The Hanging Women

by John Mead

  The photo was of a prosperous colored family, a middle aged man and woman seated, with their son and daughter standing behind them. The family resemblance was clear and the young woman, of about twenty, was attractive and intelligent looking. Her older brother in his early thirties, was tall, broad and muscular with somewhat angry eyes dominating his stern and clean shaven features. The father, though seated, leaned upon a walking cane, his bewhiskered visage almost glowed with benevolence, tinged with the self-righteousness of one who knew he did God’s work and did so with all his heart and energy. Whilst the wife reminded Jack of a colored woman he had once known, a woman from a very different station in life as the one in the picture, but whose only concern was seeing her family through the storms of their lives.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t recognise any of them,” Jack handed the photograph back with a shake of his head.

  “If I said she was well known as a pianist and her father is Reverend Blackstaff?”

  “The name does ring a bell, but the only colored I know who plays the piano is a male and he currently abides nigh on 600 miles west of here.” Jack shrugged, unapologetically.

  “Inspector, sir,” a police constable, clomped up the stairs, holding something silvery in his hand, “this has been found on the floor below, behind the broken door.”

  “What is it, Davies?” the inspector asked, though Jack had already recognised it and clamped his mouth shut.

  “A silver hip flask, sir.”

  2

  The Reverend

  How the flask had ended up behind the broken door of the derelict warehouse Jack had no idea nor did he enlighten the police as to his ownership. Despite this, Inspector O’Leary was determined to take Stevens with him to the Blackstaff residence, partly to help break the news of their daughter’s death and partly to see if they recognised him. However, Jack made a bad companion for the cab ride as he spent most of the journey deep in his own thoughts trying to piece together the few memories he had of the previous day. His problem was the scarcity of the pieces he had to complete the puzzle: a vague memory of the River Bar, a night-time walk along Clarke, a young man in a brown check suit with whom he recollected having had an argument. As they turned into North Astor Street Jack gave up, he was too hungry and thirsty to concentrate and the conversation that the inspector was having with his sergeant intruded too much.

  He let the inspector and sergeant lead the way, not being overly keen on what was to come, Cage telling him to hold his tongue and for the sergeant to keep notes of all that was said. The house was large: a spacious hall and imposing staircase, library cum music room, drawing room, dining room, a parlour at the rear for the family to use, a half dozen bedrooms and a bathroom, servant quarters in the attic more than ample enough for the two white maids, colored butler and cook. The place even boasted an indoor privy, though the outdoor ones were still used by the servants. Whilst the the kitchen and laundry room were built onto the side and obscured by bushes and trees, which filled the large, path strewn gardens surrounding the house.

  The family looked much as they did in the photograph Cage had shown to Stevens at the warehouse. However, the reverend was smaller and older than Jack expected and, although he appeared sprightly for a man in his late sixties, he had a slight limp, which explained his use of the walking stick, and his hair and whiskers were grey. The reverend’s son was much more imposing being tall and muscular; the restrained anger showing in his eyes, movements and voice was only too evident for all to recognise. Whilst his wife, also in her sixties, appeared outwardly calm she had the look of someone on the brink of shattering, all too aware that her world was at the point of disintegrating.

  Cage reintroduced the sergeant and simply referred to Jack as “… and Mr Stevens accompanies us,” then broke the news of their daughter’s death as quickly and as simply as he could with no reference to the actual circumstances. Jack had grown used to dealing with the dead, his spending time with the two deceased women in the early afternoon was no great matter to him, but he could not stomach the out pouring to grief from those who remained behind. Even the son, a six foot sculpture of inward rage had melted at the news, falling to his knees and with a hand on each of his parents shoulders joined them in prayer. Or at least the father and son prayed, the mother simply intoned some ancestral wail, that came as part of a long drawn out breath from deep within her soul. Jack could not abide it and left the room, passing the butler who stood in the doorway: immobile, face pale and drawn, with his mouth half-open, frozen in shock.

  Jack waited in the library, which also housed the dead woman’s piano and music collection as well as a many shelves of books which where mainly text of a religious nature. One entire shelf was dedicated to the writings, published books, pamphlets and hand written sermons and lectures, of Reverend Blackstaff. Stevens had plenty of time to look around the room, half an ear on what was occurring in the drawing room, waiting for the moment he thought he should return. In all fairness he had to admit that Cage and the sergeant had remained at their post waiting in silence then answering the family’s uncomprehending questions.

  “Mr Stevens,” Jack hadn’t noted the butler’s presence as he was engrossed reading a small notebook he had found, “if I may ask you something?” The mother was holding onto the butler’s arm, her head bowed and seemingly on the point of collapse, the butler’s attention was more on her rather than Jack, “Mrs Blackstaff has been given to understand that you were the person who found…” the butler was an elderly man, in his late fifties, portly and dignified of bearing, but his eyes pleaded with Jack for him to speak before he had to complete his sentence.

  “Yes, my condolences, ma’am,” Jack affirmed, his voice even and clear, his eyes on the mother. “I waited with your daughter until the police arrived. She appeared composed and at peace, quite serene I would say; I would think she passed quickly and without pain.”

  There was a brief pause whilst the mother whispered something and the butler relayed, “We thank you, Mr Stevens, it eases the pain we feel to know someone was with her to watch over her.” Jack watched as the pair shuffled out, wondering how many mothers had grieved over a son or daughter that he had put in the ground. Once they were gone Jack slipped the notebook into his inside jacket pocket and returned to the drawing room. Coffee and small cakes had been served, the habit of hospitality prevailing despite the circumstances, though none had touched them. However, Jack’s hunger got the better of him and he filled a cup and plate before seating himself.

  “As I explained last night,” the reverend was saying, his voice calm though tremulous, “I thought my daughter had gone to teach, she gives… gave, private lessons but also taught music and gave recitals at various clubs that my foundation organises for the improvement of the labourers of this city.”

  “These are located around the city but it was to the one near the docks that she was expected?” O’Leary checked the information he had been given the night before when the woman had been reported missing.

  “Yes,” it was the son, John Wesley Blackstaff, who answered, “I also teach, as do many of father’s supporters, though my subject is mathematics and far less popular than Philomena’s recitals. There is a published rota of who gives the classes and when.”

  “When we went from here it was the first place we searched last night,” the inspector explained, “but it would seem that she was not expected, she had swapped the class with a friend. We also checked the other venues you informed us of and she did not attend any of those either.”

  “There is some mistake, Inspector,” the reverend stated firmly, “my daughter would not lie.”

  “Is there any possibility she was going elsewhere, to meet with someone or… ”

  “None whatsoever, Inspector,” the reverend insisted, “my daughter was a quite girl, shy when not performing. Her music was her world and when not teaching or reciting she would be here practisi
ng. As I have told you she would not aim to deceive or dissemble it is… was not in her nature.”

  “We have also spoken to her friends, from the list you gave us,” the inspector led the father and brother as gently as he could with his questions trying to unearth as much as they knew or, more difficultly, suspected about the recently deceased young woman, whose reputation her loved ones would not willing besmirch, “they could not shed any light on where she may have been. We will, of course, try to retrace her steps once more but she must have left here last night with the intention of going somewhere; though it does not appear to have been to where you thought. If there are any other possibilities, other friends or family, anyone else she may have gone to?” Cage glanced at his sergeant as the two he questioned shook their heads and seemed genuinely perplexed.

  “Is there anything you can help us with, that would give us some direction as to where we should start?” the sergeant asked, taking the inspector’s hint to further push the grieving pair for information. “Miss Blackstaff may have muddled her appointments so anything, no matter how unlikely, you can add then now is the time to tell us.”

  “Your foundation is a popular movement, across all strata of society, I believe?” Jack asked in the deepening silence that followed the sergeant’s question and though the inspector scowled at Jack he had nothing else to ask so waited to see where Jack’s line of enquiry took them.

  “A better description would be a ‘broad church’,” the reverend stated, answering with more certainty on a topic he knew well and found a comfort to discuss. “It has a wide membership of all races and stations in life, with many advocates amongst the powerful and wealthy of this city.”

  “You are also an ardent supporter of the Knights of Labour?” Jack asked, showing a greater knowledge of the reverend than he had led Cage to believe he possessed.

  “What of it?” the son, John Wesley, almost barked, then looked down at his father’s reproving glance.

  “My foundation is a charitable one, it has no political nor really any religious affiliation,” the reverend amicably explained. “Its aims are to help the poor and the working men and women of this city; through education, to support the growth of the mind, and to supply medical treatments, for bodily welfare. We teach a doctrine of ‘all men are equal’ and propagate a belief based on the attitude of ‘turning the other cheek’ along with the values expounded in the parable of the ‘good samaritan’. In these doctrines there exists an affinity to the views of the Knights of Labour, but no direct connection to their political aims. It is true, however, that I occasionally speak at their rallies and meetings and write in support of their collective ideals, that all are equal and should be treated fairly regardless of sex, race or wealth. Though I do not expound their political goals nor their agenda on improving working conditions.”

  “Unfortunately not everyone is as nuanced in distinguishing between your ideological and religious beliefs and the politics of the Knights,” Jack stated quietly, ignoring the agitated fidgeting of the son. “I was wondering if you or your family have received any threats?”

  “We receive them simply for the color of our skin,” the son broke in, this time ignoring his father’s expression. “We have grown used to them and the lack of action in dealing with them by the authorities.”

  “You think my daughter has been the victim of an attack that ultimately is directed at myself and my work?” the reverend’s face had again fallen at the thought that he had some part to play in his daughter’s murder.

  “It is possible that someone has thought to get at you through your daughter,” Jack gently elaborated, “given the quietness of her life it must be considered a possibility. Have you had any threats of late that have been aimed at your family or may suggest they hold you collectively responsible?”

  “Apart from those shouted at us in the street or at public events, those that are written are often no more than a rambling of obscenities. I have them burned and take no notice, as my son says, these are the sort of tribulations to which we ‘turn to him the other also’; as is our way.”

  “Mr Stevens has a point,” the inspector persisted, seeing Jack had resumed drinking his coffee whilst reflecting on the reverend’s words, “your daughter may have been attacked because of the family’s link with the Knights or, as your son states, simply for being what she was; an educated and successful black woman. If there have been any threats made recently, no matter how vague or unlikely sounding, it might be of help.”

  “Matthew, our butler, may be more able to help, he vets our post and burns the more obviously unfit communications. Anything he considers I should look at he passes directly to me but over the last few weeks there has been nothing out of the ordinary and he has dealt with everything that has come to us.”

  Cage sent the sergeant to find and question the butler before asking, “The woman who was found with your daughter, you said her description is unfamiliar to you and as generalised as it is you can put no specific name to it?”

  “You have described a woman who could be anyone of a dozen or so,” the reverend despaired. “If that poor young woman has not herself been reported missing then it suggests she has no family and few acquaintances, I cannot think of anyone my daughter has mentioned that is in such a situation.”

  “There is of course an obvious explanation as to why your daughter may not have mentioned to you a meeting that she considered private,” Jack stated, replacing his empty cup on a small table at his side, unconcernedly brushing crumbs from his lap. “If she was going with her friend to meet with her friend’s gentleman… ”

  “My sister would not go behind her parents back nor take part in a secret meeting with a man,” John Wesley spluttered in indignation and anger, though Jack ignored him watching instead the father’s face which creased in thought and concern at the suggestion. “I find these questions unacceptable and unnecessarily intrusive, nor do I understand your role and position here to put such inflammatory questions to us at this hour of our grief.”

  “Mr Stevens, regularly helps with our enquiries and he is also associated with the Pinkertons,” Cage explained, his voice even but authoritative, an edge of warning in his tone that John should hold his temper.

  “A Pinkerton!” John’s voice had grown loud and he was near out of his seat, but directing his words to his father. “There you have your answer, they come here not to help nor find Philomena’s murderer but to cast vile lies upon her character and do all they can to undermine your teachings.”

  “I am not a Pinkerton,” Jack explained calmly still ignoring the irate brother. “It is true that many years ago, in the Black Hills, I worked alongside a couple of Pinkertons but the association has long ended.” Jack lied but the father’s gaze softened from the sudden animosity he had portrayed at his son’s insinuation.

  “John, please, regain your composure,” the reverend was doing his best to remain calm and keep at bay the overwhelming wave of despair he felt about his daughter’s death that was dammed up somewhere inside his heart. “The Pinkertons have been troublesome in dealing with the Knights and a thorn in the side of all their supporters, including ourselves, but I do not believe we are singled out by them especially not in this. As for my daughter being involved with a young man, either on her own account or in support of a friend, I believe my wife would be aware of this and she has made no mention of it. My daughter was naturally shy and though she had attracted attention from one or two young men she had shied away from them.”

  John Wesley could stand to hear no more and with a grunted, “I will see how mother is,” pushed back his chair, nearly tipping it over, and went through the door banging it behind him.

  “You must forgive… ” the reverend began but Cage was already assuring him of his understanding. Then after a pause, whilst the reverend fiddled with his cup of cold coffee first taking then replacing it on the table besides Jack’s empty one
, asked, “Do either of you have any notion as to why she was… attacked?”

  “None,” Cage admitted, then drawing breadth, knowing what the father’s next question must be, explained. “The circumstances suggest her death was premeditated but, until we are able to identify the young woman who died with her, we cannot say which, if either, was the primary victim. I should tell you, whilst we are alone, that your daughter died quickly,” Cage readily lied on this point. “Over the next few days much scurrilous and unfounded detail will be printed in the papers about this, you should ignore what they say. Perhaps your butler could ensure they are kept from your wife, he should also shield you both from any unwanted callers, unfortunately curiosity knows no bounds of propriety. If you have any questions then send for me and I will come.”

  As the sergeant reappeared during O’Leary’s final words, he might have made his farewells and left at this point had Jack not asked, “Your son, what is his occupation? I understand your daughter was fully occupied with her music and teaching, and you, I assume, with your charitable work and writings, but your son?”

  “In my life I hope I have contributed to the public good but from a financial standpoint I make very little from my writing nor my sermons and lectures. My son runs the family business founded by my father, which is the basis of our wealth and good fortune.”

  “What is this business?” Jack asked, though realising that Cage must already know as he was waiting to leave.

  “My father and his brother escaped here from the south as very young men, and worked on the docks and boats,” the reverend explained, once again happy to reflect on matters that did not take account of his daughter’s death and the emotions this raised in him. “When he married my mother he wanted an occupation that was more secure and obtained a position in a chandlery. As a black man he was lucky to secure such a position but quickly proved his worth. The owner was an elderly man, a widower without any heir, and he eventually agreed to my father buying the shop from him. After my father died, my uncle ran the place briefly until my son finished his studies and took over as manager. John has further built on his grandfather’s labours and now employs a large number of men, as well as his two cousins, and in addition to the chandlery the company has a number of properties on the north bank of the river.”