The Lost Mine Murders

by Sharon Rowse

  Emily was relieved to see Mr. O’Hearn rounding the corner. In this mood, Clara was likely to refuse to go another step, but she’d never do so in front of O’Hearn.

  “Good morning, ladies,” he said as he drew closer. “Are you ready to brave the wilds of New Westminster to pay a call on Mrs. Raynor?”

  Nearly two hours later the trio stood on the plank walk outside a large biscuit-colored house with elaborate gingerbread in shades of garnet and cream. “I’m sorry to have dragged you on a wild-goose chase, Mr. O’Hearn,” Emily said.

  “Think nothing of it. It’s part of being a reporter, tracking down sources. You’d be surprised how many of them are dead ends.”

  “Well, I find it odd that this Mary would have left so suddenly, and without leaving a forwarding address,” Clara said.

  Emily suppressed a smile. For all her protestations, Clara was enjoying this nearly as much as she was herself. “I’ve heard Mama complain about the utter unreliability of female domestics. It’s one of the reasons she is so pleased with Bertie.”

  “I suppose so. But after working nearly five years for Mrs. Raynor, she suddenly gives notice six weeks ago? You must admit that is suspicious.”

  “Not at all,” Tim O’Hearn broke in. “She may have taken another position, or gone to nurse relatives, or…”

  “Or she may not have wanted someone to find her. Someone like Mr. Morgan, perhaps?” Emily said.

  Clara looked disgusted, but Tim’s expression grew intent, and he drew out his notepad. “Tell me more about the link between Mary Pearson and the photographer,” he said.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Thursday, January 18, 1900

  Emily sat behind the heavy black typewriting machine, hands in her lap, listening to yet another lecture. All around her, the other students were typing industriously, almost drowning out the sound of commerce on the street one floor below the Pittman School.

  Apparently she had been wrong when she told Clara that Miss Richards wouldn’t question her.

  “There is already reluctance to hire women typewriters,” Miss Richards said in a forceful undertone. “You are one of the pioneers. If you don’t set a good example, you are hurting not only your own career but those of the women who would follow after you. Pioneers can’t afford the luxury of feeling unwell each month.”

  Emily cast down her eyes so Miss Richards could not see the expression in them.

  She’d begun to question her plan of becoming an assistant in someone’s office. The idea of spending her days following a rigid routine, recording and transcribing someone else’s thoughts, was stifling. And it might not be her only way to be part of the business world after all.

  Perhaps she could become a reporter like Mr. O’Hearn. It was true there were very few women reporters, but Mrs. McLagan was a reporter as well as being the manager of the Daily World. There was no reason she couldn’t be a reporter too.

  Her father would argue the point, of course. He was already worried by her desire to engage in trade. In his eyes, the business world was no place for a lady. But given Papa’s restricted definition of a lady, Emily had long been sure that was the last thing she wanted to be.

  In fact, it was probably a good thing her engagement to Granville wasn’t real. His wife, when he eventually chose her, needed to be every inch a lady, someone who’d never even consider taking typewriting lessons. So why did that thought make her hands clench?

  “You need to be committed,” Miss Richards finished.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll try to do better.”

  “I know you will,” Miss Richards said, patting her shoulder. “It isn’t easy, but I know you have the persistence to do well.”

  Her kindness made Emily feel guilty, and she gave the woman a weak smile. Her teacher walked on, leaving Emily to wrestle with the typing exercises she’d missed in the last few days.

  As her fingers flew, her mind was equally busy. Granville hadn’t settled for a career that stifled him. Why should she? She was enjoying the challenge of searching for Mary.

  Could that become an option for her? She’d love to work with Granville and Mr. Scott as a detective, or perhaps as a detective’s assistant, since she didn’t think she’d ever heard of a woman detective.

  Still, there was no real reason a detective had to be a man. All she had to do was convince Granville of that fact.

  It was a new century and it was time for things to change. Surely he would see that? After all, he was an English aristocrat working as a detective in the colonies; it wasn’t like he was a stickler for the old ways.

  Thinking about Granville brought back her worries as to how he was faring in Denver, and whether they’d found little Sarah. Would it be dangerous for him?

  “Oh, drat it,” she muttered as a clump of keys stuck together again.

  “Miss Turner?”

  Emily jumped. She’d been concentrating so hard she hadn’t heard Miss Richards come up behind her again. Now what had she done? “Yes?”

  “A message for you.”

  Emily opened it, scanned the few lines. O’Hearn had some information he thought she’d want to hear immediately. Had something happened to Granville?

  Emily stood up and shook out her skirts. “My mother is ill. I must go,” she said, the words out of her mouth before she’d even thought what to say.

  “Of course. I hope it isn’t serious,” Miss Richards was saying, standing aside to let her pass.

  Emily hoped so too.

  “You got me out of class to tell me you’ve tracked down Mr. Morgan’s mother?” Emily asked Tim O’Hearn in a fierce undertone. She was glad to see he looked even more uncomfortable than usual, sitting at the small table set for high tea.

  Much as she enjoyed the occasional visit to Stroh’s Tearoom, it was becoming far too frequent a haunt. She was getting tired of the attention it drew from some of her mother’s friends, who were fond of the place, and the little buzz of gossip that seemed to follow in her wake.

  Not to mention the questions she had to dodge from her mother, who was alert for any sign that she was not serious about what she called “Emily’s typewriting nonsense.”

  “I thought you’d want to know,” O’Hearn said.

  “You thought it would be good for your story, you mean.” She sipped her tea and gave him a social smile, just to keep the gossips quiet.

  He looked chagrined. “She’ll more readily talk to you. And it’s to help Granville, after all.

  “I don’t see how.”

  Clara, who had been watching them, felt the need to intervene. “Now Emily, you know you were looking for information on Mr. Morgan.”

  “Only as a route to Mary Pearson. We’ve learned all we can there.”

  “I don’t agree,” O’Hearn broke in. “I think it most significant that he was murdered after you began looking for her.”

  Emily went pale. “Do you think my questions are responsible for Mr. Morgan’s death?”

  Tim O’Hearn took a hasty sip of tea. “No, no. I’m not saying that at all. I’m simply emphasizing that these things may be related. In fact, I suspect that Morgan’s murderers are the same crew who’ve been after Granville.”

  Clara threw a quick glance at Emily’s drawn face, then leaned towards O’Hearn. “What makes you think so? And how would they be related?”

  “I did a little research into our Mr. Morgan. His father was quite a prominent photographer before his untimely death, worked with all the society ladies, doing portraits and such.”

  “Then why would he have taken the photo of Mary Pearson, who for the last five years was a maid for Mrs. Raynor? And how could she have afforded him?” asked Emily, intrigued despite her determination not to be drawn into his need for a story.

  “Exactly what I asked myself. Especially when I discovered that quite a number of photos of the Raynor clan are credited to Morgan, Sr.”

  “You think Mrs. Raynor paid for the portrait? But…” Emily began, her voice tailing off as
her mind darted from one conclusion to the next. “If she valued her that much, why would Mary have left so abruptly? And surely Mrs. Raynor must know where she went. So why didn’t she tell us?”

  “Mrs. Raynor might have been protecting Mary,” Clara said. “Think about it. If Mrs. Raynor paid for the portrait, wouldn’t it have been her address that Mr. Morgan had on file? Why would Mrs. Anders go to such lengths to give us the wrong information?”

  “If the two of you worked at the World, you’d beat me out of too many headlines,” O’Hearn.

  Emily gave him a speculative look. “Do you think your editor would consider…?”

  “Your father would never allow it,” Clara said.

  O’Hearn just shook his head.

  Emily wasn’t giving up that easily, not when Mr. O’Hearn had brought the subject up himself. But now was not the time.

  “Will you come with me to speak with Morgan’s mother?” O’Hearn was asking. “I think she may speak more readily to the two of you than she will to me.”

  “Of course we’ll come,” Clara said. “Won’t we, Emily?”

  Emily stood beside Clara on the scrubbed stoop of the careworn little house on Seventh Avenue, hoping there would be an answer to O’Hearn’s confident knock. Finally the door screeched open.

  The woman facing them had thin cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. She hid behind the half opened door, staring at them in horror when O’Hearn identified himself as a reporter for the World.

  Emily gave O’Hearn a look, then stepped forward so the woman could see her clearly. “Mrs. Morgan? I’m so sorry for your loss. I hate to bother you at such a time, but we haven’t much time. We’re looking for a woman your husband once photographed. Her life may be at risk, and your information could save it.”

  The door wavered open another inch.

  Emily stepped forward and held up the photo. “Do you recognize her?”

  “Perhaps.” Lines deepened around the woman’s eyes as she peered at the photo, then a shaky hand reached out.

  “May we come in?” Emily asked.

  “Better not.” The voice was soft but the tone was firm. “The photo?”

  With a mental shrug, Emily passed it to her. She hoped it would not be the last she’d see of it, but they needed information.

  “Mary Pearson.”

  “You recognize her?”

  “She worked for the Raynors in New Westminster for years. Mrs. Raynor herself requested this photo be taken. My husband couldn’t believe it.”

  “Why not?”

  “The girl was a thief.”

  “A thief?” It was O’Hearn’s voice, and out of the side of her eye Emily could see him scribbling frantically in his notebook.

  She was pleased to see Clara poke him in the side, and hoped he’d take the hint. What was needed here was back stoop gossip, not a reporter’s interrogation.

  “Oh?”

  “The Raynors wouldn’t ever believe it of her, of course, felt sorry for her, with her ma dead and her pa off chasing Klondike gold. But there was no getting around that things kept vanishing from that house.”

  Emily wasn’t quite sure which tidbit of information to ask about first, but she knew she had to play this just right, or the door would close in their face. “Things went missing?”

  “Bits of silver, trinkets, a gold thimble.”

  “Who did they suspect?”

  “Everyone for a time. Eventually, they settled on my husband. Ruined his business. He died from the shame of it. And now it’s killed my son.” Her voice was bitter and her eyes burned in her sallow face.

  Beside her, Emily sensed O’Hearn stir, but he subsided without saying anything. “I am truly sorry for your loss, and for disturbing you at such a time, but can you tell me anything of what happened to the girl?”

  “She stayed on, never a whisper against her. I had to leave town and the little liar stayed on.”

  “She’s not there any longer,” O’Hearn said.

  “Do you know where she went?” Emily asked quickly. “I know you don’t live there any longer, but I hoped you might have heard.”

  “Course I heard. She left with her uncle, didn’t she? Him as came back with stories of gold and making her rich.”

  “And her uncle? Is his name Pearson too?” O’Hearn asked. It earned him a glare.

  “How would I know?” Mrs. Morgan said, and slammed the door.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Friday, January 19, 1900

  Granville stepped stiffly off the train in Denver, tired and gritty. Scott and Trent didn’t look much better, thought Scott’s color had improved. All three of them had spent the journey alert for any sign of attack, sleeping half-dressed, revolvers at the ready.

  He’d startled awake the first night when the train stopped dead.

  As he lay listening, one hand on his gun, there was a great banging and clattering. The carriage shuddered several times, then they moved forward. And stopped again. Shoving his feet into his boots, he’d leapt from his berth—and crashed into Trent.

  When they’d sorted themselves out, they’d peered out the windows, to see the train, section by section, being loaded onto a ferry.

  “What the…” he’d muttered.

  A smothered chuckle had him glaring at Scott, who’d drawn back the curtains on his berth far enough to watch them. “You should see your faces,” his partner had said.

  “What is this?”

  “Track through to Portland’s on the other side of the Columbia. There’s no railroad bridge, so the train gets loaded onto the car ferry.”

  There was no obvious danger, and still no sign of a shooter, so he’d gone back to bed, shaking his head. No challenge the landscape threw at them seemed to daunt these North Americans. It was amazing.

  The rest of the trip had been incident free, but not more restful. By the third day, he’d have welcomed a chance to take on their pursuers, just to decrease the tension.

  Finally arriving at their destination was a relief, but they stepped off the train into organized chaos.

  Union Station was huge, with high ceilings, fluted pillars and marble floors. Crowded and noisy, it was the clearly the hub of the city, with people and trains flowing in all directions.

  Much as he craved a shower and a change of clothes, both he and Scott were impatient to find out what Harris knew about little Sarah. After taking a moment to get their bearings, and downing a beer to clear the grit from their throats, they turned their feet towards the police station.

  Inside the two-story brick building, they found the bustle common to police stations everywhere. Granville eyed a few rough types being hustled along a narrow hallway, and wondered what they’d been arrested for. It took a few minutes before the burly policeman behind the main desk so much as nodded at them, but eventually their presence was acknowledged.

  When they were shown into his cluttered office, Detective Mitchell Harris was on the phone. He glanced at them, held up a finger.

  “Uh huh. Got it,” he said, scribbling something on the page in front of him. “Thanks.”

  Hanging up, he braced his hands against the edge of his desk and leaned back in his chair, regarding them. “Glad to see you finally made it.”

  Granville came forward, hand outstretched. “It’s good to see you, Harris. I gather you have news for us?”

  Harris stood up, gripped Granville’s hand with his own.

  Nearly as tall as Scott, but lean and wiry, the detective had sandy hair and a direct gaze. “Good to see you both.”

  Harris’s eyes moved to Trent. “And who is this?”

  “Our assistant, Trent Davis. Trent, Detective Mitchell Harris.” Granville noted something odd in the boy’s expression as he made the introduction, and filed the information away for.

  “It isn’t solid news, I’m afraid, so much as a possible lead. I haven’t liked what I’ve been hearing about an increase in the number of baby farms.”

  “Baby farms? And what exactly is a bab
y farm?” Granville could barely restrain his revulsion at the term.

  “Not something you’re familiar with in England? Or Canada?”

  “No.”

  “They look after young children, for pay, when their parents can’t. Often it’s children of doxies or the like, who can’t care for the young’uns. And conditions can be pretty bad.”

  “I heard about them in Chicago,” Scott said. “The way some of them treated the little ones…” His face was hard and set. “So how do these baby farms connect to little Sarah?”

  “We’ve investigated some of these places on rumors that they’re selling babies and young children, mostly for servants, but we haven’t been able to prove anything.”

  “Why didn’t you mention these baby farms last time we were here?” Scott demanded.

  The detective shrugged. “Didn’t think it would be worth your time.”

  The look on Scott’s face had Granville stepping forward. “Go on.”

  “There’ve also been rumors for awhile now of a smuggling gang with some kind of mysterious trade, operating from here to California.”

  “And…?”

  “When we began hearing rumblings about illegal adoptions, I started putting some things together. If the baby farms are connected to some kind of adoption racket it explains the growth and why we can’t pin anything on them. And if the children are being taken out of state, it’d explain why they’re leaving so little trace.”

  The words he hadn’t spoken hung between them.

  “Surely something can be done to stop it?” Scott’s voice was tight with anger.

  “Most of the victims either aren’t missed or the parent is afraid to come to us about it.”

  “Unlike my niece.”

  Harris’ face was unreadable. “I said most.”

  Scott’s expression darkened and Granville was afraid he’d lash out, but the big man clamped his lips tight.