by C. A. Asbrey
“Abi!” Nat’s eyes widened. “I’ve never heard you use language like that before.”
“You’ve heard me say that and a lot worse, I just don’t generally do it in English.” She paused at the door on her way out, “but this time, I want you to understand me clearly enough to decide who I am. Pick a damned side, once and for all.”
♦◊♦
Sheriff Thompson rolled his eyes at the sight of the middle-aged woman prodding the deputy out of her way with her umbrella. “You again?”
“Yes, Mr. Thompson. Me again. I told you I’d be back. How did you get on? Did you get anything?”
Thompson reached into his drawer and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “I wondered when you would show for this. You made it sound real urgent and then you go disappearin’ on me for days.”
“Yes, I’m sorry about that. I have been very busy.” Abigail sat and shuffled through the telegrams, pausing at one in particular. “Is this everything?”
Thompson raised his chin in challenge. “’Course it is. We’re professionals.”
“Thank you, Sheriff. I’m very grateful.” She folded them and put them in the bag dangling from her wrist. “What information did you get about the people seeking to adopt David?”
He sat back in his chair, the legs creaking in protest. “Yeah, I spoke to Martin at the Juvenile Asylum. Somebody ripped the page out of his book so he lost the records, but he remembers they were from Boston and called Mellor. Husband and wife they were, and real mad the boy had already been given to someone else.”
“Could he describe these people?”
“Real average, he said. An older woman,” he nodded toward Abigail, “not as old as you, mind. Just a bit past it. He was kinda baldin’ and she was kinda plain. That’s it. He couldn’t even remember what color of hair she had. She wore a hat.”
“And the man who was awarded the boy?”
“He was a big man, real big. A fine white moustache and spoke real well. Impressive, he said.”
“How big?” asked Abigail.
“Martin said he was at least a six-foot-seven.”
“This man is six-foot-seven? He’d be noticeable around here. In fact, he’d be noticeable around anywhere.”
“That’s what he said.” Thompson shrugged. “There was somethin’ else. He had a finger missin’,” Thompson pointed to his middle finger, “right here on the right hand. Right off from the knuckle he said. There weren’t no stub.”
“Well, I must keep an eye out for him.” Abigail stood and thrust out a hand. “Thank you so much for all your help. I will make sure Alan Pinkerton is informed how helpful you have been. I know it must be very difficult working with someone as out of the ordinary as me. Your efforts will be reported back to the governor.”
Thompson paused, and took the hand with reluctance. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, are we done now?”
“For the time being. We now have a considerable amount of evidence. We just need to put it together. That’s the hard bit, huh?”
“I wouldn’t know, ma’am. I usually just catch them in the act.”
“Very efficient of you, Sheriff.” She strolled over to the door and nodded a farewell. “I’ll try to take a leaf out of your book.”
♦◊♦
She strolled along the sidewalk considering whether to go back to the hotel. Something about Jake’s demeanor worried her. If Jake and Nat were resting, there’d be a wedge under the door and she’d have to wake them to get in. They might be long gone, given Jake’s attitude. She sighed and decided to give them the benefit of the doubt, but uncertainty still ate away at a corner of her mind. If the truce was off, would they take the law into their own hands? And if they did, who would be the suspect?
She resolved to take time to compose the telegram to the Pinkertons to get the connections to Boston investigated, but as it had to be compiled in code, it would take formulating. Time for refreshment and a seat in a local restaurant.
♦◊♦
She sipped her coffee, pausing intermittently to glance at the code book from her reticule, filling her notes with a series of numbers which equated to the action required to get the information she needed.
The names and addresses were a simple transposed code. The telegrams were sent to an innocuous address to prevent agents in the field from being identified. It needed to be a long message due to the amount of information required and she plodded through it, concentrating on the details as much as possible.
Admin had never been her strong point, so she checked and double-checked to make sure her message was accurate, buoyed by copious amounts of coffee and the restaurant’s delicious Railroad Cake.
The view from the window was a distraction from the tedium of the most boring part of her job. Three old men sat on the other side of the road, long on beards and short on teeth. They chatted over unknowable events before deliberating and spitting on the planks, much to the disgust of most of the female passers-by who scuttled by, lifting their skirts with looks of disdain. The little man who stopped to chat drew Abigail’s attention.
The small, impeccably-groomed man shared an anecdote which made the old-timers roar with laughter. That wasn’t surprising in itself, but the passerby was Tibby Dunbar, and the old-timers all pointed in unison off to the west. Where were they sending him, and what had he asked?
Abigail made a final check of her document. A lengthy check to make sure she had things right, and then sat back to enjoy her coffee and cake. She glanced at the check and pulled out cash before scraping the chair back and leaving the restaurant. She stepped onto the road looking both ways, approaching the huddle of old men across the road.
“Excuse me. I think I just saw you talk to friend of mine.” Her hand at just over shoulder level indicated Tibby’s short stature. “Gray hair, a smart coat, and big, round eyes. Have you any idea where he went?”
A grizzled old man with a single white tooth mugged at her with an elastic face with the texture of a well-used paper bag. “That little fella with the stick? Kinda like a store-bought pixie?”
“That’s the one. Can you tell me which way he went?”
“He asked where the orphanage was,” responded his leather-faced friend. “We told him.”
“Oh,” Abigail hid her surprise. “Is it far? I can try to catch him.”
“It’s right outta town,” the first man replied, “about two miles that way.”
“Two miles?” She shrugged. “I think I’ll leave him to it and finish my shopping. Thank you, gentlemen.”
A crescendo of laughter greeted the title. “Gentlemen? Ain’t nobody ever called me one of them.”
“Really? I’ve found you very helpful. Good day to you.”
She clattered off along the wooden sidewalk toward the telegraph office. She not only had a long message to send, she also had to find out which station had the code BH. This visit would take time. Once she was finished there, she had to find out why Tiberius F. Dunbar was so interested in the local orphanage.
♦◊♦
She strolled away from the telegraph office musing on the information she had received. the ‘BH’ telegraph code related to the commercial telegraph office in the old Boston Advertiser building in Washington Street. It was at the heart of the bustling business area and although Scollay Square was a mere five miles away, it might as well be on a different planet from the wealthy, forward-thrusting, modern street ‘garden squares’; an exercise in town planning meant to emulate the best modern design ideas of places like Bath and London. The waterfront area was a poor and impenetrable rookery for crime and want. The divisions in the city were stark.
She glanced at her pocket watch. Almost five. Surely, Tibby would be on his way back by now? She headed out toward the orphanage to see if she could walk him back and have a conversation with him, so she pulled her wrap closer and headed out of town on the main street.
♦◊♦
She paused, backing off to the buildings at the edge of town, o
bserving the little man who stood at the white picket fence talking to the schoolteacher, his walking stick propped over his shoulder like a rifle at salute. The orphanage, and now, the school? He was very gregarious. It was possible he had just stopped to speak to a pretty girl and had no ulterior motives, but she had to check. She turned and walked back up Main Street, dipping into the next alley, where she could double around the back to circle around the back of the school.
It wasn’t long before she had concealed herself, waiting until Tibby gave the woman a cheery doff of his hat and strode back into town. Abigail allowed him a couple of minutes to get on his way before she joined the main highway and hailed the schoolteacher who was heading back into the schoolhouse.
“Excuse me? Can you help? Was that my friend, Mr. Dunbar? I’ve been looking for him.”
The schoolteacher nodded, her cornflower blue eyes still twinkling with amusement. “Why yes, it was. He’s very diverting, isn’t he?”
“Very,” Abigail agreed. “He’s wonderful company. What were you two talking about?”
“Oh, many things. He can talk on many subjects and make them so fascinating, but he was interested in whether I could help him with his research. I couldn’t, of course. It’s not my area, and I haven’t been here long. He had to look at the records. The new headmaster wanted him today. Can you imagine charging for public records? The school board weren’t pleased when I passed that on to them.”
“Research?” Abigail’s brows arched.
“Yes. About orphans in the area, old pupils, that kind of thing. I’ve spent time allowing him to go through the old records. He’s very thorough.”
Abigail glanced at the teacher’s hands, scarred and scored by the remains of deep scratches. “Oh, my. What happened to you?”
The teacher rolled her eyes. “The Adams and the Powell girls. Honestly. They’re like feuding hillbillies. They behave like wild animals. I’ve had to suspend Clara Powell. You should have seen them two weeks ago. Those girls are terrible. That new headmaster was no help, either. If anything he made things worse.”
“I’m glad they’re healing well. I had no idea your work was so hazardous.”
“Few people do, but out here in the frontier, some of children have been allowed to run wild for far too long. They take it ill when I try to instill some discipline.”
Abigail’s brown eyes fixed on the receding back of dapper little man heading back to the hotel. “Ah, yes. His work on orphans. Have a good evening. I must try to catch him before he gets too far ahead.”
Chapter Sixteen
The key turned in the lock and the door to their rooms swung open, unwedged and unhindered by any obstacles. Abigail walked over to the connecting doors and tapped. There was no reply, so she grasped the brass knob and turned it tentatively. The double doors swung open revealing a tidy, empty room; the beds were made and there was no sign of any bags.
She sucked in a breath, caught unawares by the sudden sense of dark emptiness engulfing her. She wandered over to the window, not sure why she went there. It wasn’t as though she would see them from the room. Nat Quinn and Jake Conroy would be long gone. Had she been a fool to think these criminals would have worked to find a murderer? Possibly, but at least she had discharged her debt to them for saving her life. She tried to help, it wasn’t her fault they rejected it. Irritation wormed through her disappointment. They had been so very close to a resolution, but it was still feasible she could still pull this off on her own? The hollowness, however, was about more than just the case.
The realization suddenly hit her that she’d been living again. Really living. Not just wading through the minutiae of existence as she’d been doing for the last few years. Visions of lost faces flashed across her mind’s eye along with survivor’s guilt and sense of loss. It seemed wrong to embrace any kind of satisfaction in the face of so much death, but she’d done it without even noticing. Life crept up on her and dragged her back in while she waded through nothingness. Was this recovery? Did the gnawing ache in her breast fade from black to shades of gray until it was light enough to reveal who she now was? Did she even know who she now was?
She swung around at a sound behind her. “Nat?”
He stood in the doorway in the same suit he wore at their first meeting, the crisp lines showcasing his broad shoulders and slim hips. The greasy stain was long gone. His cheeks dimpled at the confusion in her eyes. “Yes. Who were you expecting?”
“I—nobody.”
“Nobody? We’re sharing a suite.”
She walked over to the door and cast out a hand towards the room. “It’s empty. I thought you’d gone.”
“So? We tidied. We’re not animals.”
“Your bags are gone.”
He produced a key from his waistcoat pocket. “They’re in the wardrobe. Saddlebags don’t have locks. That wardrobe won’t stop a determined intruder, but it’ll slow the average snoop.” He paused and examined her, full of curiosity. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she shook herself out of the blues. “I got the impression you might leave. Jake was quite cold earlier. I think he’s had enough of this.”
His brow creased. “He’s fine. He’s in the lounge having a drink. We saw you pass by on your way back to the room. He wants Dora’s killer found as much as anyone. You’re imagining things.”
“Am I? I hope so. I think we’re getting close, now. I’ve got a few things more, but we can’t go through the new telegrams in the lounge.”
“Good, we thought we’d have an early dinner and turn in. We’re going to the Schmidt’s for that psychic reading tomorrow, and thought we’d start out just after dawn. We can look at them later.”
He proffered an arm with a twinkling smile. “May I escort you to dinner, Mother?”
Her smile reached into her eyes at last as she took his arm. “You may. Let’s go eat.”
They strolled across the landing, but he paused at the top of the stairs. “So? Did you miss me?”
“When?”
“When you thought I’d gone. Did you miss me? You seemed kinda sad.”
She dropped her head, looking through her lashes. “I was surprised, that’s all.”
He laughed. “Tell the truth. You missed me.” His scrutiny melded with a grimace. “Although I can’t tell you how uncomfortable it makes me having this conversation with you looking like a sixty-year-old.” He paused. “You missed me. I know you did.”
Her breath caught in her words, betraying the emotion she beat down. “I confess I’ve enjoyed working with people for change.”
He tilted his head. “Is that it? You can’t even look at me. For what it’s worth, I will miss you when this is over. A lot.”
She gulped back the butterflies spiraling in her stomach and steeled herself to return his gaze. “Yes. I’ll miss you, but right now, we’re missing dinner and Jake’s probably wondering where we are. Let’s go.”
She linked arms with ‘her son’ and they continued on down the stairs until they turned the corner and found Bob Davies blocking their way. The swish of skirts disappeared around the corner and bustled along the corridor to the back of the hotel.
“Just going to dinner?” asked Davies.
Abigail nodded. “Yes, will we see you and Mary there?”
“Not tonight,” he cast out a hand toward the corridor his wife had just vacated. “We were out earlier, and we’ve already eaten. She’s gone to use the necessary.”
“Is she quite well? She seems to be heading for the outhouse at quite a speed. Should I go to her?”
“She’s fine,” Davies replied. “Mary always walks like that. She isn’t one for wasting time, my wife.”
Nat stared hard at the man blocking their way on the staircase. “Do you mind?”
“Oh,” Davies’s nervous chuckle rolled in his chest. “Sorry. I said I’d wait for her here. I wasn’t thinking.” He stepped aside with a sweeping arm. “Enjoy your meal, and if we don’t see you before you leave t
omorrow, have a safe journey.”
“Thank you,” Abigail nodded as they strode past him. “And please tell Mary I was asking about her.”
♦◊♦
A shrill scream cut through the air, followed by thumps and bumps. Both Nat and Jake burst through the double doors into Abigail’s room, where she was already out of bed with an ear to the floor. “It’s the floor below us,” she hissed.
“It’s like someone’s being murdered,” muttered Jake. “Let’s get down there.”
“It sounds like a woman.” Abigail grimaced in frustration. “I need to make up. I’ll be there as fast as I can. You go.”
They clattered downstairs and were joined by Davies and Tibby, who stood nearby in an extravagant silk dressing gown.
“I think it’s the Richardses,” Tibby explained. “My room is next door, and I hear them arguing quite a lot.”
Furniture crashed from within the room as the night manager rushed forward with a set of master keys on a huge ring. They jingled in the lock as more staff arrived, pulling on jackets and sharing looks of concern with one another at the increased intensity of the screams. The manager’s futile ramming of key after key in the lock was infuriating. This went on for what seemed like an eternity against a back drop of screams, curses, and thumps.
“Get that door open or I’m shootin’ the lock off,” yelled Jake.
“I’m doin’ my best,” the manager tried another key, then yet another. “This is a big place.”
The sudden silence made the hairs on the back of everyone’s necks rise.
“Get out of my way,” Nat barked. He pushed the manager aside and stuck something in the lock, his shoulders rising in tension against the cacophony inside. One final click, and Nat pushed open the door, allowing the staff to rush in.
“A very interesting skill you have there. What did you say you did for a living?” Nat turned to the appraising stare of the little man in the vivid robe. “Not many people can do that,” said Tibby.
“I used to be a locksmith,” Nat replied. “It’s standard double action lever lock. Easy, if you know what you’re doing.” He turned and strode into the room.