Genevieve nearly screamed. It was so, so unfair. She had been at that party, she should be the one writing about the crime that had occurred in the hostess’s mansion. Instead, Clive was there right now, doubtless oozing false charm all over the housemaids. It was particularly humiliating that, of all the other journalists on staff, her rival had been assigned this story. Clive had made it perfectly clear on more than one occasion that he didn’t think it was appropriate for women to work in newspapers. This would have been a perfect opportunity for Genevieve to finally best him, as she had actually attended the dratted ball and had a level of firsthand knowledge of the story—or the setting, at least—that Clive could not match.
Arthur’s voice drifted out from behind his paper. “I would never have guessed you were at the Huffington ball, Genevieve. Everyone knows you never go to parties.”
“I do go to parties, sometimes,” Genevieve muttered in response, half listening.
Arthur rustled the paper and peered around at her. Genevieve briefly considered telling Mr. Horace about her encounters with Daniel McCaffrey, but dismissed the idea almost immediately. Her editor would be thrilled to have such a piece of juicy information about the reclusive millionaire, but Genevieve knew he’d simply assume the high-and-mighty Mr. McCaffrey had been caught on a slumming tour, and that would be the end of it. A minor scandal would flare and be forgotten almost immediately.
Despite her better judgment, she didn’t believe Daniel had been slumming. Which was wildly inconvenient, as a slumming tour would have wrapped up the whole affair in a neat little bow. But Daniel was too familiar with that alley and its denizens for his presence to have been part of a tour; there was something deeper going on, and she wanted to get to the bottom of it.
Something that might have to do with a body whose head had clearly been bashed in, liver failure or no.
Arthur frowned at her and rattled his paper again, apparently mistaking her continued presence in his office for an attempt to sway him into letting her join Clive at the Huffingtons’. “I’m not changing my mind about this, Genevieve,” he began warningly.
“Can I at least see the letter the Hood sent here?” she asked. Robin Hood had committed three burglaries so far, and after each he’d sent a letter to the Globe, claiming responsibility for the attack and professing why he’d chosen his victims. In a society that celebrated wealth but turned a blind eye to how it was obtained, Robin Hood’s letters offered detailed accounts of his prey’s abundant greed and avarice. At first, the police had been averse to having the Hood’s letters printed in the Globe, but careful persuasion from Arthur had convinced them that public knowledge of the crimes might be helpful in catching the thief. So far all it had done was stir up gossip—and help sell newspapers.
“Clive has the letter with him.” Arthur sounded surprised. “You know that.”
Genevieve gritted her teeth in frustration. “Right, of course.”
Arthur raised a furry eyebrow in her direction. “Never mind about the Robin Hood burglary. I want that piece on the flower show on my desk by noon.”
“Yes, noon,” Genevieve grumbled, as Arthur buried himself behind his paper again. She turned to go, but a list of names in an unfamiliar hand on the edge of Arthur’s desk caught her eye. They were names she knew: her former fiancé, Ted Beekman; the host from Saturday’s ball, Andrew Huffington; her father’s friend Reginald Cotswold; and a few other familiar high-society New Yorkers.
“Mr. Horace, what’s this?” She picked up the list by its corner. “‘Mayoral Committee to Investigate Housing Reform’?” She gave her editor a puzzled look.
Arthur sighed, putting the paper down. “You saw the police commissioner leave earlier?”
Genevieve nodded and glanced toward the door, where she had indeed seen the smartly cut figure of Commissioner Simons making his exit as she entered for the day.
“He wanted me to know that, on his advice, the mayor is putting together a committee to explore the need for tenement reform. But he asked me as a favor to hold off on reporting it. They’re afraid it will seem as though they’re giving credence to this thief’s letters, and they don’t want to embolden the man.”
Genevieve furrowed her brow. “But it’s a simple fact that housing conditions for the impoverished are terrible. The mayor really needs a committee to explore the notion?” She thought of the run-down building jammed into the narrow confines of Bottle Alley. Criminals lurked in such alleys. And dead men. But children likely lived there as well.
“It’s not the fact of bad conditions, Genevieve. It’s the how of fixing them. Tear them all down and start anew? Renovate what exists? Who pays?” He took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes wearily before waving her toward the door. “Never mind about this committee, and keep it to yourself. I promised the commissioner. You concentrate on the flower show.”
Genevieve mulled over this secret mayoral committee as she made her way back to her desk. She pulled out her notes on the flower show but, glancing at the clock, decided she had enough time to spend a few minutes checking the paper’s files on a different topic. Surely someone, somewhere, had been able to uncover something about Mr. McCaffrey over the years.
A half hour later, a disheartened Genevieve stared at her notes. It was as if Daniel McCaffrey had simply sprung out of Zeus’s head at the age of seventeen, when he was publicly introduced as Jacob Van Joost’s heir. There had been, of course, a flood of articles following the announcement, all rife with speculation as to his origins and his relationship with the venerated old Knickerbocker, many of them salacious in one way or another. And as Callie had darkly hinted at the ball, some subtly suggested foul play. Despite the best efforts of
