by John Mead
“I’m not the person to judge the matter,” Jack informed him. “My only concern was to get through the war alive and I have spent the last twenty years trying to put those times behind me.” It had been at a large society ball a few months previous that Jack had bearded the governor on his role in the war. The man was heatedly debating just this question and was roundly chastising a number of young gentlemen on their lack of understanding that the war had brought, “this great nation into being.”
Jack, rather drunk, had asked him, “What had a quartermaster, who never got within a mile of the front line, ever done for the union’s efforts other than trying to save money on guns and ammunition?” Although Jack, at Abigail’s and Chester’s request, formally apologised for his remarks the very next morning, the press had a field day with the spat. It transpired that the governor had been one of the men who had blocked the introduction of the Sharps rifle as being too costly. A decision which the President overturned thereby providing the Sharpshooter battalion with a weapon that supplemented their skill and added greatly to their battle effectiveness. Despite Jack’s apology, the affair had helped undermine the republican’s position that it was the party that was making America ‘great’; so it was possible that Mr Leander James McCormick, expected a more zealous response to his question.
“My father is a man of few words, Mr McCormick,” Abigail, quickly turned the conversation, “being, like yourself, a man who puts action first. A sheriff who once worked with him told me he has never seen a man shoot so well as my father, to rival even Buffalo Bill himself.”
Jack led the laughter at his own expense, enjoying his daughter’s way of deflating a potentially tense situation, before admitting, “Truth is I could never hit a barn door from horseback nor had much inclination to shoot Indians or wild animals.” Though he could have added that his toll of ‘white two legged animals’ was much higher than the showman’s.
“The other men kicked you out?” Mrs O’Shea asked, turning a corner on a garden path and finding Jack lounging, whiskey bottle and glass in hand, on a bench. The women had withdrawn at the end of the meal, leaving their menfolk to discuss politics and finance over their drink.
“And, you?” Jack retorted recognising the short, stocky figure in the half-light of the chilly dusk. “No longer able to stand the tittle-tattle of the women?” Jack had met Mrs O’Shea, Nina, to a very select few, six years previous almost to the day, when she had knocked on his hotel room door.
“It began well,” she stated, taking a seat unbidden at his side, remembering when she had first seen him and thought him nothing but a horned fool who was being deceived by his cheating wife. “With talk on how our various families would prosper through our now close connections, but then turned to discussion on children and how Sarah, Robert McCormick’s wife, hoped for another child.” Jack knew that Josephine Patricia O’Shea was in her late forties and childless. She had been born an O’Brione with four older brothers and a father all of whom were leaders amongst the dock, warehouse and transport workers of Chicago and were all now closely linked with the Knights of Labour. At twelve she had nearly died from smallpox but lived, scarred and barren, to be married at seventeen to Brandon O’Shea the rising star of the O’Shea, McGuire and Tipwell clan. Thereby cementing relationships between significant groups of workers and the city’s political fixers and bosses of the criminal substrata. It was a marriage which brought great prosperity and influence to both families but neither love nor children to the two people locked together at its centre.
“I would offer you a drink, to commiserate, but I only have the one glass,” Jack stated cordially enough, though he did not care much for Mrs O’Shea, “and it would be unladylike to drink from the bottle.”
“Since when did you consider me a lady?” liking Jack less than he liked her. “And, given the intimacies once shared between your wife and my husband, I would think that sharing a glass should be the least of our concerns.” When she had visited Jack at his hotel, unconcerned about her own reputation, she expected him to either be a weakling and too afraid to confront her formidable husband or ignorant of the affair. When she realised neither was the case she resorted, to taunts, threats and bribery which only served to anger Jack who defended his wife’s honour and threatened violence in return. It might have ended in bloodshed, her own she suspected, had it not been for the presence of her companion, a heavyset black man, who had remained in the shadows of the doorway.
“I hold you in the highest esteem,” Jack informed her noticing, as he handed her the refilled glass, her heavy make-up made her square, manly face seem like a mask through which peered two piercingly intelligent green eyes. “A harridan you may be but a lady all the same.”
“And you? Still the cuckold?” she toasted him back.
“Dead men can’t be cuckolded,” he answered, her insult meaningless to him. She knew full well his wife, Martha, had thought him dead when she had become Brandon’s mistress, and Jack would never have returned to her and his family had they not met by accident in a small out of the way town nearly 600 miles west of where they currently sat.
“As you are so unlike Lazarus of Bethany your resurrection must have been a shock to your grieving widow,” Nina, commented, handing him back the empty glass. “Talking of the dead, I am given to understand that you were the one who found those two dead women.”
“Did you recognise me from the description in the papers: ‘elderly man out walking’?” Jack refilled the glass and swallowed the content, refilling it again and handing it back. “Or was it from Hank?”
“My godson informed me, though it must be a trial to realise how aged and decrepit you are becoming in others eyes.”
“Yes, and this chill air is starting to creep into these old bones of mine,” he stated, taking a swig from the bottle to keep the chill off and then offering to top up Nina’s empty glass. “Did he tell you of the man I am seeking.”
“He did, though the name means nothing to me. He also told me he is concerned about his sister, Kitty.”
“What of her?” Jack yawned, doing his best to sound unconcerned.
“Only that since she moved to a place of her own, away from the family, he has seen so little of her and he is concerned for her.”
“Hank is a good man and I assume a good brother,” Jack stated, wondering why Nina, who never spoke without intention and rarely on any family matter, was telling him this. “If he’d like me to look into it I am more than happy to do so.”
Nina paused before saying, “No need, I have the situation in my own sights.” Then handed back the glass and rising to take her leave, added, “Do not stay out too long in this cold, less you catch something that takes you to your deathbed.”
Day Three – Thursday April 17th 1886
The next day Stevens met Kitty as pre-arranged outside the Grand Pacific on LaSalle and they hailed a cab to take them to the up-town address of her associate in the Knights. For a brief second Jack thought he spotted Martha on the opposite side of the street. But he quickly lost her in the crowd as the cab pulled away and then thought it was unlikely as she had told him she was visiting friends in Old Town.
Mrs Lenora Barry was obviously surprised to receive Mrs Kitty McGuire and Mr Jack Stevens in the early afternoon but being told her assistance in a important matter was sort, she readily did so.
“Mr Stevens is looking into the death of the two women mentioned in the papers,” Kitty explained over coffee. “As they are linked to the Knights of Labour, I thought you might be able to help.”
“I was asked, by a number of our senior members, to meet with the police only this morning,” Mrs Barry informed them, somewhat suspicious that Mr Stevens might be from a newspaper, or worse as he had the look of a Pinkerton about him. “I have told them all I know and do not think it right to speak further on the matter.”
“I take it that would have been Inspecto
r O’Leary?” Jack asked, glad the police inspector was not dismissing the link with the Knights whilst he sought Chicago Joe. “He would have asked you about Miss Blackstaff and Miss Walsh, and perhaps a man known as Chicago Joe?”
“He did,” Mrs Barry informed them, then felt compelled to continue as the silence between them grew. “Unfortunately I was not able to help very much, I have known Miss Blackstaff for sometime, mainly in connection with her father.”
“I understand from her father that she was not that involved in the Knights nor in politics in general?” Jack asked.
“You know the family?”
“They are neighbours and, unfortunately, I was present when the inspector broke the news of Miss Blackstaff’s death to them.” Jack only stretched the truth by the slightest hair’s breadth.
“It must be a terrible time for the family, I can’t imagine what they must feel.” Mrs Barry looked genuinely upset by the thought.
“Yes, devastating of course,” Jack sympathised. “The family seems unaware of Miss Blackstaff’s involvement with Miss Walsh, which naturally adds to their bewilderment.”
“Their friendship did strike me a little odd at first, though it soon passed; they got on so well, you see,” Mrs Barry reflected, rising to Jack’s bait before swallowing it whole, to continue, “When Miss Blackstaff introduced me I thought it an odd coincidence that Miss Walsh had worked at the same sweat shop as I had. Some time ago I decided to undertake a first-hand exploration of the conditions for working women that had been described to me, unfortunately I discovered these to be accurate accounts. It was appalling, Mr Stevens, I worked in excess of 40 hours for less than a dollar a week; not enough to feed me let alone provide decent shelter.”
“I believe Miss Walsh was an ardent supporter of the Knights and even spoke at meetings,” Jack, redirected his hostesses thoughts back onto the path he wanted her to follow.
“She did, quite eloquent in her description of the conditions she faced and the stark choices these gave her in order to survive. Her determination to hold the fort inspired many others both to join and to speak of their own experiences.”
“Whereas Miss Blackstaff was a shy, young piano teacher from a wealthy family of business owners, with no apparent interest in labour rights.”
“Miss Walsh seemed to inspire her,” Mrs Barry, smiled at the remembrance, “more recently she had become quite strident in her statements of support and that action needed to be taken to secure workers rights. Though of course, young women can often form friendships on the unlikeliest of grounds; I did not know them well but it struck me there was a loneliness in both that drew them together.”
“There was never any suspicions about either of them, given Miss Blackstaff’s sudden conversion and the coincidence of Miss Walsh having worked at the same sweatshop as yourself?”
“None, such conversions to the cause are not uncommon in our ranks. As Kitty will tell you our membership swells daily with men and woman from all neighbourhoods, backgrounds, trades and races; it will not be long before our voice can no longer be ignored by the wealthy and powerful,” Mrs Barry explained, her voice growing in volume and ardour as she warmed to her topic, then pausing as a thought struck her. “The inspector asked a similar question, is there anything that we should have been suspicious of in either of them?”
“Not that I am aware of,” Jack smiled, not wanting to give too much away assuming Cage had kept secret that Mary Walsh worked for the Pinkertons, “it is just odd that they should be connected to a man like Chicago Joe.”
“I do not believe they were,” Mrs Barry smiled back, relived that she had not wrongly put her trust in the two women when promoting them within the cause. “They did not seem to know him at all. They simply passed on a rumour they had heard that a gang leader, this Chicago Joe, was sounding out some of our more extreme supporters.”
“Extreme supporters?” Kitty jumped in. “You mean those who advocate the use of violence to further our cause?”
“It is unfortunate that such hot heads exist,” Mrs Barry, looked fleeting annoyed that Kitty had been so plain in her use of words in front of an outsider, “but as you know we do not agree with such views and any Knight espousing them is expelled,” then for Jack’s benefit, continued. “We believe in change through peaceful protest, though business owners have retaliated with violence and increasingly we are harassed by the police.”
“And of Chicago Joe?” Jack asked, despite Miss Barry’s views, he was well aware that the labour struggles were violent affairs on both sides.
“As I explained earlier, no one I spoke to knew the name and some thought the rumour was just one more of many circulated to discredit the movement. When I last saw the pair I told them this, though Miss Walsh seemed determined to pursue the matter as she had been told that Chicago Joe was a dangerous individual and we should be on our guard against him. Whether right or wrong, the pair will be sorely missed; as will Reverend Blackstaff who, understandably, has temporarily ceased public speaking. It is terrible times in which we live that two young women should have their lives taken in such a terrible way.”
“Did Miss Walsh say from whom she had this information?” Jack asked, wondering how much of this Cage had discovered from his questioning of Mrs Barry.
“I did not think to ask,” Mrs Barry stated. “Though as they were leaving Miss Blackstaff did say something to Miss Walsh about their needing to visit ‘Ruby’ again.”
“Ruby, or Ruby’s?” Jack asked, whilst there might be many people named Ruby in the city there was only one Ruby’s no matter how unlikely a destination for the two young women.
“Now you say it, I believe it could be have been ‘Ruby’s’ that she said,” Mrs Barry stated puzzled that this seemed a significant difference, but then she did not know that Ruby’s was one of Chicago’s most secret and notorious of brothels.
“Hiding in plain sight,” Martha Stevens had called it, when she explained her reasoning behind meeting with Ibrahim Minsky at the Grand Pacific for a late lunch. “If we are seen it will seem quite innocent, simply an eminent Chicago matron showing a newly arrived Russian count, a friend of a friend, the sights.” Minsky had smiled at the idea especially as he was only to speak Russian to anyone else, though he was slightly annoyed that Martha had described his native tongue as ‘jibber-jabber’. His revenge, therefore, was to speak at length to the waiter taking their order on what delighted him most about Martha’s lovemaking.
“The Count will have… an omelette… with coffee… with cream not milk… and a brandy,” Martha interpreted, scowling at Minsky and his endless stream of jibber-jabber. “Russian,” she added for the waiter’s benefit, “such an incompressible and long-winded language, so unlike our own succinct American idiom.” The waiter, a native Greek and recent immigrant with only ‘menu’ American, nodded sagely and left the odd pair to their tete-a-tete.
“I have been giving our predicament some thought,” Martha informed him, as she sipped her soup, “and I believe I have a way forward.”
“It is not our predicament, but mine,” Minsky interrupted, keeping his voice low so the other diners could not hear him speaking American, with only a light accent to betray his ancestry. “I have no intention of allowing you to participate.”
“You are many things, my dear little Russian, but you are not a robber,” Martha had every intention of helping her friend regardless of his objections. “You will be glad to hear that I have an almost complete solution. I know where O’Shea’s safe is located, it is behind a picture in Brandon’s study on the second floor, and I am attending a ball at the O’Shea’s and will be able to get you access.” Martha smiled triumphantly.
“Firstly, they would not keep the diamonds in Brandon’s safe,” Minsky poured cold water on the suggestions. “They will be in Mrs O’Shea’s bedroom safe. Brandon’s study is off limits to his wife as is her bedroom to him. Seco
ndly, the entire first floor will be open to guests, and full of servants, both serving and watching that the guests don’t pocket the silverware, so sneaking me up to the bedroom will not be viable.”
“Neither problem is insurmountable,” Martha was not to be put off, “dressed as a waiter and with a little help from me we will be able to get you to Mrs O’Shea’s bedroom. As for the safe, well, it is about time there was a rapprochement between myself and Mrs O’Shea, given how close our families will be operating I will ask Jacob DeWert to speak with Brandon so that Abigail and I will be assured a warm welcome.”
“How will that help me get into the safe?” Minsky asked, happy at Martha’s desire to help him but thinking it simply a further delay and inwardly resolving to ask around for the name of a reliable housebreaker.
“Abby is bound to want a tour of the house and to see the diamonds, and no one refuses my charming daughter, even that pock-marked old witch,” Martha explained, knowing her remarks were below the belt but her expression daring Minsky to suggest so. “It is at least worth a try before attempting anything else, so enjoy your cognac. Perhaps after our meal you will invite me up to your room, you do have a room here don’t you?” she added with a most unladylike wink.
Jack had the devil of a job in putting off taking Kitty to the theatre as he had promised, “I need to confer with Cage, Inspector O’Leary, and you need to pay your brother a call.”