“Let me in!” Lillian mouthed.
Bertha didn’t hesitate, opening the window and holding out a hand so that Lillian could ease her way into the room.
“You’re crazy! You could have fallen to your death, what were you thinking?”
“I have to ask you something, Bertha.” Lillian brushed the sleet off her hair and dress.
“Do you want me to help you escape?” Bertha answered. “I would if I could, it’s terrible what’s happening. But they have someone stationed at every door.”
“Bertha, where are you from in Pennsylvania?”
She looked away. “Let me make sure the window is secure. It can get drafty in here otherwise.”
“You’re from the same town as where the flood was, aren’t you?”
Bertha gave her a blank look. “What flood?”
“A dam burst and wiped out an entire town. Mr. Frick was considered negligent but never accused, never brought to trial. You’re from Pennsylvania, aren’t you? You were there.” She waited, watching as the flatness in Bertha’s eyes was replaced by fear. “It must have been terrifying.”
Bertha’s normally rosy cheeks were white, and her lower lip trembled.
“You can tell me,” urged Lillian.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
Lillian waited a beat. “You were in the gallery as well, right before Miss Helen placed the diamond in Mr. Frick’s hand. You could have been listening in at the door, returned, and stolen it.”
“What? No!”
“If you don’t talk to me, I will share my suspicions with Miss Helen in the morning.”
Bertha winced, as if protecting her body from a physical blow. She sat on the bed, her hands twisting. Finally, something in her surrendered. “They say the wave was seventy-five feet high, as tall as the treetops. I’d been with my aunt in the hills, hunting mushrooms. We watched as it wiped out a wire factory, where the furnaces exploded and rolls of barbed wire became caught up in the wave. I could see my parents and two sisters emerge from our house, drawn by the sound of explosions. It was Memorial Day, everyone was at home. I screamed at the top of my lungs, but we were too far away and the sound of the destruction was deafening. I always wonder, did they die from drowning, unable to breathe? Or did they bleed to death, after being strafed by barbed wire? Or some dreadful combination of the two?”
The effort of the confession left Bertha trembling. “So yes, it’s no coincidence that I ended up working for the Fricks. I wanted to make them pay somehow. But once I got here, my courage flagged. They were real people, not monsters. I hated myself for my weakness, but I kept on, figuring one day I’d find the strength to act.”
Lillian folded her arms. “So you finally found your courage.”
“No. I didn’t kill him. I almost did, but I couldn’t.”
“What do you mean? You were awake that night, the night of his death. I saw you.”
“I had been asked to stay up in case Mr. Frick or Miss Helen needed anything. I went into his bathroom and I saw the bottle of Veronal sitting there. My father used to take it for his insomnia and I took that as a sign that this was my chance, finally. For four years, I had bided my time.”
Bertha’s mouth contorted, as if she were about to cry. “I filled a glass with water, and then I picked up the Veronal and opened the stopper. But my hands were shaking so; I simply couldn’t go through with it. I thought of Roddy, and how we plan to be married in the spring, of our promise to each other. I realized that killing Mr. Frick wouldn’t bring my family back, but it could destroy the chance I have at making my own. So I placed the bottle back down on the side of the sink, put back the stopper, and fled. I didn’t go through with it, I swear.”
Lillian studied her. “But the bottle wasn’t next to the glass when I went into the bathroom.” She could picture it perfectly, the lone glass sitting there on the side of the sink, no Veronal in sight.
“That was how I left it.”
Which meant someone else had come in and finished off the job before spiriting away the evidence.
“I’m sorry for what I’ve done,” cried Bertha. “For what I almost did. I’ll confess, tell them everything.”
Bertha’s story broke Lillian’s heart. She couldn’t blame her, even if Lillian had gotten swept up in the aftermath. And she hadn’t done anything wrong. “No. You have Roddy. Go get married and get away from here, all right? Promise me that.”