by John Mead
“There are marks on the parapet here,” Jack ignored the rebuke and was casting around the roof for something, quickly spotting the planks and crate thrown against the disused rabbit hutches in the opposite corner of the roof. “Constable would you mind helping, I have trouble bending as a result of a stiff knee.”
“Someone used to breed rabbits for the pot up here not so long ago,” the constable pointed out, hoping to be useful though from the inspector’s disapproving look he decided silence would be a better option to adopt.
“You can see a small indent has been made here on the edge of the parapet overlooking the street,” Jack pointed out, wishing he had his cane as it would have been a useful pointer. “It was made to steady the end of the rifle, suggesting the shot was lined up before Brandon arrived.”
“So the killer would have some knowledge of O’Shea’s movements,” O’Leary muttered.
“To have expected Brandon to mount or dismount from a carriage at the steps into his hotel may not have taken much forethought,” Jack pointed out. “Knowing he regularly attended the Sunday morning service at the cathedral, roughly when it ends and he would return, is not that much of a secret either. However, the mark on the ledge, showing where the planks were rested on it, and the mark on the roof where the crate was placed for the other ends to rest on, does show us whoever did this knew what they were about.”
“How is that?” The sergeant asked, as O’Leary bent to examine the marks and the constable positioned the planks and create.
“A man without training or experience would probably have knelt to fire over the parapet, it would have been harder to maintain his position and to keep a steady rifle. To have lain on the planks, would have given him a lower profile, so less chance of being detected from below, a steadier aim and a position he could have maintained at ease for sometime.”
“Clearly a professional then,” O’Leary concluded.
“As you can see,” Jack took up a shooting position on the planks, again wishing for his cane that would have made a passing substitute for a rifle, “a taller man would have had his feet overhang the boards positioned as they are, the end of the planks cutting into his shins would not have been pleasant, whilst a broader man would have struggled to keep his elbows in place.”
“So, a man of your height and build,” the sergeant commented, glancing at the inspector as he considered the obvious.
“Yes, roughly so,” Jack agreed. “Boat certainly, being so much wider in his girth than I would have struggled. Whilst Banjo is taller, though you can check his shins for any marks as they would have rubbed.”
“You rule out Hugh Partkis and… ” O’Leary paused looking expectantly at Jack.
“Mr Graham Chappell,” Jack explained, “whom we called Banjo because he could not play the harmonica worth a spit and, with Boat’s aid, saved my life on more than one occasion.”
“And you theirs, no doubt,” the inspector said, stopping both the sergeant and constable from derailing the proceedings by asking how ‘Banjo’ was derived from an inability to play the harmonica.
“Yes, it was the way of things.”
“From what you have said a man of your experience and stature probably made the shot?”
“Yes,” Jack agreed.
“We will check on your friends, though with a daughter to bury tomorrow I suspect Mr Partkis would have been with his family and to eliminate all other lines of enquiry, before I disturb him in his grief, perhaps you can tell me where you where?”
“I’m surprised you have not dragged my wife up here to interrogate her,” Jack smilingly complained. “She is quite a good shot with a rifle or pistol, I taught her myself you know. Nor have you said exactly when he was killed but if it were after morning service, it is my habit to take a stroll after church then we go to my daughter’s for an early dinner. I was reenacting the Siege of Petersburg, with my grandchildren. My grandson, who is but five marshals his troops with considerable strategy, whilst my granddaughter, barely three, makes an impetuous calvary commander and leads her dollies into the fray with gusto; though with little thought for the cannons she charges.” The constable did his best not to smile at Jack’s description, whilst the inspector pondered why Jack seemingly tried to obfuscate his answer to a simple question.
“Sergeant, can you make a note of all this, the position of everything and so forth,” O’Leary said. “We will go down.”
“How is Hank?” Jack asked as the pair clattered down the stairs.
“He was splattered by his godfather’s blood, as he stood on the hotel steps, so I do not believe him happy,” the inspector threw over his shoulder at Jack, who lagged a little behind hampered still by the stiffness of his knee.
“You are in a foul mood, Cage,” Jack observed out loud, causing the other to stop and turn to look up at him. “What do you think the motive is here?”
“The diamonds play a part, of that I am certain,” Cage told him, the edge of frustration in his voice clear for Jack to hear in the echoes of the stairwell. “The insurance values them at nearly three quarters of a million, to be broken up and sold as stolen property perhaps half or a third of that but still a vast fortune. I believe Minsky was used for the robbery simply on the basis that he could bilk Mrs Stevens into helping him with getting in the house. Why Miss Partkis was killed to cover Mrs O’Shea’s disappearance is not clear to me. There is no evidence of Mrs O’Shea being abducted so the only thing the poor maid’s death achieved was to briefly throw suspicion onto Mr O’Shea. It is possible that the robbery and shooting are unrelated but I believe that too great a coincidence.”
Cage paused, thinking he should be treating Stevens as a suspect not as a confidant. Then looking again at Jack, who waited patiently for him to resume, swept the thought aside and continued, “Either the O’Shea’s concocted this whole subterfuge themselves to swindle the insurance or it has been done to discredit them. If either wanted the other dead there are easier ways to go about it. As for Brandon’s killing it has been done for revenge or because there has been a falling out within the family.”
“Do you think Hank, has a part in this?” was Jack’s only comment, he could not fault the inspector’s logic.
“You could say he now comes into his inheritance early,” O’Leary mused. “With Brandon discredited he had all but taken over the running of the Irish gangs, both their criminal and more legitimate businesses. With or without the diamonds he has much to gain, nor can we find his sister who also seems to have disappeared perhaps she takes the loot to safety.”
“It is a plausible theory,” Jack decided to keep his knowledge of Kitty’s going to Canada to himself currently. “Though I sense you have a hesitancy in this theory compared to your other lines of thinking.”
“Mr Tipwell seemed genuinely distressed at his godfather’s death,” Cage explained his doubts, “visibly shaking as we spoke. He has also returned to his wife and newborn son, leaving his lieutenants wondering what steps to take next. That hardly sounds like the actions of a man taking a firm grasp of the reigns, had he planned the shooting he would have been better prepared to deal with the aftermath.”
“Revenge, diamonds, whatever the causes and why-for’s of this, I think you will only find your answer if you find Mrs O’Shea alive,” Jack told Cage.
“And if she is dead?”
“Then you may never know.”
It was only as he returned home to comfort Martha that he remembered he had yet to tell Cage about his suspicions concerning John Wesley Blackstaff, but given all that had occurred that day he realised it could wait a while.
Day Fourteen – Monday April 28th 1886
Beatrice’s funeral was attended by family, friends and some of the servants she worked alongside at the O’Shea household, including Fellows. The small offering of flowers the servants had brought were gratefully received, though the large wreath f
rom Mr Henry Tipwell went ‘missing’ and did not make it to the service. The brightness of the warm April day and the spring flowers that filled the cemetery were at odds with and provided a stark contrast to the black clothing, the sorrowful expressions and tears of the mourners.
The wake that followed was a livelier affair, expressing a life honoured rather than the grief at an early death. Jack managed to get five minutes alone with Boat and Banjo, both claimed neither happiness nor grief at the report of Brandon O’Shea’s death. Both had been discreetly questioned by Inspector O’Leary, Banjo amused that he had been asked to show the police his shins, which were unmarked. Both men had spent the previous day in each others company along with many of their friends and family. They had been at church together and then in the company of the deceased, who had been in a closed coffin in the parlour to receive less formal goodbyes from her kith and kin.
Jack, slipped away in the early evening, leaving Martha who was happy to be accompanied home by Banjo or Fellows much later. Jack stood awhile outside listening to the song that had struck up as he left, Martha’s strong voice matching that of Boat’s deep baritone, it had been sometime since he had heard the strains of ‘San Antonio Rose’; an oddly apt love song for the occasion:
“Deep within my heart lies a melody,
A song of old San Antone.
Where in dreams I live with a memory,
Beneath the stars all alone.
It was there I found beside the Alamo,
Enchantment strange as the blue up above.
A moonlight pass only she would know,
Still heard my broken song of love.
“Broken song, empty words I know,
Still live in my heart all alone,
for that moonlit pass by the Alamo,
And my Rose, my Rose of San Antone.”
10
Bamboozled
“Now here comes the worst criminal in the city,” Pinky waved at Jack as he entered the Gripmans. “If you yearn to use your Beans, sergeant, then clap them on Stevens’ wrists, it will be a certainty that he has been up to no good.”
“If it is advice on getting your man you are after,” Jack retaliated, addressing the sergeant, as he took a seat squashing the sergeant and inspector on one side of a bench table, “then go elsewhere but if you want to know how not to go about it then ask Pinky how he went after the James gang.”
“Now, Jack,” Pug interrupted before Pinky could respond, the last thing either Pinkerton wanted was Jack telling stories about them and the James Gang.
“The press are not full of headlines about the James brothers,” O’Leary pointed out, “but about the deaths of the O’Shea’s and how these and the deaths of the two women remain unsolved. I’m being pushed by my superiors to bring an end to all the calls of ‘police incompetence’ by arresting the men responsible.”
“If the Tribune is anything to go by,” Pug commiserated, “you’re lucky to still have a job as they seem to put responsibility for the lack of action directly at your door.” O’Leary made no response other than to finish his beer and order another round.
“Anything new come to light?” Jack asked them collectively.
“Minsky’s neck was broken, the wounds to his head seem to have been caused when he was in the water,” the sergeant told them, seeing no reason not to share the information as they met at the Gripmans to do just that, even if Stevens was not officially invited none seemed able or willing to keep him away. “And, as far as anyone can tell, he went into the river not far from where we found him, which is in reach of the Hawks.”
“Black Rube jumps to mind,” Jack said what all were thinking, “Martha has said that Minsky mentioned him.”
‘The Black Hawks are as mad as hell at the loss of Ruby’s to the King’s,” Pinky put in, “but there has been no word of Black Rube for weeks. To all intents and purpose Ruben, Rube’s nephew, was pretty much running things.”
“Perhaps Black Rube wasn’t happy with that and did for him?” the sergeant ventured, he toyed with his beer whilst the others drank, each taking it in turns to buy another round.
“Broken necks are more his style,” Stevens pointed out. “Vitriol is something Joseph Mannheim is noted for.”
“There’s been no sight of him either for a few days,” Pug gave them the news they already knew, whilst trying to relight his pipe. “The Kings seem to be splitting apart since old man Mannheim took to his bed.”
“What ails him?” O’Leary wanted to know.
“Heart apparently, been on the books for a while and they say he’ll be a goner soon.”
“Didn’t know he had a heart,” Sergeant Magnuson made the obvious joke but raised a laugh all the same.
“Though Joe, the younger son, is in hiding he and his half of the Kings have taken over Ruby’s, whilst his elder brother flounders, trying to keep the peace between the irate Black Hawks and his own divided gang,” Pug informed them. “Looking for Joe and keeping tabs on the Knights of Labour has led us all over the city and the only talk we hear of is the trouble between the gangs.”
“They are heading for war,” Pinky told them.
“The Black Hawks are nowhere near big enough to take on even one half of the Kings,” Magnusson pointed out. “They would need the help of the Dead Hands, however, with O’Shea dead and Hank in mourning they seem leaderless.”
“Isn’t it your turn for a round?” the inspector reminded his sergeant.
“Err… yes. Is that four beers then?”
“I’ll have a brandy, double,” Cage stated unsmiling, the others wanting whiskey’s, again doubles. As the despondent sergeant waved a waiter over and made the order, Jack mouthed, “Bastard” at Cage and the inspector smiled back.
“How are the bairns and the misses?” Pug asked Magnuson as the sergeant turned back trying not to look as if he was mentally calculating the value of the coins he had in his pocket.
“They’ll be waiting on new clothes, at this rate,” Magnuson said, half seriously and half in jest at himself.
“Put these and everything else on my tab,” Jack informed the waiter when he brought the drinks.
“Now look, a sergeant’s pay may not be much but I can pay my way,” Magnuson angrily turned on Jack, insulted by the offer to pay his round.
“Pull your horns in,” Jack laughed back, “it applies to all and I only do it because I am thinking of buying the place.”
“Really?” Pinky asked, though not doubting that Stevens could afford to do so if he wanted.
“Yes, though mainly so I can have you thrown out,” Jack sniggered at the thought. He might even speak with Andrew about doing so as the bar diner always seemed to have plenty of customers and he’d enjoy barring Pinky. “So, the gangs are ready for war but none have sufficient advantage to kick things off .”
“That will change when Hank recovers his wits,” Cage said, thinking a partnership in a small but prosperous diner would make a good investment for a police inspector’s retirement, “then the Dead Hands will have the upper hand.”
“Yet the Knights of Labour suck them all dry,” Pug saw another side to the argument. “Workers of all kinds from across the city are flocking to the ranks of the Knights. As they grow in strength they resist not only the exploitation of their employers but the gangs who also profit from their labour.”
“Although the Knights have their divisions as well,” Pinky took up the line of thinking. “There are extremists in their ranks who seek political ends beyond an improvement in workers rights, they could unsettle things yet.”
“So, to sum up,” Jack waved the waiter for another round, “the gangs are at logger-heads, but are currently stalemated, whilst the Knights of Labour, unless they are torn apart by the factions in their ranks, threaten the profits of both the city’s employers and the gangs.”
“T
hat is pretty much how things are, Jack, a powder keg,” Pug agreed, Pinky nodding alongside.
“Minsky is likely to have been killed by Black Rube,” Jack continued his summary, “who may or may not have the diamonds and hasn’t been seen for weeks. Ruben is likely to have been killed by Joe, probably so he could get his hands on Ruby’s, and has since dropped out of site. Brandon O’Shea has been shot, for what reason isn’t clear and Mrs O’Shea has disappeared.”
“There is no word on any of the three we seek,” Cage mournfully confirmed. “Obviously finding them is key, especially Mrs O’Shea as I believe that what she knows will clarify much.”
“At least, I think I can help you with the two murdered women: Blackstaff and Walsh,” Jack informed the inspector, finishing his glass.
Blackstaff’s Chandlery was closing for the day, the majority of its employees had already left and the remainder were going out the door as the inspector, sergeant and Jack drew up in a police carriage. John Wesley Blackstaff was still at his desk, usually being the first to arrive and the last to leave, his equally hardworking office manager showed the three in before going home himself. The day had been warm and sunny and, though the air along the river was now chilly, the room was stuffy as the windows had been kept closed all day.
“Do you have news?” Blackstaff asked without welcome, surprised at the visit but seeming more tired than angry.
“We move ahead,” Inspector O’Leary informed him. “Though we have a few more questions in order to clarify some points.”
“Questions of me?”
“I believe you will be able to answer them and I did not want to disturb your parents.”
“No, they are not well,” Blackstaff wearily commented, his energy ebbing away and his tiredness looking to overwhelm him. “It has been a heavy blow to them both. It has even struck at my father’s faith and that troubles him deeply.”
“Though you are a younger man, with different needs and a different view of your faith,” Cage stated rather than asked.