by Lynn Austin
“That makes sense, I guess,” Silas said with a shrug.
“But here is where it gets mysterious—when I checked the records at the city administration building, I found out that the proprietor of the Jolly Roger is listed as Lloyd O’Neill.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s the man who I believe was murdered.”
“The guy whose wife pushed him down the cellar stairs?”
I nodded. “If O’Neill owned a saloon,” I continued, “perhaps he really was a drunkard who beat his wife.”
“That makes sense.”
I couldn’t tell if Silas was taking me seriously or not, because he hadn’t stopped grinning since Aunt Birdie let him through our door. I had to admit that when I added up all the clues—my mysterious uncle, my missing mother, the murdered alcoholic, and the ridiculous name Jolly Roger—the story did sound like a corny plot from a dime novel.
The horse trudged slowly through the city streets as if on its way to the glue factory. We finally reached a neighborhood that was very much like the one where I’d played the piano for Louis. Saloons and burlesque theaters crowded both sides of the street, and there might have been bawdy houses too, but I wasn’t brave enough to look for them. I didn’t look up at all until I heard Silas say, “Whoa.” The runabout rattled to a stop in front of a tawdry-looking saloon.
“I think this is it,” Silas said.
My body began to tremble as if I had caught a chill. “H-how do you know?”
He pointed to the sign hanging above the door: Jolly Roger. Aunt Birdie had been silent throughout our journey, but she suddenly piped up.
“I certainly hope this isn’t your new restaurant, Violet. I wouldn’t step one foot inside that place.”
“She’s right,” Silas said. “A classy woman like you should think twice about going in a dump like that.”
I drew a breath for courage—or as deep of a breath as I dared, considering my odiferous surroundings. “It’s broad daylight,” I said. “And I have you for protection.” I could see his inside pocket sagging with the weight of something heavy. He had his gun.
“So what’s your plan?” Silas asked.
“I brought along a photograph of my Uncle Philip. I thought I would show it around and ask if anyone knows him.”
“That’s a great idea, Violet. Let’s go.” He climbed down to tether the horse, then offered Aunt Birdie his hand.
“I don’t think I care to eat here,” she said. “This isn’t a very nice place at all. We need to find a different restaurant.”
I hated taking her inside the saloon against her will, but I couldn’t leave her alone in the carriage either. She seemed to dig in her heels as I dragged her reluctantly through the open saloon door.
“You want me to do the talking?” Silas whispered.
“No. I appreciate your help, Silas, but I need to take charge of my life. I can do this.”
I had learned to be brave this summer, going to neighborhoods like this with Louis, visiting tenements with my grandmother, confronting abusive factory owners with Aunt Matt. I’d received an entirely new education in a few short weeks, learning things that Madame Beauchamps never dreamed of putting in her curriculum.
The Jolly Roger was as dark as a mausoleum inside. I saw a lump in a corner booth that might have been a sack of rags or a customer— it was hard to tell in the grimy light. No one sat at the bar, thankfully, but a distasteful-looking man with entirely too much facial hair stood behind it, wiping a beer mug with a gray rag.
“Good afternoon,” I began in a quivering voice. “My name is Violet Rose Hayes, and I’m looking for information.”
“You the police?” he asked, glancing at Silas.
“Hardly!” I blurted.
“Then give me five good reasons why I should talk to you.”
I couldn’t reply. I was unable to think of a single one, let alone five. Silas slipped his hand inside his jacket, and for a horrible moment I feared he was reaching for his gun. But when his hand came out it held a folded five-dollar bill. He slid it smoothly across the bar and beneath the man’s fingers. It disappeared into the bartender’s pocket.
“Those are very good reasons,” he said. “What do you want?”
“I’ll have a cup of tea, please,” Aunt Birdie replied. She had seated herself on one of the wooden barstools. “And some scones, if you have them.”
The man bellowed with laughter. “That’s rich, lady! I can probably fix you some Irish coffee but no tea.”
“Well, I don’t care for coffee. Let’s go someplace else, Violet.” She slid off the stool and turned toward the door.
“We’ll leave in a minute, Aunt Birdie, I promise. I just need to ask this man some questions first.”
Silas linked his arm through Aunt Birdie’s and hung on to her as if she were made of smoke and might blow away. I turned back to the bartender.
“I understand that this establishment is owned by Mr. Lloyd O’Neill?”
“You understand wrong. O’Neill sold it to me more than ten years ago.”
“Oh. I see.”
“O’Neill got married and moved to some little one-horse town— Lemont or LaGrange or Lockport …”
“Yes, Lockport.”
“Why’re you asking me if you already know?” He picked up his greasy rag and swiped it across the top of the bar.
“There are still a lot of things I don’t know,” I replied. “I’m trying to locate a friend of Mr. O’Neill’s named Philip Hayes.”
“Never heard of him.”
Silas bent close to me. “Show him the picture,” he whispered. I pulled out the photograph of my father and his brother and laid it on the bar, facing the man.
“I don’t remember this guy,” he said, pointing to Philip, “but I certainly remember this one.” He pointed to my father. “He was a real troublemaker. Tried to break up the act, if you know what I mean. After O’Neill sold this place to me, he would show up every couple of months, begging to buy it back. This guy in the picture would show up soon after and insist that O’Neill come home to Lockport and be respectable. Got him all screwed up with religion, telling him to quit Demon Rum and so on. Had the poor guy on and off the wagon more times than a deliveryman. I gotta admit that O’Neill was good for business, with his leg and all. He could really tell a story, and all his buddies from the war would come in to hear them.”
“What do you mean, with his leg… ?”
“Lloyd O’Neill has a peg leg. Made out of wood. That’s why he called this joint the Jolly Roger in the first place. Thought it fit in with the whole pirate theme, if you know what I mean.”
“Was he a pirate?”
“No, lady. There aren’t any pirates in Chicago.” He gave the bar another swipe. “O’Neill lost his leg in the war. Used to brag that he got hit while saving some other fellow’s life. Don’t know if that’s true or just drunken swagger.”
“Was the man he saved named Philip Hayes?” I asked.
“No idea. I’d tell you to ask O’Neill yourself but I heard he died. Can’t say if it’s true, but I haven’t seen him in more than a year.”
“Was O’Neill ever involved with a woman? She would have been Bohemian. Very pretty. Dark-haired.”
“Don’t know nothing about a woman,” he replied, shaking his head. “But if she’s as pretty as you are, I’d give her a job. I could use a good-looking barmaid, if you’re interested. And I’ve got another business going on upstairs, if—”
“She’s not interested!” Silas yelled. “Come on, Violet. I think it’s time for us to leave. Unless you want to ask him something else.”
“I-I can’t think of anything else.”
“Thanks for your help,” Silas said.
The sunlight seemed blinding when we stepped into the street again.
“Well!” Aunt Birdie huffed. “That says it all, doesn’t it?”
My knees shook so badly that I couldn’t negotiate the carriage step. Silas had to put hi
s hands on my waist and lift me onto the seat. It would have been very dramatic and appropriate to gallop away, leaving the Jolly Roger behind in a cloud of dust, but the horse wasn’t up to the challenge. Neither, I suspected, was the runabout.
I couldn’t speak for several long minutes for fear I would burst into tears. Silas seemed to understand my silence and didn’t say anything either, until we finally reached a more pleasant neighborhood.
“Do you mind telling me what you gathered from all that?” Silas said, “Or is it none of my business?”
“No, I don’t mind. I’m grateful that you came with us.” I paused to swallow the lump in my throat and wipe a tear.
“I’d really like to help you find your mother, Violet. I sure hated seeing a classy lady like you in place like that. I think you were very courageous for venturing there—foolish, perhaps, but courageous just the same.”
“I knew you could protect us, seeing as you carry a gun and—”
“A gun?” he asked in surprise. I clapped my hand over my mouth. How had I let it slip out?
“I saw it in your pocket the other day when we met on LaSalle Street,” I explained. “And if I’m not mistaken, it’s in your pocket today too.”
“You mean this?” I shrank back as he reached inside his jacket. He pulled out something and laid it on my lap.
“It’s … it’s a harmonica! I feel so foolish.”
“No, you made an honest mistake. I’ll wager most people would agree that a mouth organ is an unusual thing to carry around.”
“Good thing we weren’t in any danger,” I said, exhaling.
“Well, if we had been, I could have played a jig for the rogues before they robbed us.” Silas scooped up the harmonica and played a few bars of “Yankee Doodle.” I couldn’t help laughing.
“You’re lucky nobody stole it from you in that neighborhood.”
He shrugged, as if money wasn’t an issue. I wondered if Silas had stolen the harmonica to begin with.
“Well, thanks again for taking me.”
“I admire you a great deal, Violet. You were amazingly brave in there. Now, do you want to explain to me what that was all about?”
“I’m trying to find my mother.”
“I know that.”
“All I have are a bunch of clues, and I’m trying to connect them. I’ve read hundreds of detective stories—but this is so much harder. My family is so secretive. All I know is that my father used to travel to Chicago to the Jolly Roger for his brother Philip’s sake. I’m guessing that O’Neill saved Philip’s life during the war, which is why my father tried to help him. Even if O’Neill was a drunkard who may have beat his wife, my father probably brought him home to Lockport for Philip’s sake.”
“That sure makes a great story. Too bad there’s no way to find out if it’s true. Is this Philip guy missing too? Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Philip is away, fighting in the war,” Aunt Birdie said. “My husband, Gilbert, is fighting too. He’s quite determined to help free all of the slaves.” Silas smiled at her and patted her hand.
“You know,” Silas said, “if this O’Neill had only one leg, I can see where he might have taken a tumble down the cellar stairs— especially if he was drunk. Cellar steps are usually pretty narrow and steep. Maybe his wife didn’t murder him after all.”
“Oh. I see what you mean.” I didn’t know whether to be happy about that conclusion or not. It meant that my father was innocent, but it also meant that Maude was too. I would have to find another way to stop their marriage.
“How does your mother tie into all of this?” Silas asked.
“I guess she doesn’t,” I admitted. “Aunt Birdie told me that Philip knew her, so I thought—”
“Philip loved the theater too,” Aunt Birdie said.
“Are you sure my mother didn’t go to the theater with my father?” I asked.
“Certainly not! Your father is dead set against theaters and saloons and all those other worldly amusements. Just like his father is.”
“I hate to be the one to suggest this,” Silas said carefully, “but is it possible that your mother and Philip … you know … that we’ll find them in the same place when we finally find them?”
I gasped. “You think they ran off together?”
He shrugged. “It happens.”
“No … no, I-I can’t believe that!”
Silas laid his hand on my arm. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. It was a wild thought… . It’s just that they’re both missing and … Just forget I brought it up, okay?”
But it explained why no one would discuss either one of them. I didn’t want to believe something so scandalous could happen in my family, that one brother would steal the other brother’s wife. Most of all, I didn’t want to believe that my mother would choose to leave me behind in order to run away with my uncle. I preferred to believe what Aunt Matt had told me: “Philip has nothing to do with finding your mother.”
I was quiet for the remainder of the ride home, thinking about my parents and everything I had learned. I wished I had never raised the ugly suspicion that my father and Maude had killed Lloyd O’Neill. I wished I had never heard of Uncle Philip. I had been much better off believing that my mother had left me because she was ill.
If only my father had lied to me at Maude O’Neill’s house. If only he had told me that my mother was dead.
Chapter
30
Tuesday, July 11, 1893
Violet Rose? You’re up early again,” my grandmother said when I appeared at breakfast the next day.
“I’m meeting Louis down at the settlement house this morning.”
“He’s such a fine young man. And already like a son to me.” She looked so pleased and so hopeful. I felt guilty for misleading her. But maybe I would fall madly in love with Louis as he gallantly helped me search for my mother. Things like that happened sometimes in romance novels.
Louis had arrived at the settlement house even earlier than I had, and he’d begun asking questions to find out which of the Bohemian women would be our best source of information. Everyone at the settlement house adored Louis, and I saw how indispensable he was. Miss Dow wanted him to help with the kindergarten children again. Magda said he was needed in the kitchen. Miss McPhee had a list of repairs she hoped he could attend to. If only I liked him as much as they did.
“Another day,” he told them all. “I promised Miss Hayes I would help her. Are you ready?” he asked me. I nodded, dreading the walk outside.
“Is it far? Where are we going?”
“I have the address of the woman who helped organize all the food and the dancing on Folk Night. She’s sort of the matriarch of the Bohemian community. I’m told that she knows all of the families.”
We walked several blocks south, then wove through a warren of back alleys and side streets to a cluster of tenement buildings similar to Irina’s. The four-story brick structures were built right up against each other in the shape of a U, with a bleak patch of dirt for a courtyard. More brick tenements towered across the alley and stretched down the block, until there was no way that fresh air or a cooling breeze could penetrate the apartments.
Children swarmed all over the place, tussling in the dirt, leaning from open windows, playing on the landings and on the open-backed wooden stairs that led up the outside of the structure to each floor. The children reminded me of myself at that age, with their dusky skin and dark curly hair, but I glimpsed sorrow and hopelessness in their expressions in spite of their playful laughter. I recalled Louis saying that for many of these people, the reality of life in America had not lived up to their dreams.
Back home in Lockport, children like Horrid and Homely could spend the hot summer days playing in Dellwood Park, where there were trees and grass and a refreshing breeze from the canal.
“The woman we’re looking for lives up on the fourth floor,” Louis said, pointing to the rickety wooden stairs.
“Are you ready to climb?”
I could feel the steps wobbling and the handrail shaking as I began to ascend. The stairs were so steep—and there were so many of them—that I had to stop for breath on every landing, even though I was in a hurry to escape the neighborhood’s horrid smells. The door to the Bohemian woman’s apartment stood open, and she and her children recognized Louis immediately.
“Is good to see you, Louis. Come in, come in. You are always so kind to help all the people. So kind.” She motioned us inside. The apartment was clean but cramped and crammed with too many beds. A very old woman with skin like crumpled paper sat in a wooden chair by the window.
“Thank you,” Louis said. “Do you know Mrs. Hayes who works in the soup kitchen with me, ma’am?”
“Yes, yes, of course. She is a kind woman.”
“This is her granddaughter, Violet Hayes. She wants to ask you some questions about the Bohemian community, if you don’t mind.”
“Yes, yes, I try to answer. But you must sit down, please.” She pulled out two splintery chairs from beneath the kitchen table. “Let me fix you something,” she said, opening a crude wooden cupboard beside the stove.
“We really don’t need anything,” I said. “You don’t have to—”
“Yes, yes, you are my guests. It is important to give you … how do you say it? To make you at home.” She removed a greasy, cheeseclothwrapped lump and set in on a cutting board.
“I’m really not hungry—” I began, but Louis elbowed me.
“It’s rude to refuse,” he whispered. “These people have so little, and they are honoring us by offering it.”
She unwrapped the cloth to reveal a jiggling lump of headcheese, just like the one they had served us on Folk Night. Our hostess sliced off two sizeable pieces, carefully transferring them to two mismatched plates, then set them in front of us. My stomach flipped like a pancake. I was certain that my portion contained an eyeball.
“Excuse, please, while I get water for tea.” She lifted a kettle from the stove and disappeared through the door.
“I don’t think I can eat this,” I whispered to Louis. “Can’t we tell her I’m allergic?”