The Hidden Evil
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
About the Author
Chapter
1
Boston, 1858
“What about a ghost story?”
A shiver ran through Timothy Fier. I’m frozen that’s all, he thought. We spent too much time on the Boston Common—sledding, having snowball fights, building snowmen.
“A ghost story around the fire! How perfect!” Betsy Thornton cried. Her cheeks bright red from the cold.
“Yes! Yes! Someone must tell a ghost story at once!” Edwina Weston called from across the Fiers’ library.
Maybe this is the time to tell the story, Timothy thought. Maybe if I tell it, I will finally be able to forget it. “I know one,” Timothy announced. He forced himself to smile at the large group of friends gathered around him.
The family’s thin, old cook shot Timothy a startled glance. The mugs of cider rattled on the tray she held in her hands, and she shook her head.
She doesn’t want me to tell the ghost story, he realized. But it’s time. It is time.
Outside the library window, the sun began to set. The shadows lengthened across the room. Like fingers reaching for me, Timothy thought.
“I know a ghost story about an evil little boy,” Timothy told his friends. “But you do not want to hear it.”
“Of course we do!” Clyde Lorring called from the window seat.
“You must tell us,” Edwina agreed.
Timothy took a long sip of hot cider. He stared around at his friends. Their eyes gleamed in the light from the fire in the big marble fireplace.
“Do not be so quick to answer,” he advised. “You see, it is a true story. And so scary it could certainly frighten a body to death.”
“Oooohhhh!” Clyde moaned. He leaned down and grabbed Martha Bradley’s neck in both hands. She gave a high-pitched squeal, and everyone laughed.
You will not be laughing for long, Timothy thought.
“You must tell the story,” Betsy cried. “We are willing to take the risk. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” cried several of the others.
Timothy took another sip of cider. “All right, I will tell the story on one condition.” He moved his gaze from face to face. “No one may interrupt . . . and no one may leave until the story is finished.”
Martha set her embroidery down on the chaise lounge. “You are trying to frighten us before your story even begins,” she scolded. She shook her finger at him playfully.
“And it is working,” Edwina added with a nervous laugh. “I bet I won’t have any fingernails left when you are finished with your tale.”
Timothy shrugged. “If you are already afraid, perhaps you should leave before I begin.”
“Never,” Ethan Chase exclaimed from his perch on the arm of the sofa. But his voice broke.
A chorus of laughter filled the library. Ethan’s cheeks turned bright red.
Then everyone stared at Timothy.
Waiting.
“I will have to change a few names, of course,” he explained, “to protect the survivors of this account. All else will be strictly as it was told to me. And as far as I know, completely true.”
A deep hush fell over the room.
Even though he stood in front of the fireplace, with the heat baking his back and legs, Timothy felt another shiver run through him.
Do not let your fear stop you, Timothy told himself. Tell them. Tell them everything.
“The story begins in New York,” he began at last. “More than ten years ago . . .”
Chapter
2
New York, 1847
“Why did we have to fight last night? Why did we have to fight the night he died?” Tears burned Maggie Alston’s eyes. She drew in a long breath, fighting to compose herself.
Her older sister, Henrietta, gently stroked Maggie’s long red hair. “Oh, Maggie, I shall never forgive myself for attending that silly recital at the Garfields’. Never! How terrible for you to be all alone with father when he . . .”
Maggie heard her sister stifle a sob. You will never know how awful it was, Henrietta, she thought.
Yesterday’s grisly scene flooded Maggie’s mind.
She heard her poor father’s gurgling scream.
Then she raced down the hall in her nightgown. She found him on his knees in the front parlor. Blood matted the silver hairs of his goatee and spattered the front of his white nightdress.
His old gray eyes filled with terror as he coughed and gagged, bringing up more blood.
Maggie screamed for help. Screamed and screamed. But it was useless, There was no one home to hear her cries. And by the time Dr. Marston arrived . . .
Maggie shook her head. She could not bear to think about it.
“Do you know what hurts most horribly?” she asked Henrietta. “We were fighting. Just yesterday. Oh, Hen, why did I always fight with him? Why?”
“You inherited father’s temper,” Henrietta replied with a sad smile. She smoothed a loose strand of her dull brown hair back into its bun.
“Yes,” Maggie agreed. “We had so many horrible, pointless arguments. And I treated him hideously last night. What if he died thinking I . . . thinking I didn’t love him . . .” Maggie buried her face in her hands.
Henrietta wrapped her arms around Maggie and rocked her back and forth. “He knew you loved him, of course he knew,” she whispered.
At least I still have Henrietta, Maggie thought.
Their mother died when Maggie was six. Henrietta was only nine—but she took on the job of mothering Maggie. Comforting her when she woke up after a nightmare. Listening to her problems.
Dearest Hen.
Maggie gazed up at her sister with a tiny smile. “If not for you, I do not think I could bear this.”
“We must be strong,” Henrietta agreed. “We must be very strong.”
Someone knocked on the door.
Henrietta cleared her throat. “Come in,” she called, her voice thick.
Colleen, the maid, entered and curtsied. Her round cheeks appeared bright red.
“Yes?” Henrietta asked.
“Two constables are here to see you, miss,” the maid answered.
Maggie stood up slowly. “Constables?”
“I told them that you were not at home to visitors, miss, but they insisted on speaking with you both.” Colleen twisted her hands in her apron.
“Do they know that we are in mourning?” Henrietta asked.
Maggie heard her sister’s voice tremble. Poor Hen, she thought. It’s not fair for her always to be taking care of me. I must take care of her too.
“Yes, miss. I told them,” Colleen answered.
“Show them in at once!” Maggie cried, feeling her temper flare. “I want to inform them that they should have more respect for a man’s grieving family.”
“Very good, miss.”
The maid returned a moment later with two constables. The men wore blue frock coats with shiny badges. Maggie noticed the revolvers tucked into thei
r belts, along with clubs of hard wood. She shivered. What could they possibly want here?
The constables quickly removed their caps. One of the men was old and bald. The other was young, with red hair almost as fiery as Maggie’s.
“You are the Alston sisters?” the bald constable asked, peering at Maggie and Henrietta in turn.
Henrietta grabbed Maggie’s hand and gave it a squeeze. She doesn’t want me to lose my temper, Maggie thought. She pressed her lips tightly together and let her sister answer.
“Yes, this is Margaret Alston,” Henrietta said. “I am Henrietta Alston.”
“We are very sorry to intrude on you at a time like this,” continued the older constable.
“Terribly sorry,” the red-haired constable agreed. He blushed so hard that his freckles darkened.
“But what is the matter?” Maggie snapped. “You say you do not wish to intrude, but here you are! And our father scarcely cold in his grave.”
“Maggie,” Henrietta said warningly.
“We have received an alarming report from Dr. Marston, your father’s physician,” the bald constable explained. He hesitated, staring intently at Maggie and Henrietta. “It seems . . .”
“Seems?” Maggie prompted impatiently.
“It seems your father did not die a natural death. It seems someone poisoned him.”
Maggie felt as if the room had instantly grown dark. The only sound she could hear was the ticking of the pendulum clock. Each tick so much louder than usual. Her head spun. I am going to faint! she thought.
“He was murdered?” she gasped.
“Dr. Marston has made an error,” Henrietta said firmly and calmly. But her face appeared pasty white.
“No mistake,” the older constable replied.
“But—but who would have done such a thing?” Maggie cried. She clenched her hands into fists. If someone had murdered her father, they would pay. Maggie would make them pay.
“That’s what we wanted to ask you both,” the younger constable replied, nervously twisting his cap in his hands. “We wondered if your father had any enemies that you are aware of . . .”
“Enemies?” Henrietta echoed. “Why, none that I can think of.”
“No enemies at all,” Maggie agreed. “How can you even ask such a thing?”
“And yesterday both our servants had the day off and our cook went home sick,” Henrietta added. “Maggie and Father spent the evening alone, so no one had the opportunity to—”
Henrietta stopped short. Her mouth fell open slightly.
Maggie felt her scalp prickle as she turned from Henrietta to the constables. Both men eyed her suspiciously.
They couldn’t think she . . . They couldn’t believe Maggie would ever harm her own father, could they?
“Is that true, miss?” the older constable asked slowly. “Were you and your father alone all evening?”
“Why, yes,” Maggie said, “but—”
“But that is utterly absurd,” Henrietta cried, her voice growing higher and higher. “You could not possibly think that just because they were arguing yesterday that Maggie would have a reason to . . .” Her words trailed off.
“Arguing about what?” the bald constable demanded.
Henrietta gave Maggie a frightened look. Her hands fluttered nervously at her sides.
Maggie turned to the constables. “Not that it is any of your business, but father forbade me to see any young men for a whole week. He found out I’d gone coaching.”
“Coaching?” the older constable asked.
“Riding around the park in a coach and . . . kissing,” the younger constable muttered, his eyes on the ground.
“Yes, and so you said—” Henrietta began. She stopped short, her cheeks turning bright red. Then she glanced guiltily at the constables.
“She said what?” the bald constable asked sternly.
Henrietta gave Maggie an apologetic look.
“She said what?” the bald constable repeated, raising his voice.
“Oh, dear,” mumbled Henrietta. “She said—well, she said she was too old for him to control her life. Maggie swore she would never be forced to obey him again.” Henrietta’s lips began to quiver.
Oh, Hen, Maggie thought. Now you have done it. She almost started to laugh. It felt so strange that anyone could think her capable of killing her father.
“I am afraid that we must ask permission to search the house,” the bald constable said. “The whole house,” he added, staring straight at Maggie, “including Miss Alston’s sleeping quarters.”
“Never!” cried Henrietta. “Do you know what family you are dealing with? This is the Alston house, sir. Kindly remember where you are.”
Maggie had never seen Hen this angry. How wonderful of Henrietta to defend her so fiercely! Especially since her sister hated to argue.
“I am sorry, miss,” the bald constable told her, “but we must do our search.”
Henrietta led the two constables out of the parlor. Her stiff black gown rustled loudly with each step.
Maggie stayed where she was. Let them search her room. They would find nothing, of course. She could not be more innocent.
But what if Dr. Marston were right? What if someone had murdered her father? Could someone have slipped into the house last night without her knowing it?
Impossible!
She could hear Henrietta arguing with the constables as they tromped up the front staircase. She dropped down on the sofa. Her body felt heavy, as if lead filled her limbs.
Colleen burst through the door. She appeared ready to burst into tears. “You must come, miss. They are saying the most horrible things.”
“It is a mistake,” Maggie told Colleen. “Do not worry. It is all a dreadful mistake.”
“Please,” Colleen begged. “Please talk to them.”
Maggie forced herself to stand. She made her way out of the parlor, with Colleen on her heels. Then she started up the wide staircase, gripping the carved banister tightly.
“My sister is innocent!” she heard Henrietta cry. “How dare you! Stop that! Stop that at once! You cannot touch her things! Stop!”
At the top of the stairs Maggie turned down the long hall. Her room seemed so far away. She didn’t know if she had the strength to reach it.
She wanted to lie down. She wanted to rest until the constables left. Until they realized that no one could have wanted to kill her poor father.
The door to her room stood open, and Maggie slipped inside. The bald constable held a candle while the younger man carefully searched through Maggie’s belongings. He rolled up the top of her desk and poked through the contents of the tiny cubbyholes.
“She is innocent!” Henrietta shrieked again and again. She clutched at the young constable, trying to stop his search.
Blushing, he shrugged his arms free.
“Henrietta,” Maggie called. Her voice sounded small and far away. “It is all right. If the silly fools want to waste their time looking in my room, let them—”
Henrietta gasped as the young constable pulled something out of the second desk drawer.
A glass vial.
He removed the tiny cork from the vial and gingerly sniffed the liquid inside.
“It is poison,” he declared.
“Then we have found the murderess,” the bald constable announced. “It is Maggie Alston.”
Chapter
3
Maggie felt the blood drain from her face. Poison?
In her room?
How could it be?
Maggie stared over at her sister—and saw a horrified expression on Henrietta’s face. Henrietta shook her head back and forth, back and forth. Her eyes locked on Maggie.
“Henrietta!” Maggie cried. She stumbled toward her sister. “I do not know who put this vial in my room. But you must know I would never harm Father. Never, never, never!”
Blotches of red appeared on Henrietta’s pale cheeks as if someone had slapped her. “Yes, yes, of cou
rse,” she said quickly. “Of course I know that, Maggie.”
She tucked a few loose strands of her brown hair back into her tight bun. Then she stood up straight and tall and turned to face the constables. “Someone must have put that poison in Maggie’s drawer. Someone who wanted to make my sister appear guilty.”
The constables did not pay any attention. They both stared at Maggie. “I am afraid you will have to come with us, miss,” the older man informed her.
“Come with you?” Maggie’s head felt fuzzy. She couldn’t think.
“No!” Henrietta yelled, throwing her arms around Maggie’s neck.
Maggie stood with her head bowed. Unable to move. Unable to speak.
The constables pulled her sister away. Maggie could hear Henrietta crying, but she couldn’t gaze over at her sister.
Someone made it appear as if she killed her father. The thought repeated itself over and over in her mind.
“Come along now,” the older constable ordered. He grabbed her roughly by the elbow.
She jerked her arm away. She shook her head, trying to clear it. “There is no need to touch me,” she snapped. “I will go with you. But I am innocent. It will be proven and you will both look like fools.
“Henrietta, I must ask you to contact Hamilton,” Maggie said firmly.
“Oh, Maggie, I—” Henrietta broke off into sobs.
“Just do as I say,” Maggie insisted. “Hamilton has been our family’s attorney for years. He will not disappoint us.”
“Of course,” Henrietta promised in a tiny, frightened voice. “I will go to him this minute.”
Maggie turned to face the constables. She raised her chin and stared at them coldly. “Well? I am ready.”
Yes, I am ready, she told herself as the constables marched her downstairs.
I am ready.
But how could she ever be ready for what followed? The constables locked her in one of the stalls of the Black Maria—the wagon used to take prisoners to jail.
People stared and pointed as they drove past. Please don’t let anyone I know see me, Maggie thought. If one person saw her, the news would be all over town by that evening.
It does not matter if anyone sees me or not, Maggie realized. This type of scandal could never be hidden. Heiress Maggie Alston—a murderess.