wedge in Herschel’s ad at the last minute, and only space because Mr. Avery dropped a couple of ornaments. I’m telling you, a full-length article on a murder—what was it, six or seven inches long?”
Trace measured with his fingers to show what he remembered, and Danny nodded. “Yeah, that’s about six hours of work.” He dropped his cigarette and scuffed it out. “I’m sorry, fellas, but you must’ve seen it in another paper.”
“Must’ve,” Trace agreed. “Tell me somethin—you work here pretty late nights, sometimes?”
Danny’s eyes were on his shoe, making sure his cigarette was all the way out. “All ink-slingers do.”
“You ever see anything … weird after dark? Like your eyes are playin tricks on you?”
“Only if I get too strong a whiff of Mr. Avery’s breath,” Danny said. “By nightfall he’s pretty well corned.”
When he had gone back inside, Boz said, “He’s lyin.”
Trace nodded. “Yup.”
* * *
J AMESON’S STORE WAS on their way north, so they stopped by to check for messages. The place was busy, and Jameson was occupied with a customer, so Boz headed to the back to help load wagons.
There were several copies of the Citizen on the front counter, and Trace helped himself, wanting reassurance in his own mind that he had read the story there. But the first copy he picked up only had Herschel’s want ad in it. As did the next. And the next. Trace went through the whole stack of them, astonished, excited, frustrated. He’d had that other copy—he’d left it with Miss Fairweather yesterday—but other than that he had no proof that the Herschel story had appeared in the Carondelet Citizen at all.
By contrast, all the daily papers made screaming mention of the murder, and several of the smaller papers had issued specials. Some of the stories appeared to be copied verbatim from the Citizen ’s original story; others had lifted the basic facts, but rearranged the words.
The Times, at least, showed evidence of firsthand reporting, and the reporter had not shied from making his own analysis of the case:
An examination of the scene of the crime, and the grounds surrounding the house, does not suggest the presence of anyone other than the family, and indeed Miss Herschel makes no claim of an invader. But the question remains, could a sixteen-year-old girl, of slight stature and gentle disposition, assault her grown father and two adult female relatives with murderous intent?
The answer may lie in intimations made by one Jacob Tracy, a local day laborer who was employed by Mr. Herschel. Upon entering the crime scene, Mr. Tracy appeared overcome by the ghastly sight, and when questioned he professed to be disturbed by the psychic malevolence of the place. “Great evil took place here,” he said, and then withdrew into reticence when pressed for details.
“Son of a bitch!” Trace breathed, and then looked up to see Jameson and his lady customer staring with raised eyebrows. He felt his neck getting hot. “Sorry, ma’am.” He took himself and the paper out through the back room, to the loading dock.
Boz came after him. “What’s the matter?”
Trace read him the offending part of the article, and what followed:
The police admit to being baffled, and it would not be without precedent for detectives to resort to consulting with psychics in such a case. Although Mr. Tracy denies association with the Spiritualists, he was adamant in his assertions of Miss Herschel’s innocence. Could some otherworldly knowledge be the source of his certainty?
“Could it be that reporter buggers goats?” Boz murmured.
“Or was fathered by one.” Trace wondered whether Miss Fairweather took the paper, and whether her fascination with him was stronger than her apparent need to keep hidden.
“Now, now,” said a nasal voice. “No need to get personal.”
Trace and Boz looked up. Rex Reynolds stood in the back doorway of the shop, hands in his pockets, rocked back on
Trace measured with his fingers to show what he remembered, and Danny nodded. “Yeah, that’s about six hours of work.” He dropped his cigarette and scuffed it out. “I’m sorry, fellas, but you must’ve seen it in another paper.”
“Must’ve,” Trace agreed. “Tell me somethin—you work here pretty late nights, sometimes?”
Danny’s eyes were on his shoe, making sure his cigarette was all the way out. “All ink-slingers do.”
“You ever see anything … weird after dark? Like your eyes are playin tricks on you?”
“Only if I get too strong a whiff of Mr. Avery’s breath,” Danny said. “By nightfall he’s pretty well corned.”
When he had gone back inside, Boz said, “He’s lyin.”
Trace nodded. “Yup.”
* * *
J AMESON’S STORE WAS on their way north, so they stopped by to check for messages. The place was busy, and Jameson was occupied with a customer, so Boz headed to the back to help load wagons.
There were several copies of the Citizen on the front counter, and Trace helped himself, wanting reassurance in his own mind that he had read the story there. But the first copy he picked up only had Herschel’s want ad in it. As did the next. And the next. Trace went through the whole stack of them, astonished, excited, frustrated. He’d had that other copy—he’d left it with Miss Fairweather yesterday—but other than that he had no proof that the Herschel story had appeared in the Carondelet Citizen at all.
By contrast, all the daily papers made screaming mention of the murder, and several of the smaller papers had issued specials. Some of the stories appeared to be copied verbatim from the Citizen ’s original story; others had lifted the basic facts, but rearranged the words.
The Times, at least, showed evidence of firsthand reporting, and the reporter had not shied from making his own analysis of the case:
An examination of the scene of the crime, and the grounds surrounding the house, does not suggest the presence of anyone other than the family, and indeed Miss Herschel makes no claim of an invader. But the question remains, could a sixteen-year-old girl, of slight stature and gentle disposition, assault her grown father and two adult female relatives with murderous intent?
The answer may lie in intimations made by one Jacob Tracy, a local day laborer who was employed by Mr. Herschel. Upon entering the crime scene, Mr. Tracy appeared overcome by the ghastly sight, and when questioned he professed to be disturbed by the psychic malevolence of the place. “Great evil took place here,” he said, and then withdrew into reticence when pressed for details.
“Son of a bitch!” Trace breathed, and then looked up to see Jameson and his lady customer staring with raised eyebrows. He felt his neck getting hot. “Sorry, ma’am.” He took himself and the paper out through the back room, to the loading dock.
Boz came after him. “What’s the matter?”
Trace read him the offending part of the article, and what followed:
The police admit to being baffled, and it would not be without precedent for detectives to resort to consulting with psychics in such a case. Although Mr. Tracy denies association with the Spiritualists, he was adamant in his assertions of Miss Herschel’s innocence. Could some otherworldly knowledge be the source of his certainty?
“Could it be that reporter buggers goats?” Boz murmured.
“Or was fathered by one.” Trace wondered whether Miss Fairweather took the paper, and whether her fascination with him was stronger than her apparent need to keep hidden.
“Now, now,” said a nasal voice. “No need to get personal.”
Trace and Boz looked up. Rex Reynolds stood in the back doorway of the shop, hands in his pockets, rocked back on
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