Katie

by Michael McDowell

  The rope was thrown over the limb of the tree, then the free end secured to a stake the second trainman had pounded into a vast root of Old Ben. The noose was placed about Slape’s head. The knot of the rope was placed just beneath his left ear.

  “Where’s Bill?” John Slape cried in terror.

  “Who’s Bill?” demanded the conductor.

  “Bill told me what to do! Bill’s the one should be hanged. I—”

  “Did Bill tell you to wreck the track?” the conductor de­manded.

  John Slape nodded vigorously. “Yes, he said we’d—”

  “Gentlemen,” said the conductor, “you are witness to this man’s confession.”

  “No,” cried John Slape. “Get Bill.”

  “How will we know him?” demanded the farmer.

  “Black boots, red shirt. Hang Bill, not me, I—”

  “Who marred the tracks?” one of the trainmen shouted. “You or Bill?”

  John Slape paused, evidently trying to determine what answer would profit him most.

  “This man did,” cried the farmer.

  “Let me go,” said John Slape, “and I’ll find Bill. And Bill’s friends. Bill’s three friends. They told me what to do.”

  “They’ve left you, man,” said the conductor. “They’ve elected you to represent them on this limb here. But we’ll find them too.”

  “You won’t find them without me,” John Slape argued in the extremity of his position.

  “Rather let them off,” said the conductor, “than risk losing the hanging of the man who wrecked the train.”

  John Slape began to protest. “No, it’s Bill that—” But the conductor pulled the noose taut, and John Slape’s voice was choked off.

  The farmer had disappeared a few moments before, and he returned leading his horse. Philo had to slip behind another tree to avoid being seen by the farmer. The animal was led into the lighted circle and John Slape hoisted onto its back.

  John Slape’s continuing protests were rendered incoherent by the rope around his neck.

  “You are guilty, man, and you’re to be hanged,” said the con­ductor of the train, he being the senior of the employees there. He stepped into the center of the circle and slapped the hind­quarters of the animal. It did not move, and John Slape, in his nervousness, produced a strangled laugh.

  The farmer called out “Giyap!” and the horse took off. In its flight into the forest, it knocked over one of the lanterns and set fire to some dry brush on the ground. The farmer and one of the trainmen trod on the fire to put it out.

  John Slape had fallen with hardly an audible sound. His heavy body brought the rope to a strong tension. He began spinning at the end of it.

  He gurgled. There was a small tear in the flesh of his throat – no more than a black line in the lantern glare. The tear began to extend. Suddenly blood, forced out by arterial movement, spouted fountainlike two feet out from his body. The body still turning with the rope, the blood formed a gleaming circle on the ground beneath the tree limb.

  The body twitched. Momentarily, the blood’s flow lessened. It poured down beneath Slape’s shirt, soaking it, and then his trou­sers too. Then it began to drip from his boots onto the ground directly beneath him. The blood became a circle with a large dot at its center. It continued to flow for about two minutes. The muscular spasms of the dead man were irregular and slight – but enough to splash his impromptu jury with his gore.

  Five minutes later the rope was loosened, and the corpse of John Slape was lowered to the ground. He was buried on the spot marked by his own blood.

  Philo still watched from behind the tree, and when the men had all gone away, she went forward to the place and thoughtfully rubbed her boot in the soil that still gleamed with John Slape’s blood.

  Hannah and Katie yet remained. She stood on the spot where John Slape was buried, and turned round and round, looking into the black forest for evidence of the Slape women.

  Chapter 48

  MR. BLAKEY HIRES PHILO

  Philo, with the case of Nedda Maitland’s jewels on her lap, rode in a wagon to Highland, where Henry had been laid senseless on the floor of the schoolroom that had been turned into a temporary hospital. She sat beside his pallet for the remainder of the night, holding his hand, too weary even to weep, but was not vouchsafed a single articulate word from his lips. The doctor would not give her firm hope that he would live.

  In the morning, she telegraphed the Varleys that Nedda Maitland was dead and that Henry lay dangerously ill. Jacob and Caroline Varley arrived the following afternoon and pushed Philo out of the way.

  “We blame you for this,” said Caroline Varley with more savagery than logic. “Why were you not injured?”

  Philo stood steadfastly before the lady. “Mrs. Maitland was killed in the falling of a timber. Henry was knocked in the head by a thief who was attempting to steal Mrs. Maitland’s jewels.”

  “Where are my sister’s jewels?” Caroline Varley demanded, with gleaming eyes.

  “I have them,” said Philo.

  “Give them over,” said Jacob Varley. “By rights they belong to me as her brother.”

  “I think they belong to Henry,” said Philo, who knew that Nedda Maitland’s will left the bulk of her property to her son and only legacies to her brother and his family.

  “Henry will not live,” said Jacob. “And if he does, I think he will be in no condition to worry with such. Philo, give the jewels to Mrs. Varley.”

  On the whole, Philo thought it best to go along with this. She was Henry’s affianced wife, it was true, but the Varleys knew nothing of this and would disbelieve her – or affect to disbelieve her – if she told them so. In any event, she had no claim upon the jewels. She wondered whether she ought not hold back the diamonds, which were, after all, a free gift from Nedda, but then reflected that the gift was contingent upon the wedding. And having watched by Henry’s side, she realized that Jacob Varley’s cold prediction was very likely to come true, that Henry would die from the blow administered by John Slape. She must then, in all conscience, return the diamonds.

  Philo took the case from beneath the chair where she had sat for two days watching over Henry. She opened it, and took from it the coral he had given her.

  “Thief!” cried Caroline Varley in astonishment, drawing the attention of the entire improvised hospital.

  Philo attached the chain to her neck and the rings to her ears. “Henry brought me these from Brazil,” she said calmly. “They are mine.”

  “Give them back!” said Jacob Varley. “You are lying, Philo.”

  Philo looked down at her dress. It was ripped in several places, and she had had only partial success in scraping from it the mud that had dried there. All her other clothing had been lost in the destruction of the baggage car. The shining coral jewelry seemed ludicrously extravagant against the dun outfit that alone re­mained to her. Yet if there were to be no more to remind her of her proposal of marriage, then she had no intention of giving them over.

  “You may ask Mrs. Maitland’s maids, if you want corroboration of my claim to these jewels,” said Philo. The three maids had had places in the rear coaches of the wrecked train and were shaken but uninjured. Philo had sent them back to their families in New York.

  “The law will restore our property to us,” said Caroline Varley pompously, and turned her back on Philo.

  “You may return to New York,” said Jacob Varley. “You are no longer wanted here.”

  “But Henry—”

  “Mr. Maitland will be well provided for,” said Caroline Varley with finality. “We will take him to New Egypt. Jewel and I will be his constant nurses. Good day, Miss Drax.”

  Philo’s impulse was to fight the Varleys and demand to remain with Henry; but her only claim upon him was their engagement – and the only witness to that engagement, Nedda Maitland, lay on ice in the baggage room of the station, waiting for her brother to signify where her corpse should be sent. The Varleys were H
enry’s only relatives, and to them belonged the privilege and the pleasure of watching over his inert form. When and if he recovered there would be time enough to reassert her claim; but Philo, looking at him, pale and still, on a pad on the bare wooden floor, had little hope that she would ever see him again outside of a coffin. She turned, in the greatest despair she had ever known, and walked out of the schoolroom.

  The air tasted of autumn. The maples had begun to show yellow on their crowns, and Philo felt that the Saratoga summer was already years behind her.

  She returned to New York on the next train, wondering all the way where she should go when she arrived. Once more, through the agency of the Slapes, she had lost everything that was hopeful and everyone who was dear. But this time at least, she had had the satisfaction of seeing one of them die for it. She remained not a whit sorry for John Slape, and, though the memory of it was terrible, she was glad to have been witness to his hanging. She wondered at her new hardness of heart.

  It was necessary that she return first to Twenty-sixth Street to gather what little clothing and belongings she had not taken with her to Saratoga. She half expected to find the house boarded up, but the same servant in his accustomed livery opened the door to her, and all three maids were at their posts. All their ex­pressions were somber though, for they had loved Nedda Mait­land. Upstairs Philo washed and changed her dress – for the first time in four days. The maid who was helping her then informed her that Mrs. Maitland’s lawyer was in the parlor and wished to speak with her.

  This lawyer’s name was Mr. Blakey, and Philo had always liked him. After the usual exchange of condolences and inquiries into Henry’s condition, Mr. Blakey said,

  “Now, Miss Drax, if I might ask a delicate question. . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “What do you intend to do now?”

  “I have no idea in the world, Mr. Blakey.”

  “Have you money?”

  “None.”

  “Have you prospects?”

  “None.”

  “I thought as much. Then we must see what can be done for you.”

  Philo breathed relief but wondered at the generosity of this relative stranger.

  “I would ask you, Miss Drax, to remain here at the house for a time. As a kind of overseer to the servants and to assist me in gathering Mrs. Maitland’s papers. Her estate was a large one, as I’m sure you’re aware, and I would like, when Henry recovers – for I am certain that he will – for everything to be in order.”

  “I can’t help but feel, Mr. Blakey, that this is being done as a favor to me.”

  “Not a particle. I need your assistance, Miss Drax, every bit as much as you need mine. Your salary—”

  Philo waved her hand, as if recompense did not signify. “ – will be augmented by one-half, to compensate for the increased re­spon­sibility of your position.”

  “Mr. Blakey, I should be honest with you—”

  “Do.”

  “The Varleys will not be pleased to hear that I have remained in this house. The Varleys do not take kindly to me.”

  For the first time, Mr. Blakey smiled. “I am executor of this estate, Miss Drax, and I hire whom I please for the administration of it.”

  Philo nodded in acquiescence. She would struggle no more against an appointment that was entirely to her liking.

  Thus after Nedda Maitland’s funeral Philo remained on Twenty-sixth Street, and when the Varleys heard of it in New Egypt, they were angry. Jacob Varley fired off a letter to Mr. Blakey, and Mr. Blakey replied calmly and by return post that Miss Drax was in every way suited to the responsibilities with which she had been entrusted. Caroline Varley was certain that the house would be ransacked for valuables, and everything that was portable and worth more than fifty cents would be changed into gold to line that young woman’s pockets. Jewel shrugged and said she didn’t care what happened to that poky old house – but Jewel could afford to say this, because Henry Maitland lay in the chamber next hers. And when he recovered his senses and his health, Jewel intended that he should marry her, in the front parlor.

  Henry’s health improved more quickly than his senses, as the case proved. The scrapes and cuts he had received became no more than small white scars, the wound on his head no more than a livid red scar – but his consciousness returned scarcely at all. He lay in bed with his eyes wide open and staring but without emotion and without intelligence. His mouth opened for food, and his throat swallowed, but no more could be expected of him. And so he remained for seven weeks, from the tenth of Sep­­tem­ber, when he had been brought to New Egypt on the cars, until the first of November, when he spoke again for the first time and asked for Philo.

  Jewel placed her hand quickly over his mouth, and whispered, “Hush! Hush! Dear Cousin Henry. Philo has stolen all your mother’s jewels and taken a packet for California!”

  One morning in October, when Philo had been living on Twenty-sixth Street alone for nearly six weeks, wondering all the while what Henry’s condition might be, she found that one of the letters in the morning post had been directed to her, for­warded from Mrs. Classon’s.

  The script on the envelope she recognized as Mr. Killip’s, and she opened the letter eagerly. It read:

  Oct. 21, 1871

  Dear Miss Philo,

  A hurried note. A man from Goshen visiting his married son in Boston swears to me that he ran across Hannah Slape on the street there. He went up to her and called her by her name, but she refused to acknowledge him. He is certain however to the identity. He has no idea where she lodges or how she occupies herself or whether her husband and stepdaughter are with her. I have not notified any authorities, for there are no charges outstanding against the Slapes in New Jersey. I have done what I could to remove you from the lists of criminals to be apprehended upon sight and have some hope that, in time, you will be cleared of all suspicion. I cannot advise you to go to Boston after the Slapes, for they are a dangerous family; but on the other hand I would not heavily dissuade you from such a course. I was pleased to hear of your altered fortune, and I trust it continues. Please let me hear from you, with news, if any, about the Slapes.

  Sincerely yours,

  Dan’l Killip

  Philo sank into a chair. John was dead, and now she had found out Hannah’s hiding place. Doubtlessly, Katie was with her.

  Philo’s first intent was to notify the police authorities, who wanted the Slapes for the murders of the young women found in the Christopher Street cellar, but Philo realized that she had no more information to provide than that a man she didn’t even know thought he had seen Hannah on the street in Boston. She surmised too, from past experience, that the police would ignore her information or only desultorily pass it on to Boston. And how would the Boston force go about trying to locate a woman who was very likely going under a false name?

  Philo remembered that Mr. Blakey’s firm did considerable busi­ness in Boston. That very morning she visited his office and there found several recent newspapers from that city. Philo, not con­fiding in Mr. Blakey’s clerk her motive, went carefully through the advertisements of clairvoyants and mediums. In the second paper she examined, Philo found the following:

  MISS PARROCK – Clairvoyant, from Philadelphia; tells name of future husband and wife, number and sex of children; also medical or business clairvoyant. 102A Myrtle Street.

  Philo thanked Mr. Blakey’s clerk and scribbled a note for the lawyer saying that she would be away for a couple of days, looking up old acquaintances in Boston.

  PART X

  BOSTON

  Chapter 49

  THE ABANDONED FATHER

  When John Slape had left New York on the morning that his daughter murdered Ella LaFavour, he reluctantly followed the advice of his wife and daughter and went to Philadelphia. It had been several years since John Slape had been on his own, and he did not relish returning to that obscure, knockabout time.

  For John Slape life was seen at a distance, through a fog,
in indistinct colors. He was able to understand hammers, and cellar graves, and pantomime clowns who appeared suddenly out of star traps in a puff of green smoke; but to ask the man to follow the laws of the State of New York regarding criminal culpability, or to understand the meaning of the words “accessory” and “conspirator” in a judicial proceeding, or to follow in its minor machinations the plot of True to her Trust was to expect too much.

  Hannah had written out the name of the hotel where he was to stay on a scrap of paper, and by showing this to strangers he got directed there. He secured a room; he sat in the room and stared out at the traffic in the street below. He missed Christo­pher Street; he thought with fondness of No. 253, with its cellar graves. In his mind, he retraced the path from Katie’s parlor up to the top of the house, through the hole in the wall, and down five flights of stairs again, through that dim, empty building. He remembered those inert burdens on his shoulders and the blood that sometimes trickled down his neck.

  He attended the theater every night – but Hannah wasn’t there to explain to him what was happening on the stage, so he didn’t enjoy himself as much as he had in New York. He ate his meals in an eating saloon near his hotel, always sitting near the window so that he could watch the traffic from a different angle. Hannah and Katie weren’t there to tell him not to drink, so he drank – mostly in the back room of the same saloon, behind the green-baize curtain where the billiard tables were. He didn’t play him­self, but he began to bet upon the outcomes of certain games, and within two weeks he had lost all his money.

  It took several hours for the meaning of this to register on him with any force. He knew that Hannah had plenty of cash and would not hesitate to send him more, but then he realized that Hannah did not know that he lacked for funds. And he could not tell her, because he did not know where she was. He thought of send­ing a telegram to Hannah Slape – Boston, but remembered that she and Katie had declared their intention of assuming false names. He asked at the hotel desk if perhaps any money had arrived for him in the last few days and was disappointed to find that none had.