar faces?”

Nate scanned the gaunt and haggard men. “That’s Jasper, all right. Look, Mr. Townsend.”

“So it is,” Stephen said.

It wasn’t exactly new information, but it did prove their theory that Jasper had been a Galvanized Yankee.

“No, it isn’t,” Mr. Brandon said in a low tone. “You keep calling this fellow Jasper. I couldn’t place the name when you said it, but didn’t think much of it since I photographed thousands of soldiers. But I can tell you now that this man’s name isn’t Jasper.”

He flipped the photograph over. Affixed to the back was a typewritten caption with the date and names of the prisoners taking the oath.

Jasper’s name wasn’t among them.

Nate turned the photograph again, studying the faces. “But that’s him. I’m sure of it.”

“I agree it’s the same man from the photo you brought in. But I’m telling you, Jasper is not his name.” Mr. Brandon pointed to the back. “He’s second from the left, front row. That man’s name is George Skinner.”

The air changed in the room. Stephen’s countenance was thunderous, the atmosphere around him crackling.

“You’re sure?” Nate whispered to the photographer. “Absolutely sure of this?”

“Absolutely sure.”

“He’s no relation.” Stephen blinked over and over, slapping his thigh. “No relation to Hiram at all. He’s a Rebel devil, plain and true. No relation.”

“Wait.” Nate squeezed Stephen’s shoulder. “Slow down, Mr. Townsend. Steady. Remember the back of Jasper’s carte de visite? Hiram wrote Jasper’s name. He called it—” He frowned, recalling to mind the exact phrase. “The likeness of Jasper.”

“So he did.” Mr. Brandon’s head bobbed. “I’m confident that what he meant was that George Skinner was the very likeness of his nephew. They looked alike. But they were two different people.”

Stephen dropped onto a nearby bench. “All this time,” he muttered, rocking back and forth, head in his hands. “All this time, all this time. The enemy in the camp. I need my gun.”

“Easy, there. We’ll sort it out.” But dread filled Nate’s belly with stones.

Looking up, he noticed several guests watching them. One of them was Louis. Nate crooked a finger at him, and the boy shuffled back over.

Nate showed him the photograph. “What do you see, Louis?”

The boy pulled up his trousers by the waist and leaned forward. “Why, that’s him! The man who bought the gun! How’d you know?”

He was pointing to George Skinner.