Whispers in the Reading Room Read online

  ACCLAIM FOR SHELLEY GRAY

  “Shelley Gray writes a well-paced story full of historical detail that will invite you into the romance, the glamour . . . and the mystery surrounding the Chicago World’s Fair.”

  —COLLEEN COBLE, USA Today

  BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF Rosemary

  Cottage AND THE HOPE BEACH SERIES

  “Downton Abbey comes to Chicago in Shelley Gray’s delightful romantic suspense, Secrets of Sloane House. Gray’s novel is rich in description and historical detail while asking thought-provoking questions about faith and one’s place in society.”

  —ELIZABETH MUSSER, NOVELIST,

  The Swan House, The Sweetest Thing,

  THE SECRETS OF THE CROSS TRILOGY

  “Full of vivid descriptions and beautiful prose, Gray has a way of making readers feel like they are actually in Chicago during the World’s Fair . . . the mystery surrounding the ‘Slasher’ keeps the reader engaged throughout.”

  —RT BOOK REVIEWS, 4 STAR

  REVIEW OF Deception on Sable Hill

  ALSO IN THE CHICAGO WORLD’S FAIR MYSTERY SERIES

  Secrets of Sloane House

  Deception on Sable Hill

  ZONDERVAN

  Whispers in the Reading Room Copyright © 2015 by Shelley Gray

  ePub Edition © October 2015: ISBN 978-0-310-33855-0

  Requests for information should be addressed to:

  Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49546

  Gray, Shelley Shepard.

  Whispers in the reading room : a Chicago World's Fair mystery / Shelley Gray.

  pages ; cm

  ISBN 978-0-310-33849-9 (softcover)

  I. Title.

  PS3607.R3966W364 2015

  813'.6--dc23

  2015020309

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version.

  Any Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers in this book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement by Zondervan, nor does Zondervan vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Interior design: Mallory Perkins

  15 16 17 18 19 20 / RRD / 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  This novel is all about friendship. With that in mind, it’s dedicated to Julie Stone. Thank you for being such a kind and steadfast friend! Thank you for touring Chicago with me . . . and then doing it again and again. Looking forward to years of collecting passport stamps together, wherever that may be!

  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

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ENJOY AN EXCERPT FROM ROBIN LEE HATCHER’S UPCOMING NOVEL, THE LOYAL HEART

  CHAPTER 1

  Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.

  —Hebrews 11:1

  The astonishing Chicago—a city where they are always rubbing the lamp, and fetching up the genie, and contriving and achieving new impossibilities. It is hopeless for the occasional visitor to try to keep up with Chicago—she outgrows his prophecies faster than he can make them. She is always a novelty; for she is never the Chicago you saw when you passed through last time.

  —Mark Twain, Life on the Mississippi, 1883

  CHAPTER 1

  CHICAGO TIMES-COURIER

  From October 1893

  Reported by Benson Gage

  While the majority of the city basks in the glow of the Columbian Exposition’s success, far more dark events are taking place in the city’s underbelly. This publication has learned there has been a spike in attacks and murders deep in the heart of Camp Creek Alley. Has crime sought to take advantage of the fact that most everyone’s eyes are on the bright Plaisance, allowing all sorts of criminals to run rampant?

  This reporter can only advise for any reputable citizen with a care for both his purse and his life to stay far away from the area. It is very likely that even establishments that look reputable hide many dark secrets behind their beguiling façades.

  MONDAY, JANUARY 8, 1894

  He had returned.

  Lydia Bancroft peeked over the stack of books she was cataloging, trying her best to see what new book her favorite patron was reading that afternoon.

  For the past year, the debonair man had come into the reading room several times a week. And for the last three months, he’d sat in his favorite chair in the corner and kept his nose in a series of books detailing the adventures of Lewis and Clark.

  She still remembered the expression on his face last week when he’d finished and closed the last tome. He’d looked pleased and just a bit melancholy. She knew those dual feelings well—the satisfaction of completing a well-written piece of literature while also coming to terms with the fact that those few moments of pure bliss would soon be replaced with a longing for more.

  That was when she realized they were kindred spirits, even though she had no business observing him so intently. At long last, she was an engaged woman, and though Jason had never stepped foot in here, if he did, he undoubtedly would not appreciate the sight of her gazing upon another man.

  But it seemed she couldn’t help herself.

  He intrigued her, even though she’d never uttered a single word to him, nor had he spoken to her. It remained a mystery why he had yet to ask for a library card or attempt to check out a book.

  As Lydia continued to eye him, she wondered if perhaps she should offer help to obtain a library card. Perhaps he was unsure of the process. If that was the case, she would certainly be glad to be of assistance.

  And, well, once they started talking, perhaps he’d be more apt to converse with her. At last.

  “Excuse me, miss?”

  Startled by a female voice, Lydia twisted around, disturbing the neat stack of books on the counter. They tumbled to the floor in a resounding crash, causing everyone around her to snap their attention her way.

  Including her favorite patron. When she instinctively looked his way, he was gazing at her directly, not at the scattered books. His dark-brown eyes seeming to take in every freckle on her face and the flush she could feel rising on her neck.

  Feeling like a little mouse caught in a trap, she
stilled. For a split second, she gave in to temptation and allowed herself to meet his gaze. But when one of his eyebrows rose with a look of amusement, her embarrassment worsened.

  Realizing that she had not improved his perception of her, she looked away.

  “Miss?” The speaker’s voice was sharp now. Irritated. Far from the low volume preferred in her reading room.

  Finally facing the lady, Lydia gathered her wits. “Forgive me. How may I be of assistance?”

  “I’m looking for the latest Sherlock Holmes mystery. Do you have it?”

  “If we do, it would be on the shelf. Let’s go see.” She led the way to the fiction stacks, keeping her mind firmly on the task at hand. She smiled when she found the novel the woman was looking for in its place on the shelf.

  Then, as she gathered the toppled books, she tried to hide her disappointment. Her favorite gentleman reader had gone.

  And once again, he’d left the book he was reading on the table next to where he’d been sitting. Just like always. Carefully, she picked it up, noted the title, smiled, and placed it in a nearby cabinet. She knew from experience that he wouldn’t return that day. But tomorrow she would set his selection out for him like she always did. She wanted him to have what he wanted here.

  Even though she should not treat one patron more considerately than another—especially not a man who made her feel the loss of his presence.

  Of course, there was always tomorrow or the next day. He would return. He always did. And the next time he did? She was going to approach him and offer a library card. Already her spirits lifted when she imagined how happy that would make him.

  It took Sebastian Marks almost four blocks to shake off the cool feeling of serenity he’d enjoyed at the library. As the number of people around him doubled, then tripled, he forced himself to push away everything about his time at the Lincoln Lending Library. A gent like him was liable to get killed otherwise. After another block, he added a swagger to his step and a bit more menace to his expression.

  It was just in time.

  “Marks? Marks, yes. I thought that was you.”

  He turned and eyed Sergio Vlas, one of his longtime contemporaries, with a practiced look of contempt. “You weren’t sure?”

  “Not at first. No. There was something about your gait that didn’t look right.”

  “Perhaps you should get your eyes examined.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.” The Russian grinned as he fell in beside Sebastian, displaying a mouthful of gleaming but crooked teeth surrounding one gaping hole where an incisor had once been. “How’s business?”

  Sebastian shrugged. “Good enough. Why?”

  “No reason.” Vlas inhaled, then gave him a reason anyway. “With the recent rise in crime around here, the cops’ve been breathing down my neck lately something awful.”

  “Now that the fair is closed, the police seem to care about the number of suspicious deaths.”

  Sergio grunted. “It ain’t the police who care, it’s that blasted reporter from the Chicago Times-Courier. He’s making it seem like every poor sod who’s been mugged or stabbed is worth something.” Illustrating his disdain for the reporter’s interference, he spit on the ground.

  Sebastian shrugged. “Murder is murder.”

  “Not at all. These men aren’t society debutants. They’re men who are gaming and drinking away their time. And worse.”

  Sebastian knew Sergio was referencing the Society Slasher, the man who had put the upper echelons of society on alert when he’d attacked some of the season’s most eligible debutants. “Things will settle down soon. They have to.”

  “I imagine they will. I just was kind of hoping my place wasn’t the only club that is suddenly swarming with police.”

  “It isn’t.”

  What Sebastian didn’t bother to point out, however, was that his club catered to a far different crowd from the Russian’s. Sergio’s gaming hall was a bit more than two rungs down from his own club and gambling institution. Sergio also dealt in women, which was something Sebastian never had the stomach for.

  He far rather wished to put his efforts into making money from legal liquor and illegal poker tables. Somehow, becoming rich off of other men’s vices didn’t bother him. Making a cent at the expense of a desperate woman was a whole other story.

  Besides, it was his luck that fools on the police force enjoyed visiting his gentlemen’s club, not the Bear and Bull. Therefore, he was sure Sergio’s problems had nothing to do with him. “The police are always combing the backstreets. Pay ’em off.”

  “It ain’t as easy as it used to be.” Sergio sneered. “There’s a fair contingent of cops who are on the straight and narrow.”

  Sebastian laughed. Partly because he didn’t believe in anyone being completely on the straight and narrow, partly because he knew even if Sergio was indeed right, the cops would go after the Russian’s business dealings before they’d touch his own. “Rotten luck.”

  They were now in the center of Camp Creek Alley, the aptly named path to both of their establishments. Old-timers said it was once the site of a number of brothels servicing trappers and frontiersmen back before Chicago was more than a swamp-infested town.

  Now the alley was a main thoroughfare leading from booming businesses and socially acceptable sites to businesses better known to most in the dark. A left turn would eventually lead one to Sergio’s Bear and Bull. Taking the second right led to his own club, the Silver Grotto.

  “If I hear something about the coppers, I’ll let you know,” Sebastian said.

  This time it was Sergio who smiled with disdain. “Yeah, right. I weren’t born yesterday, Marks, and not even the day before. You’re not gonna share anything you don’t have to.”

  Sebastian didn’t bother to deny that fact. “You’re the same way. However, I don’t blame you for that. We both know what happens to people who talk too much.”

  Abruptly, Sergio’s grin vanished. “Don’t get yourself killed today.”

  Sebastian nodded. That was something they all said to each other. It had started as a joke between two rivals. Now the joke was on all of them, since the recent crime wave had put many of their associates in danger or in the earth well before their time.

  After they parted ways, Sebastian stopped a newsboy and purchased a paper, then entered the Grotto. All was quiet, seeing as it was still early in the day, not quite four o’clock.

  Vincent Hunt, his personal assistant and club manager, greeted him at the door. After taking Sebastian’s hat and coat, Vincent followed him through the main saloon, up two flights of narrow stairs, and at last into a spacious third-floor office. Once there, Sebastian took his chair behind a mahogany desk he’d won from a toff years ago. Then, at last, his manager presented the daily report.

  For the next half hour, he listened as Vincent reported on everything from the kitchen staff, to menu choices, to items recently purchased for the poker rooms. As usual, Vincent waited until the very end to discuss any problems with recent customers or employees.

  This was their usual routine, and they had perfected it into a fine art over the last two years—ever since Hunt’s predecessor had been stabbed to death in the middle of a bar brawl and Sebastian had promoted Vincent to replace him.

  Rarely did Sebastian take any notes. It was Vincent Hunt’s job to analyze and investigate problems. Sebastian, on the other hand, decided matters quickly and concisely. He didn’t want to spend any precious moments of his spare time pondering over decisions. As far as he was concerned, only fools procrastinated or fretted about things that had to be done or couldn’t be changed.

  At the end of their time together, Vincent looked up from his notes. “That’s the extent of it, sir.”

  Sebastian looked at the gilded timepiece on his mantel. They had finished right on schedule. “Sounds fairly quiet.”

  Hunt nodded. “It has been. Well, except when Mr. Avondale paid us another visit.”

  Sebastian leaned forward, vaguely ir
ritated Hunt hadn’t mentioned this right away. “When was this?”

  Hunt curled his lips in distaste. “Around two this morning, just in time to gamble before the rooms closed at three.”

  Sebastian didn’t flinch, but he privately shared his manager’s opinion of the man. If Avondale was on the property that time of night, he was no doubt three sheets to the wind. And while he didn’t especially care how much his guests at the bar imbibed, with Avondale it continually meant only one thing. The gentleman would be loud, sloppy, unruly, and a sore loser. “Did he lose again?” he asked, thinking it was a rhetorical question.

  “He did, sir.”

  “Did he cover all his losses for the night?”

  Looking pleased, Hunt nodded. “He did. Of course, he still owes you thousands.”

  Of course he did—just as several wayward men from influential families did. He allowed it, to a point, because being indebted to him meant they would do his bidding should he need them in other matters.

  But unless there was a problem Hunt couldn’t—or shouldn’t—handle himself, Sebastian didn’t care to know anything about what men did in his club, not even the ones who owed him money. He paid Hunt to relay information that mattered to him, not to watch gents come and go and then report back to him like a gossiping old woman.

  His blond-haired, too-often-wound-tight manager should know that.

  And because he didn’t, it tore a hole through Sebastian’s carefully crafted and controlled diction. “Then what’s yer problem?” The last thing he wanted was to start his workday reviewing gossip from the night before.

  “Apparently he took out his displeasure about the night’s losses on a girl.”

  “Girl?”

  “Prostitute. Young one. Down at Jack’s Last Stand.” A pained look crossed his features. “He beat her severely. She almost died.”

  That was unfortunate.

  However, he’d learned long ago that no good came to the man foolish enough to dwell on the darkness in life. And his control of those emotions let his diction settle once again. “You getting a soft heart, Hunt?”