“You think Nelson and Jason scheduled a rendezvous?”
I shrugged. “It’s worth checking out.”
Hennemann seemed elated to have something to do. He rushed from the room. “I’ll start up the carriage boil.”
Knowing that it’d take him a few minutes, I continued rifling through the trash on the desk. Of all the unanswered questions about the case, the biggest mystery was why Nelson had risked going to the New Year’s party instead of simply leaving Addleton Heights.
According to his note to the commissioner, he knew he was being watched. So why go up there, and why go into the study? What was in there? I was certain Fitzpatrick had tailed him into the room. Had he caught him in the middle of doing something?
I tried to imagine the scene: Nelson being found out and then catching the man unaware, sending a bullet into his neck before Fitzpatrick returned fire. But what had his keeper seen Nelson doing? What in there had been worth the risk of going back?
I unfolded a crumpled sheet of paper. It was a note written in Nelson’s hand. There was an air of frenzy to it, uncharacteristic for a man who seemed to live so precisely. Many of the letters had been sloppily retraced. The phrase “BEFORE FOUNDER’S DAY” had been circled several times. The most intriguing lines on the page were “COMMISSIONER???” directly above the words “SIX MONTH LEDGERS!!!”
I studied the note, knowing that I was peering into the thought process of the man. Nelson had drawn a small, bold box around “SIX MONTH LEDGERS!!!” as if it were the sum of an equation at the bottom of the page.
Turning the sheet over, I recognized the handwritten words on the page and bolted from the desk to close the bedroom door. Removing the note hidden in my hat, I compared the two. Other than some minor adjustments to word choice, the content of the wadded page was the same as the note Nelson had placed in the August ledger book for Davenport to find. I slid the pile of trash on the desk over to make room for the letters to lie side by side.
I determined that the sloppier version had been Nelson’s practice sheet. Comparing both versions revealed that the only phrases that were identical were the lines, “. . . much is at stake for the people of the city (above and beneath). Please give special attention to pages 1 & 2 of these six reports to understand my meaning.”
The squeak of a floorboard alerted me to Hennemann’s return even before he opened the door. I quickly threw the items on the desk into the waste bin. As he entered, I acted bored.
“Why’d you close the door?” he asked.
“I didn’t. You closed it on your way out.”
Hennemann studied me for a second. “Find anything else?”
I stood and stretched, adding a fake yawn of disinterest while my heart pounded at nearly being found out. “Nothing,” I said. “Here’s this.” I offered him the church service bulletin.
Hennemann scribbled the address in his pocket notebook and tossed the flier to the floor. “The steam carriage is almost ready. Let’s go.”
I grabbed my hat and shot a glance at the waste bin beside the desk. What other clues was I abandoning there for the sake of keeping Hennemann outside of the investigation? I concealed my disappointment as I exited the room.
This was a lousy way to do detective work.
Twelve
As we approached Low Bromick, the night sky transformed to deep violet that dissolved into brilliant hues of pinkish orange.
As beautiful as the sunrise was, the area’s most pronounced attribute was its odor. Even through the glass of the cab, it smelled as if the inhabitants scrubbed everything down with fish oil. This, of course, attracted flocks of seabirds, and they were everywhere.
We’d ridden in silence most of the way, but with the birth of a new day on the horizon, I decided to see if Hennemann was more willing to answer questions. If nothing else, maybe talking would distract me from the smell. “I want to ask you something.”
“Yeah, what?” he replied, eyes focused on the snow-covered roads through the carriage window.
“Mr. Montague seemed offended when I asked before, but this may be important. Is there the possibility that Jason may be the heir to the Montague fortune? I mean like an illegitimate brother, but still a son of Fredrick who would be in line to inherit.”
I explained with trepidation, “Maybe Nelson warned of a long-lost sibling who threatened to take Alton’s place, or maybe it’s blackmail. He’s getting up in age, and someone could claim they were his son from a—”
“Bite your tongue, sir,” Hennemann said.
“Calm down. All I’m asking is if there are any siblings, maybe not even on Addleton Heights, maybe on the mainland in the Northern Union or somewhere.”
Hennemann looked back at the road. “He had a sister, but she died of consumption at an early age when they were children. He mentioned it to me once when he told me about his wife. They both died from it—different times, of course. He only spoke of his wife once to me. They’d been married when he was twenty-three. She died eight months later.”
“That’s a pretty personal thing for him to share. Are you both on such familiar terms?”
“He spoke of it to help me through a rough time.”
There was a pause. Hennemann seemed to contemplate whether or not to continue.
Finally, he said, “Years ago, when I lost my arm . . .” He held up the clockwork replacement and lowered it again. “He gave me a second chance. I was Charon until one of those parasitic scrapes attacked me.”
He paused, and when he continued, it was if he were lost in a faraway memory. “The sodding bounder had scaled halfway up a portal shaft under the Wallington sector. Stupid sot didn’t try to hide or anything. When I came around on my air skiff, he just lunged at me—pushed off the stilt like a rabid animal. That coop drove a makeshift blade into my elbow. It was like he wanted to die or something, so I obliged the senseless worm and pushed him over ‘till his head went splat far below.”
He paused again, and I didn’t dare interrupt to prod him.
After a few seconds, he continued flatly, as if the story he told had happened to someone else. “Arm became gangrenous. Doctor said it had to go or I’d lose my life. But I didn’t care, figuring my life was over anyway. A Charon with only one arm is useless—can’t fly the skiff and hold a coil rod at the same time. Somehow, word got back to Mr. Montague. He gave me a new, stronger arm and later appointed me head of his personal security.”
He turned to me in the confined cab. “That was over fifteen years ago. That shows you what kind of people the Montague family are . . . those who are able to build something out of nothing. Mr. Montague taught me to embrace change, and I’m the better for it.”
I was too curious not to ask. “What do you know of the scrapes and their community?”
He returned to speaking in the boisterous voice I expected from him. “Community? There’s no community. They’re savages. They’re the complete opposite of us. If they pack together at all, it’s like flies hovering over mule shit. Get rid of them all, I say.”
“Well, except we’re dependent upon them to keep the coal shoveling.”
It made me a little nervous when he slowed the steam carriage to a stop to face me again. I was stunned to see him lift the Charon scope above his left eye to study me. “What if I told you, Mr. Kipsey, that there was a way to be done with all of them?”
The idea was impossible. He may as well have said that he owned the moon and was offering to sell me a crater of it. I waited for him to laugh, but he wasn’t joking.
The dissonant clang of an improvised church bell startled me. It must’ve scared the group of ospreys perched atop it too, as they flapped away to a more desirable spot.
“We’re here,” Hennemann said, purposely making me uncomfortable as he reached over to grab my side handle. As the brisk, oily-smelling air blew in through the open door, he added, “You’ll see that I’m right, Mr. Kipsey.”
He motioned to me to get out.
“What?
You’re not coming?”
“Nah, me and the Almighty aren’t on the best of terms these days. I wouldn’t want Him coming into my house and don’t expect He’d want me trespassing in His.”
“So what are you saying? You’re just going to stay here in the carriage?”
“You said you were the detective and all. Go detect. Anyway, didn’t you tell Mr. Montague that you preferred to work alone?”
Thoughts of exiting through the back of the church to freedom flashed into my mind until he informed me, “I’ll walk the block to make sure he doesn’t slip out any side doors or anything.”
“How will you know what he looks like?”
“I’ll simply watch for anyone milling about like they’re waiting for someone.”
I’d contemplated doing the same thing at the airship depot. Maybe Hennemann possessed a measure of detective skill after all.
I adjusted my hat. “Just to set the expectation in advance, Jason might not be here at all, but maybe we can get a clue as to who he is or where he’s gone.”
Hennemann breathed an exasperated sigh as he shook his head. “So far, all I’ve seen you do is dig through a dead man’s suitcase and waste bin. You wouldn’t want me reporting back to Mr. Montague that you’re all mouth and no trousers, would you? Is that the real reason you got kicked off the police force, ‘cause you can’t do the job if it’s anything more than taking photographs at Miss Perdue’s?”
I slammed the door as I got out, half hoping the force of it would shatter the fogged-up glass. As I marched in the direction of the church, I heard his carriage door close. When I turned, I half expected him to be aiming his Colt pistol at me again. Instead, he was prying the shovel off the back of the vehicle. He was going to shovel the snow this time. For that, my sore ribs were appreciative.
I resumed my pace as members of the congregation began to spill out of the entrance.
Calling the structure a “church” was generous. The long, squat, one-story building with a slate roof had obviously served another purpose before it was converted.
Maybe that was the point. If parishioners could ignore the soot and grime that marred the outer stone walls, God in heaven could find a way to do the same for their lives. Though I hadn’t sat in a pew since my mother’s funeral, I knew the message.
At least the building had a steeple—though not a real steeple like the churches in the well-to-do sectors like Wallington or West Huewson. This one looked like it was constructed from two large chimneys bent into a cross and mounted to the flat roof. Whether intended or not, it kept with the conversion theme.
A trio of teenage boys ran past me, hurling misshapen snowballs at one another, laughing, happy to be outside in the fresh air. They were followed by a procession of chattering families and couples. Men of various ages, dress, and status readied family horse carriages, while those without their own transportation escorted their ensembles toward a small bassel depot.
Many greeted me with a nod and smile, which I returned with a tip of my hat. “Happy New Year to you, sir,” and “May God bless Addleton Heights in 1901,” rang out like a song performed in round with handshakes and curtsies to match.
As I stomped the snow from my boots on the stoop of the church, I scanned for any lone figure—man or woman—who could be Jason. No one struck me as being out of place. Inside the vestibule, an older, dark-skinned man in liturgical robes laughed politely and shook hands as he wished them well.
One of his congregation, an elderly woman, referred to the man as “Father J.” That got my attention. I removed my hat and stepped forward.
Father J.’s hand was uncommonly warm as he took mine to shake. With a smile that must’ve showcased every one of his many teeth, the older man said, “Welcome, my son. I’m pleased you’ve come this morning.” Before I knew it, he was reaching to touch my cheek with his free hand. “Does it hurt?” Concern erased his smile as the lines on his face doubled.
The question caught me off guard. With everything that had happened over the last few hours, my fight with the Densmore brothers had become a distant memory. I pulled away from his handshake and rubbed the swollen spot.
“Oh, that? I’m all right. Just some New Year’s Eve celebrating that got a little out of hand.” I shifted my stance while clearing my throat. “They call you Father J.?”
“Yes, it’s a term of endearment that I encourage.”
“What does the ‘J’ stand for? Jason, perhaps?”
He raised his eyebrows and looked at me for a second. “You weren’t in the service, were you?”
“Listen, Parson, if you are him—Jason, that is—we need to talk. There’s this huge guy across the street who has some very unpleasant plans for you.”
“I see.” He nodded, but I got the impression it was simply to appease me. “Let me finish here.” He gestured to a few of the stragglers still making their way out. “Then we can have a chat before the second service.”
A moment later, the last church member had departed, and the final “peace be with you” had been uttered. After waving goodbye to them from the front door, he turned to me. A single playful clap of his hands echoed through the vestibule.
“Happy New Year, my son. It’s a great way to start the year off right, in the house of the Lord.” He moved quickly to me and slung an arm over my shoulder. “Give me a few minutes and I can offer you the sacraments.”
He escorted me through the double doors into the sanctuary, which was illuminated with the flickering light of probably a hundred candles. “Or are you here for confession?”
“Thank you, Father, but I’m actually here on official business.” I took my hat off again as he navigated us down the aisle of wooden pews to the front. “I’m T. H. Kipsey, an investigator.”
“Hmmm . . . I see. And on whose official business might that be?”
“I’m not at liberty to divulge that. It’s a private client.”
We sat in the second row of pews. I couldn’t wait any longer. Despite what Hennemann had said about not coming in, he could become impatient and do it anyway. “What does the ‘J’ in your name stand for?”
His dark almond eyes stared at me. “What type of investigation are you working on, Mr. Kipsey?”
“Call me Kip, and it’s a missing persons case.”
“All right . . . Kip. My full name is Jacob Carlisle Potts III.”
“Why do they call you Father J. instead of Father Jacob? After all, Jacob is a good biblical name, isn’t it?”
A small creak sounded as he leaned back against the wooden arm of the pew. “No reason, I guess, but I kind of prefer it. Just because a name is in the Good Book doesn’t mean it’s a good name. Jacob means ‘supplanter’ or ‘overthrower.’ It’s when his name changed to Israel that Jacob the former did great things.”
I groaned, disgusted with the waste of time.
“Kip, we must embrace the changes in our lives to grow.”
“Look, I appreciate the beatitude or whatever, but I’m really in a hurry. If you’re not Jason O., do you know of anyone who comes here who is?”
“What does the ‘O’ stand for?”
“Don’t know yet.” I reached into my pocket and produced the photograph of Nelson standing next to the woman. “I believe Jason may have had dealings with the man or woman here.”
I studied his face. There was the faintest glint of recognition.
“You know them?” I allowed him to take the picture from me. “Did you marry them or something?”
“Beautiful girl, but no, I’ve never seen her.” He angled the picture to get a better view.
“But you know the man?”
He nodded slowly. “Well, I’ve met him—recently, in fact, but I can’t say I know him.”
“How recently?”
He handed the photograph back as the smile left his face. “Two days ago. He came here a little after lunchtime. I think it was a first for him . . . I see a lot of people, but he stood out.”
I
put the picture back into my vest pocket. “Really? What made him stand out to you?”
His eyes shifted as he searched for words. “He tried . . . He wanted to tip me after confessional.”
“He confessed?” The words leapt from my lips. Maybe coming here wasn’t a bust after all. “What did he say? Did he mention problems with Jason . . . Was there anything about Jason?” I noted two narrow wooden confession booths against the far wall.
His body tensed, and his tone turned blunt and pious. “Mr. Kipsey, I’m expressly forbidden to speak of a person’s confession.” With arms crossed, he added, “It’s a holy time between God and man.”
A few seconds of awkward silence hung between us as I contemplated my next move. “Look, I understand and respect your vows, but I really need your help here. He wrote . . . wrote me a note that said to look at Jason. Something about Jason was really important to Mr. Nelson.”
“That’s his name, Nelson?”
“Yes, his name is Jim Nelson. Is there anything you can tell me about his visit? You know, anything you can say without betraying the sanctity of all . . . you know.” I waved my finger in the direction of a long draped table near the altar and cross up front. Candlelight flickered like the rhythmic pulse of a heartbeat. I tried not to appear impatient, but this interview felt like pushing molasses uphill.
He massaged his temples and spoke slowly and deliberately. “I can relay my own personal observations, but not anything that was said. That wouldn’t be proper.”
“Anything at all would be helpful,” I said encouragingly.
The minister collected his words. “Well, he seemed to be very distressed about the coming century.” He looked at me with a new intensity. “It was more than just the normal anxiety that people sometimes face . . . very troubled.” He gently rubbed his chin. “I will tell you that he didn’t go into any detail about what made him so apprehensive. He was very guarded, suspicious even of me at first. Shame . . . he seemed to carry a lot of shame about something.”
His eyes glazed over for a second before coming back to me. “Mr. Kipsey . . . Kip, if you should see him, please send him back my way.”
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