Death at Tammany Hall

by Charles O'Brien

  “Does he simply abandon you in the middle of a concert? How rude!”

  Catherine nodded. “But don’t feel sorry for me. I enjoy the music much more when he’s not sitting in the next seat. I stay to the end and take a cab home.” She studied Pamela curiously.

  “Do you have much music in your life?”

  “My friend, Jeremiah Prescott, and I occasionally attend the Met and Carnegie Hall. I’m also fond of the sacred music of Bach and Handel in a religious setting as in the Church of the Ascension near my former home in New York.”

  “Is your Prescott a good companion?” Catherine asked slyly.

  “Yes, he appreciates serious music and especially enjoys Mozart. But his personal taste runs mainly to lighthearted Viennese operettas, like The Gipsy Baron. They help him escape from his demons. He avoids grand operas with tragic themes. ‘As a soldier in the war,’ he once said to me, ‘I observed too many deaths that were truly tragic in contrast to the often false, or pathetic, operatic variety.’ ”

  “You are fortunate to have such a friend,” Catherine said with feeling, then signaled the waiter for the bill. “Our supper has been lovely. Now it’s time for the music.”

  The auditorium was rapidly filling up, and the musicians were already tuning their instruments. Pamela and Catherine settled quickly into their seats. The chorus, some sixty men and women, filed in behind the orchestra. The musicians and the chorus grew still. An expectant hush came over the audience. Finally, Walter Damrosch, the conductor, walked onto the stage, followed by the three soloists.

  Pamela glanced at her program. Lillian Blauvelt, soprano, was the Archangel Gabriel; Charles Herbert Clarke, tenor, was the Archangel Uriel; and Emil Fischer, bass, was the Archangel Raphael. Pamela pulled out her opera glass and studied them, beginning with the young soprano.

  Catherine leaned toward Pamela and whispered. “Miss Blauvelt is only twenty-one, born in Brooklyn. She’s very pretty and truly sings like an angel.”

  Damrosch raised his baton and the music began.

  For the next hour and a half, the three archangels—in recitative and glorious arias—described God creating the universe and man out of the primeval chaos. The chorus added powerful, awestruck commentary and joined the trio in great bursts of divine praise. The oratorio concluded with the chorus singing a mighty “Praise to God.”

  Pamela thoroughly enjoyed the music though Catherine sometimes seemed distracted. Her lips parted in awe at the young soprano’s powerful, limpid depiction of God creating light. At less compelling moments, however, Catherine seemed to slip into a troubled inner place that brought her close to tears.

  When the concert ended and the crowd surged toward the exits, the two women remained in their seats for a few minutes, savoring the music, and agreed that it had exceeded their expectations. Then Catherine searched Pamela’s eyes and asked, “Would you care to join me for tea in my apartment? It’s not too late, is it? The weather is mild for this time of year. A cab would take us there in five minutes.”

  “What a perfect way to end a delightful evening!” Pamela replied, wondering what had prompted Catherine’s invitation. Did she need to confide in someone?

  CHAPTER 19

  Confession

  Saturday, December 1

  Pamela and Catherine entered Fawcett’s mansion by the side door, climbed up a private stairway to the next floor, and entered a parlor. A piano stood to one side, a folder of sheet music nearby. A photograph of the judge in judicial garb hung on a wall. His expression was stern, as befitted a zealous guardian of the law. Pamela also detected a hint of self-importance in the thrust of his jaw.

  Catherine followed Pamela’s gaze and remarked, “This evening, Judge Fawcett went to a meeting at Tammany Hall, saying he’d be gone overnight.”

  “Does he belong to that organization?”

  “No, but he offers legal advice there when asked. Make yourself comfortable while I go to the kitchen and hurry the tea along. It should be ready in a few minutes.”

  A tea table had been set for one person. Apparently, Catherine had expected to be alone. The tableware was common silver plate; the cup and saucer were plain chinaware. The tablecloth was likewise clean and serviceable. Pamela saw no sign of luxury in the room, other than the piano. This evening, Catherine wore a decent, tasteful, but inexpensive gown. Her jewelry was similarly plain.

  Earlier, the servants’ insinuations had led Pamela to wonder if Catherine might serve as the judge’s mistress. He could afford one. Thus far, Pamela hadn’t noticed any of the usual outward signs of a rich man’s “kept woman,” such as fashionable clothes and diamond rings, expensive porcelain and furniture. Catherine’s surroundings suggested that she was merely a privileged servant.

  Catherine returned with another table setting and small pastries. After flashing Pamela a nervous smile, she went back for the tea. Finally, they sat down at the table and Catherine poured, her hands trembling. She offered Pamela a pastry and then took one herself. For a few awkward minutes, they ate and drank quietly. Pamela began to feel apprehensive. They had spoken little since arriving at the apartment.

  Suddenly, Catherine put down her cup, covered her face with her hands, and began to sob. Her sobs became convulsive, and Pamela’s concern mounted. She rose, put an arm on the woman’s shoulder, and asked softly, “What can be the matter?”

  “My life is a mess,” stammered Catherine, brushing away her tears. “This morning the judge gave me three weeks to leave this apartment and his service. ‘It’s time for a change,’ he told me. ‘I’ve found a more suitable hostess.’ ”

  “Is she rich or young or both?”

  “I know her. She’s a few years younger than me. Her father is a wealthy, socially prominent businessman with connections to Tammany Hall and has brought her to the house on visits. It’s rumored that Fawcett plans to marry her. He’s probably with her tonight instead of at Tammany Hall.”

  “Would it help if you were to tell me how you got into this situation?”

  Catherine nodded. “Thank you. I need to bring things out into the open that have burdened me for years, and there’s no one in my circle of acquaintances that I can talk to.”

  “Start from the beginning.” Pamela pushed her cup to the side and gave Catherine her full attention.

  “I was raised in a well-to-do family,” Catherine began. “My father, a Union officer, was killed in the war, and my mother remarried. Unwanted at home, I grew up in boarding schools where at least I received a sound, general education. My stepfather lost his money in the Depression of 1873 and could no longer support me. Upon finishing high school in 1874 without a dowry, a suitable marriage seemed impossible. For the next five years, I supported myself as a wealthy lady’s travel companion. Arthritis had weakened her hands, so she hired me to write for her. If I may brag a little, my penmanship is beautiful. My mistress dictated to me all her correspondence and her journal. For the following five years, I was housekeeper for a rich elderly couple and managed their finances. During that decade, I learned a great deal about domestic service, but marriage remained a remote prospect.”

  “How did you meet Judge Fawcett?”

  “In 1884, he had just bought this Fifth Avenue mansion and was looking for the right person to manage his enlarged household. A mutual acquaintance recommended me. At the interview the judge and I discovered we were distantly related. He liked my credentials and offered me a good salary and this comfortable apartment.”

  “How did you feel about him at the time?”

  “At first I liked him. He seemed to be a generous, interesting, and attractive man.”

  “Did you think of him as more than an employer?”

  “Because he was rich, presentable, and single and I was desperate, I thought of him as a prospective husband. In fairness to him, he never hinted at marriage, neither then nor later.”

  “When did your experience begin to turn sour?”

  “Already in 1887, certain traits of his
character disturbed me. At first, he pretended to be high-minded, even in private. But he soon let down his guard with me. Many of the letters he dictated seemed to approve bribes and other Tammany wrongdoing. I came to believe that he was also taking bribes to render verdicts favoring Tammany’s interests. That puzzled me because he was already rich and the sums were small. What mattered most to him was Tammany’s support for his election.”

  The conversation had come to the point where Pamela could ask, “Do you recall when he became involved in the Tony Palermo murder case?”

  Catherine nodded. For a moment, she averted her eyes, apparently embarrassed. “One day, the judge called me into his study. ‘You are very clever at handwriting,’ he said with a smile of appreciation. ‘I want you to study the handwriting in these reports, then practice imitating the author until no one can tell the difference. I may ask you to determine certain cases of fraud or extortion.’ The exercise intrigued and challenged me. I was also flattered that he considered me capable of what might become a serious responsibility.”

  “Were you really that skillful?”

  “He had reason to think so,” she replied. “Early in our relationship, he had entrusted his own signature to me in routine correspondence. No one could detect the deception. I’ve always been interested in handwriting and what it tells us about a person. By studying the judge’s handwriting I gained insights into his character, for example, his compulsive need to shine.”

  “What were those reports he asked you to imitate?”

  “A police detective was reporting ordinary investigations and requesting reimbursement for expenses. His name was blacked out. At the time, I saw nothing improper in my assignment. Then, a few days later, the judge came with what appeared to be another exercise, a police detective’s extortion letter to Mr. Tim Smith in Tammany Hall, demanding a thousand dollars to end an investigation into a suspicious death of a cabdriver. The judge said to me, ‘Copy this letter, using the handwriting that you learned before.’ ”

  Pamela frowned.

  “Yes, the request seemed odd,” said Catherine. “But I did what he asked.”

  “And, then?”

  “When I finished the message, the judge came back to me with a signature, ‘Harry Miller.’ The judge said, ‘Copy this to the message and give it to me.’

  “His request made me deeply uneasy and apprehensive. This looked like extortion, a serious crime. To protect myself I made an exact copy of the signed message, wrote down a summary of my conversations with the judge, and preserved all of my preparatory work on the project.”

  “You were aware of becoming involved in something possibly illegal, weren’t you, Catherine?”

  “Yes, in a way, but I wasn’t sure until I heard about the judge convicting Miller of extortion. I told the judge how I felt. He replied that Miller was guilty as sin. ‘He had verbally demanded the money. But the law required written proof so we had to manufacture it.’

  “I didn’t look convinced. He gave me his stern look. ‘Just do what I tell you and keep your mouth shut and you won’t get into trouble.’ ”

  Pamela frowned. “Was there no one you could have turned to?”

  She shook her head. “I felt bad for Mr. Miller—I still do. I was afraid to tell anyone, certainly not the police: They’re in bed with the judge. I believed I could be charged as an accomplice in his wrongdoing. If accused of fraud, he could have said that I acted on my own for gain. As the author of the forgery, I would be charged with offering false evidence to the court. The way the judicial system works, I could have gone to jail while the judge remained scot-free.”

  “Why have you confided in me?”

  “When police detective White questioned me a second time, I realized that I might be in trouble. I had overheard the judge complain earlier that reformers like Reverend Parkhurst were after him. The Lexow Committee up in Albany was also likely to investigate him, like others connected to Tammany. Mr. Sullivan’s recent death had made matters much worse for me. Detective White appeared at our door, and the judge instructed us servants to say we knew nothing. I grew desperate.”

  She paused, gazing at Pamela. “Your appearance at the concert wasn’t accidental. Detective White must have sent you. He’s an honest cop and a fair-minded man. He was giving me an opportunity to open up on my own terms.”

  “Fair enough,” said Pamela. “What would it take for you to describe to a magistrate how you unwittingly copied the fraudulent extortion letter that put Harry Miller in prison?”

  “I must have a strong, clever lawyer to support and defend me.”

  “Mr. Jeremiah Prescott, my boss, could be your lawyer. He’s familiar with the complicated circumstances of the cabdriver case and is prepared to represent you, and others like you, who are innocently ensnared in Judge Fawcett and Tammany Hall’s criminal enterprises.”

  Catherine leaned back, crossed her arms, and appeared to mull over Pamela’s proposal. Then she pondered aloud, “Having given me notice, the judge will surely fear that I might betray his secrets. The servants will keep track of my movements, and he may hire a spy like Kelly to follow me—or worse. Still, I must do something to save myself or face ruin.” Her brow wrinkled with this effort of reflection. Finally, she said, “Tomorrow is Sunday. As usual, I’ll go to the early morning service at Saint Thomas Church a few blocks away on Fifth Avenue at Fifty-third Street. That shouldn’t look suspicious. But I’ll see you and Mr. Prescott there, and we’ll find a safe place to talk, God willing.”

  CHAPTER 20

  The Forger

  Sunday, December 2

  Shortly after sunrise, Pamela and Prescott joined a flock of warmly dressed servants from the great mansions of the neighborhood and climbed up the steps to the church’s main entrance on Fifth Avenue. A brisk, cold wind hurried them into the building. A sprinkling of the faithful was already in the pews. This was the First Sunday of Advent, the beginning of the Christmas season. Even the early morning service would be well attended.

  The sun’s rays struggled through the stained glass windows into the tall, vaulted nave. As she walked down the main aisle, Pamela searched for Catherine Fawcett among the many shadowed faces in the pews. “I’ll wear a blue bonnet with a pom-pom,” she had said.

  She had also instructed Pamela to carry a walking stick and wear a black veil. Prescott should walk behind her. “I usually sit up front near the chancel. One of the judge’s servants also attends this early service and will be observing me. We mustn’t arouse her suspicion. She would carry it back, exaggerated, to the judge, and he would make my life even more miserable. As you pass by, ignore me. After the service, I’ll leave by a side door to the right and speak to the sexton—as I often do. Allow a minute to pass, then follow me.”

  Near the chancel, Pamela finally recognized Catherine, then glanced around but couldn’t detect an obvious spy. A minute later, the sexton lit the altar candles. The celebrant entered the chancel together with two acolytes and began to intone the opening prayers in beautifully cadenced English. The reading of Psalms and Scripture and the homily on the Gospel moved the service forward at a measured, stately pace appropriate to communal divine worship. At the confession of sin Pamela thought she heard Catherine softly sobbing.

  When the service ended, the sexton extinguished the candles. As he left the chancel, he seemed to glance toward Catherine and slightly nod. A minute later, she got up and followed him. Pamela and Prescott waited a minute and joined her at a table in the sexton’s little room. The sexton studied them briefly, then went back into the church to prepare for the main service later in the morning.

  “Can you trust him?” Pamela asked Catherine.

  “Yes. We meet frequently in my charitable work. He seeks out needy people in the parish—typically elderly or infirm former servants struggling to live on meager pensions in basements and cold attic rooms—and we visit them together. I told him the gist of my present situation and said I wanted a place to meet you. He offered this
room.”

  Pamela asked Catherine, “When did the judge return last night?”

  “Shortly after you left, he came to my apartment in an ugly mood. Apparently his fiancée had denied him her bed, so he demanded to crawl into mine. I said no, I was ill. He cursed and shook his fist. For a moment, I thought he would assault me, but he suddenly grew weary and went to his room. Despite the uncertainty of my future, I’m looking forward to leaving his service.”

  “His fiancée might be a match for him and have her own way,” Pamela remarked. “Now tell Mr. Prescott about your forgery of the extortion letter that incriminated Harry Miller years ago.”

  Catherine glanced at Prescott hesitantly until he encouraged her with a smile. Then she told him how the judge had tricked her into imitating Harry’s handwriting and signature.

  “Did you keep a copy of the letter?”

  “Yes, I also kept the drafts where I practiced Mr. Miller’s style of writing.” She drew them from her bag and handed them to Prescott.

  He held them up to the light from a gas lamp and compared the drafts with the final copy, addressed to Mr. Timothy Smith and dated January 20, 1887. “Well done!” Prescott remarked, “I understand how the police could truly believe that Harry had written the forgery.”

  Pamela objected, “Still, after the ‘boodle’ was exposed and Smith went to prison, you’d think the police would have taken a second look at Harry’s case.”

  Prescott shook his head. “In their eyes Harry nonetheless appeared guilty of extortion, not to speak of insubordination, even though the extortion was being practiced on a criminal like Smith. Judge Fawcett must have had a strong reason to trick Catherine into creating this forgery. It was risky. He could easily have lost his reputation and gone to jail. Somehow, Harry’s investigation seriously threatened him.”