by John Mead
“Very well,” Jack sighed, knowing the pair would not be about at this hour if it were not urgent, some breakthrough about how the Misses Walsh and Blackstaff had died no doubt. “Tell them I will be down shortly and offer them both coffee.”
“Really, Jack, at this hour? If you would only consort with men of reputable standing or at least men who knew the bounds of decency by not calling on their friends at such an hour as this.” Martha, who had shown no sign of being woken by the knocking, said the moment Gideon had silently closed the door.
“Perhaps they have come with good news,” Jack informed her, struggling to dress as his aching limbs stiffly fought against him. “Though at this hour it had better be along the lines that the City Fathers have decreed that, ‘hence forth whiskey will be free and water will be one dollar a quart’.” Jack decided he must have misheard as he assumed a woman of his wife’s matronly ways would not have told him to, ‘go to the devil’, though he smiled all the same as he clomped down the stairs.
“Leg still hurt?” Pinky asked, peering at Jack over the coffee cup he held in both hands.
“No it’s fine,” Jack informed him, “I just like walking with a limp.”
“Inspector O’Leary, sent us,” Pug intervened before the pair could get started on their usual swapping of insults, “there has been a robbery at the O’Shea’s house.”
“Really?” Jack was too tired to think of any cutting remark to make about this and didn’t even wonder why Cage thought it necessary to let Jack know.
“Unfortunately someone was killed during the robbery,” Pug went on.
“By killed you mean they are actually dead, attested so by a doctor and the inspector and not just your usual wild surmising?” Martha demanded entering the room, an elegant dressing gown covering her night-attire. “After all, the last time you told me of a death, my husband’s, it proved to be far from the truth.”
“We cannot apologise any more than we have done for that misunderstanding,” Pug went on, standing and indicating that Martha should take a seat, whilst Pinky looked increasingly embarrassed and apparently hoped his coffee cup hid him from view as he refrained from lowering it, “but this is a real and most unfortunate circumstance. I am sorry to inform you that Mrs O’Shea has been shot during a robbery.”
“What?” both Jack and Martha asked at the same time, both looking shocked and puzzled at the news.
“Mr O’Shea,” Pug continued, “has asked for you both. Despite his confused and shocked state he has had the presence of mind to ask that you go with us to inform his godson, Mr Henry Tipwell.”
“Of course,” Martha quickly took on the mantel of feminine practicality in such matters, “I will finish dressing, Jack you should prepare yourself as well.’
“How are you two involved in this?” Jack wanted to know as he stood to follow his wife.
“We had arranged to meet for an early breakfast with Cage and his sergeant,” Pinky explained, more comfortable now Martha had left. “He wanted us to look more closely at how the Kings and Black Hawks seem involved in working together and the link with the murdered women. We had just started when a message came for the inspector and we tagged along.”
Martha broke the news to Hank and his wife, they had been married two and a half years, Jack and Martha having attended the lavish wedding, and the young woman was heavily pregnant with their first child. Martha was quick to get the woman back to the comfort and rest of her own bed after the shock of the news they brought. Jack had known Hank, who was normally calm and thoughtful regardless of the situation, long enough to have seen him violently angry and despairing in his frustration at events beyond his control but he had never known him to be so totally bewildered. Hank repeatedly asked Jack if there was any possibility of a mistake having been made. Jack waited patiently, ignoring Hank’s repeated questions and wishing for his whiskey flask, whilst his wife made arrangements for the care and wellbeing of the mother-to-be, then he went with her and Hank to the carriage and waiting Pinkertons.
Hank continued to state, “There must be a mistake,” and, “It makes no sense, are you sure it is mother, I only spoke to her yesterday?” The Pinkertons, squashed in with Jack on one seat of the carriage whilst Hank and Martha sat on the other, told Hank what they had already told Jack, then went quiet. Hank, eventually turned his face into the corner of the carriage, Martha who had held his hand from the moment they had sat in the carriage, stared stonily ahead, while the three men opposite stared at their own feet trying not to hear the muffled sobs of the muscular, young, Irish-American who controlled the largest gang in Chicago.
6
Missing
The O’Shea’s house was set further back from the road than it’s neighbours. The long drive and the large spacious gardens filled with trees, coupled with high walls, afforded the house some privacy. There were a number of uniformed police on the front gate, and a few onlookers, and at the door there were more officers and a group of young men, members of the Dead Hands Jack assumed. The heavy clouds, rolling in from Lake Michigan, cast a natural mourning shade over the house and its now subdued atmosphere greatly contrasted with the glittering, noisy gaiety of the previous night. Jack and the Pinkertons alighted first and any intention that the officers or waiting men had to speak with them died as Hank dismounted and turned to help Martha down, then taking her arm led them all inside.
The butler, Fellows, was waiting in the hall but hardly had time to offer Mr Tipwell his condolences when Brandon, hair disarrayed, unshaven and wearing a smoking jacket with his dress trousers from the night before, came out of the parlour to meet them. Brandon, his once muscular frame, now running to fat with a jowly face, embraced his godson who returned the embrace, still needing to bend over his tall godfather. Inspector O’Leary and Sergeant Magnuson followed behind, then stood to one side with the others of the party, giving the grieving pair a moment to console each other.
“Has Hank’s sister been informed?” Jack asked, thinking it a natural enough question to ask under the circumstances.
“A messenger has been sent to notify her,” Fellows explained, adding, “These tragic events have shocked the entire household. I was wondering if it would be possible, Inspector, for you to continue your questions using Mr O’Shea’s study? That way the the servants can begin to tidy the house, the routine and return to work will help them achieve a degree of normality at this time.”
“Once each room has been searched they can begin work, though I want an officer in the room in case anything is turned up,” Inspector O’Leary informed his sergeant, nodding to the butler. “Though I want you, Fellows, to accompany us all to the study.” Brandon led the way, followed by Hank, having taken Martha’s arm, the Pinkertons, the sergeant and butler, with Jack limping heavily alongside the inspector.
“What exactly has happened?” Jack asked, grimacing as his mounted the stairs. “And why are the Pinkertons here?”
“They didn’t tell you?”
“Some half-baked story of an early meeting with you,” Jack informed him.
“I would like to see my mother, that is Mrs O’Shea,” Hank stated, turning to the inspector outside the study.
“Later Hank, when the time is appropriate to do so,” Martha told him, noticing how both Brandon and the sergeant had looked askance at the words, giving the still befuddled Hank no option but to continue into the study.
“Use your noodle,” Cage told Jack, “Mrs O’Shea is an O’Brione, her family run the unions and workers in many areas, particularly around the docks and city railroads, they are also heavily involved with the Knights of Labour.”
“You think this is linked with the two murdered women?” Jack stated in surprise.
“Not in the least,” Cage almost pushed Stevens into the room, his voice barely a whisper, “but they will not leave any stone unturned and the tenuous link gives them the opportunity to poke
their nose into this case.”
“I will not detain you all long,” the inspector told them once they were seated; Mr O’Shea, looking crumpled and crestfallen behind his desk. Hank had pulled a chair next to him and Martha sat upright, staring coldly about her at the end of the desk. Jack perched on the arm of her chair as it gave the greatest ease to his injured leg. The Pinkertons had sat in chairs at the opposite end of the room, whilst Sergeant Magnuson and Inspector O’Leary stood. “I realise you have family to speak with and to comfort in this hour but for my investigations to go ahead I need to clarify a few points.”
“We realise this,” Brandon, muttered, his tone becoming more authoritative whilst sitting in his own inner sanctum, though he was still pale and his demeanour confused. “If you can get this over with quickly I would be grateful, I… ” he paused glancing at Hank. “That is, we have much to do.”
“My understanding,” the inspector spoke from memory whilst the sergeant kept an eye on his notebook as his senior colleague spoke, “is that one of the maids, who sleeps directly over Mrs O’Shea’s room, says she heard what she thought was a muffled explosion just after three o’clock in the morning from the room below. At first the maid thought she had dreamt this but hearing other noises, as if someone moved around and realising this must be her mistress, went downstairs to see if she needed anything. Finding the door unlocked, she knocked, then looked in and found Mrs O’Shea.”
“Her screams brought myself and the other servants to the scene,” Fellows interrupted, his eyes on Henry Tipwell rather than the inspector.
“You tried to raise Mr O’Shea,” O’Leary went on, “but he remained asleep?”
“Yes, Inspector, I had to shake him awake and he was quite confused at first,” the butler explained. “I took it upon myself to send for the police.”
“When we arrived, the doctor was already here and had treated the maid and had spoken with Mr O’Shea,” O’Leary paused for Fellows to state he was correct. “No one other than yourself, the maid and the doctor had been into Mrs O’Shea’s room?”
“That is also correct, Inspector.”
“The party last night, the last of the guests left just after one o’clock and no guests stayed the night?”
“That’s right, Inspector,” it was Brandon who spoke. “Nina had said she did not feel like entertaining guests, she found that organising the ball was tiring enough and she did not wish to have to entertain houseguests the following day as we normally did. Neither of us are as young as we were so… ” his voice trailed away as he glanced at the ashen faced Hank.
“And, she did without her personal maid that night, Miss Beatrice Partkis?” Fellows confirmed this with a nod. “Isn’t that somewhat odd on the night of a ball?”
“I thought so, but Mrs O’Shea did not consult with me on the matter, she always dealt with Beatrice herself,” the butler explained his face neutral, which in itself suggested he found the situation unusual.
“Beatrice has been with my mother for some years,” Hank finally found his voice, “and my mother had grown indulgent of her, though finding her indispensable. I have no doubt that she would have agreed to her having the night off no matter how inconvenient to herself.”
“Beatrice would not have asked for such unless it was important, she was quite devoted to Mrs O’Shea,” Fellows said.
“She has yet to return?” O’Leary asked, though he knew the answer, as Fellows shook his head.
“Last night, was there any reason for any of the guests to come upstairs?” both Brandon and Fellows shook their heads. “Apart from Mr and Mrs Stevens are you aware of any others coming up here?” Both Brandon and Hank turned puzzled faces towards the Stevens’ but the inspector continued. “And no one, other than invited guests, were admitted to the ball apart from the messenger who came for the Stevens’?”
“That is correct, Inspector,” Fellows confirmed, “Mr Tipwell undertook to ensure the house was policed around it’s exterior and I kept a watchful eye on the servants. Of course it does not rule out the possibility that someone gained entry either during or after the ball.”
“Though the house was locked up as the guests left and Mr Tipwell’s private force continued to patrol the grounds,” O’Leary summed up.
“Yes,” Hank confirmed, “though I left early, to attend my wife as we expect the birth of our first child any day, however, I trust all of the men I left here to keep things secure.”
“The man who brought you an urgent message?” the inspector asked Jack and Martha, his face decidedly professional and unsmiling.
“He was the friend of a woman I know, a charity case I am working with,” Martha explained, her voice and body quite rigid, as she struggled to control the turmoil of emotions that raged within her. “He followed Fellows downstairs and did not return, I saw him from where I sat.”
“You had not seen him before?”
“No,” Martha wondered if she should tell more of the story Minsky had prepared, if she was questioned, then remembered his injunction to, ‘volunteer no more than what was asked’.
“You did not see him leave?” O’Leary asked Fellows.
“I did not, it was quite crowded downstairs but, frankly, given his dress the man would have stood out had he done anything other than leave,” Fellows clarified for the inspector. “I was but moments in returning with Mr Stevens and Mrs Stevens was already coming downstairs.”
O’Leary looked at Martha but Jack went on with the description of events, “Martha went down with Fellows, I loitered a bit outside here, to stretch my leg and then followed them down. Everything seemed as quite as a… church midweek,” Jack realising the inappropriateness of using the word ‘grave’ changed his metaphor as he spoke it.
“When did you and Mrs O’Shea retire for the night?” the inspector asked Brandon.
“Almost immediately after the last guest departed,” O’Shea explained, his normal somewhat florid colour had returned to him, no doubt the shock was passing, “Fellows brought us both a last glass of champagne and I wished my wife good night at her bedroom door.”
“Her glass was left untouched on her bedside cabinet,” O’Leary informed them. “I take it you drank yours?”
“I did,” Brandon readily confirmed.
“Had you already drunk a great deal?”
“No, no more than I usually would at such a function, perhaps even a little less as I wanted my wits about me with McCormick about,” Brandon elucidated readily enough. “I spent much of the evening playing billiards with Andrew, Jack’s son, and the McCormick’s.”
“Yet you slept through the shot that killed your wife, which woke the maid above, the maid’s screams, which woke the rest of the servants, and Fellows still found you fast asleep?’
“One moment, Inspector, you said the sound that woke the maid was an explosion not a shot?” Hank asked, despite his bewildered expression never having left his face throughout the inspector’s questions, had obviously been following what was said in minute detail.
O’Leary paused, then gathering his resolve to describe the details of Mrs O’Shea’s death, explained, “The noise the maid heard, we believe, was the sound of a shotgun, the weapon used to to shoot Mrs O’Shea. It would appear someone entered the room, forcing the lock, a fact we find at odds with what the servants have told us as it was not usual for her to lock her room at night,” both Hank and Brandon nodded their heads to confirm the point. “It can’t be ruled out that it was two people though one man on his own could have managed had he tied up Mrs O’Shea, for which we have found no evidence, or she was knocked senseless allowing him time to break into the safe. The method used to get into the safe, to steal the diamonds, was quite professional and would have made little sound, no more than dropping a heavy boot upon the floor.”
“Why was she shot?” Jack asked in the silence that followed, as Hank and Brandon
absorbed the meaning of the inspector’s words.
“Perhaps she had seen their faces,” the inspector explained, refraining from smiling at the question only Jack and himself would think to ask, “or perhaps it was the intention from the first.” Jack would have asked more but Cage’s expression caused him to keep quiet.
“My mother’s injuries… ?” Hank’s voice was low and hard, the anger behind them clear for all to hear.
“Were extensive,” O’Leary hurried over the fact. “She would have felt little and death would have been instantaneous.” Martha’s sigh and stifled cry caused them all to give a brief, silent prayer for the departed.
“There is one other thing,” the inspector finally stated, after a pause to allow them all a moment to compose themselves. “Do you recognise this?” O’Leary handed Brandon a small filigree of silver holding three or four small diamonds.
“It looks like the clasp off of one of my wife’s diamond necklaces,” Brandon confirmed as Hank peered over his shoulder and nodded in agreement.
“And this?” the inspector pulled a blood-stained handkerchief, with an embroidered ‘B’ in one corner from his pocket and held it before O’Shea. “Can you explain how this handkerchief, which matches newly laundered ones in your room, and the broken clasp from your wife’s stolen necklace come to be in your bedroom?” O’Shea sat, mouth working but with no sounds expect spluttering coming from it, uncomprehending and confused, his mind trying but failing to connect the facts of what he had been told with what he thought had occurred. It was, however, too much for Hank to bare.
“What do you imply, Inspector?” Hank leapt from his seat, banging his right fist on the desk with force enough to make it jump and sending some of its contents to the floor. “Answer him Father, tell him what you know and send him packing with his twisted, lying words.”
The Pinkertons were quick to their feet and the sergeant stepped forward, but O’Leary remained where he stood, impassive and unmoved, Martha remained rigid in her seat and Jack, who had instinctively reached for his gun, eased his posture on the chair arm.