“Did you feel the same way at Oscar’s funeral?”
“We didn’t have one. No money,” Jasper responded, tight lipped.
“I’m sorry.” Birdie sighed. She patted his arm. “I’m so sorry. You haven’t talked about your brother.”
“What’s the point?”
His cold words ended the conversation. The mourners all stood for a hymn, but neither Birdie nor Jasper sang a single note. Once the service had finished, Birdie shuffled with the rest of the crowd to the doors. A small cadre of family entered a string of motorcars for the funeral cortege. People clumped together to discuss the tragedy in hushed whispers. Birdie felt penned in, and Jasper led her out to the front of the church. In the fresher air, she took a huge breath, as if she hadn’t breathed for hours.
“What now?” she asked, feeling lost amongst the dissipating crowd of mourners.
“I don’t know,” Jasper said.
At the curb, a dark burgundy Daimler purred. A gloved hand emerged from the window and waved at them, fluidly at first, then more frantically.
“Is that—” Birdie started.
“It is.” Jasper shook his head. “Come on.”
The Daimler was different from the car that Dawlish usually drove, longer and narrower, fit for a grander patriarch—Mr. Cutter. It was good enough for the British monarchy, and hence good enough for the Cutters. But Mr. Cutter wasn’t inside. It was only Allene who peered at them, waving them forward. She was dressed in tailored black satin, and a mourning veil fell to her collarbone. For a moment, her aristocratic features seemed more like marble than warm-blooded human.
“Come inside. We’ll follow the procession to the interment. They’re going to the Evergreens Cemetery. We’ll have time to talk.”
Dawlish had come around already and opened the door. Allene moved to make room, as the back was narrower than the back of the other automobile. “We’ll squeeze like sardines in an army can.”
“Where is your father? And Andrew?” Jasper began.
“They went back to the house in the other car. Father was feeling tired and wanted Andrew to help him fend off the reporters. He let us use the Daimler. It has so much more presence.”
Jasper rolled his eyes, but Allene didn’t notice. Dawlish started the motor’s engine, and the cortege began to move forward. Florence’s casket must have already been transferred to the hearse.
The procession moved down Park Avenue, making a wide berth around the clamor and soot of Grand Central Station. Allene kept one window down, and the blowing air wreaked havoc on her hair but created enough noise that they could speak, close headed, with some amount of privacy.
“Did you speak to your father?” Jasper asked Allene.
She puckered her lips inward, as if she’d just sucked on a pickled lime. “No. I wanted to. Honestly. But he was so cross with me for coming home so late and unchaperoned that night. Ugh, and I was still in my factory clothes! He was livid. He said that if my behavior wasn’t better, he’d tell Dawlish to stop driving me about and take away my walking-around money. I just . . . couldn’t. Did you talk to anyone at Bellevue?”
Jasper shook his head. “I tried. I asked Gettler what would happen, theoretically, if someone tested Florence for cyanide anyway—wouldn’t the truth be worth breaking the rules? And he said, ‘Theoretically, yes, and theoretically, you’d be arrested and fired too.’” He opened his mouth but shut it quickly. Birdie understood. A murdered Florence was one thing; becoming a convict and losing a salary when you were already poor was entirely another. “Golly, it all seemed like such a good idea until it wasn’t. Remember that time we made a cherry bomb—”
“Oh!” Allene popped up straight in her seat. “From magnesium and potassium nitrate? It was splendid!”
Birdie laughed, feeling light for the first time that day. “Except we set it off in the parlor and burnt the wallpaper. And the chaise. And the carpet. Oh, and part of my hair.”
“Yes. Brilliant idea, not too well thought out, though, in execution,” Jasper said.
“But who killed Florence? Allene, did you talk to the Winthrops? Or Grace Howland? Did they have a bad grudge against her?” Birdie asked.
“I did. Benjamin couldn’t stop talking about buying a new Thoroughbred. He didn’t seem like someone who cared about murder, one way or the other. And Grace Howland? Why, she used to bicker with Florence all the time this past season, so of course I chatted with her for a while. The girl is a stunner, but my Lord, she’s dumber than a five-pound rock. I always thought her only crime was being a bore! She’s just too stupid to commit a clever murder. Honestly, the only person who really stood out was—”
“Mr. Waxworth. He was the only person crying, wasn’t he?” Jasper noted.
“He was. Crying like a baby,” Allene agreed. “But her own father? He would have had to hire someone, and no one at the party was of that sort of class. And what an abominable thought! A parent! She was an heiress, like me. The only child.”
“Money does strange things to people,” Jasper said. “He might have had his reasons. Or maybe the next in line wanted the money.”
“Money is always a good reason to be vicious,” Allene agreed. “I don’t know a thing about Florence’s cousins, or if the line was entailed to men in the family. It’s an old notion, but some families are still strict. I can look into it.”
“Still, our suspects are drying up a bit fast,” Birdie said. “So what are we going to do?”
“I hate to say it,” Jasper said, “but even if we figure out who to accuse, the authorities will want to exhume the body to prove it, and then I’ll still be in trouble. The only way to work around that is to get a confession.”
Soon, the cars spilled onto Fourth Avenue, which led them down toward Lafayette and the Brooklyn Bridge. A war rally crowded the corner of Canal Street. Jasper eyed it warily, before Allene pulled his chin toward her, tsking at him.
“No, Jasper. Down, boy.”
“There’s talk of another draft,” he said evenly. “How is Clarence doing?”
“My cousin is fine,” she said quickly. Too quickly, Birdie thought. Lord, did she even know? She hardly spoke of him. “Now you—you’re not going, Jasper.”
He rolled his eyes. “You don’t have power over that.”
“I might. None of my boys are going to war, if I have my say.”
“So I belong to you?” Jasper asked, rather seriously.
Allene looked out the window, where a worker was pasting up new war posters on a building front. She didn’t seem to want to acknowledge the truth, that perhaps Jasper wasn’t really hers to have. Maybe she felt that way about Birdie too. But Birdie would be willing to be owned. For Holly, she would do anything.
Birdie slipped her thin arm around Allene. “Never mind who belongs to whom. We’re all in God’s hands, aren’t we?” Neither Allene nor Jasper seemed cheered by this. “I have an idea. After the interment, we’ll meet again in a day or two,” Birdie said.