by BJ Hoff
After a moment he pushed the drawer shut and locked it. It would be foolhardy to deal with Burke himself, he acknowledged reluctantly. Far safer to leave the job to those he paid for risking their necks.
For a long time he sat tapping his fingers on the desk, thinking. Taking his pipe from its stand, he filled it, then lighted it. He wanted something special, something particularly nasty for Burke. He would send for Spicer Blaize. There was none better when it came to killing, and the man could be surprisingly inventive about his methods.
When a light knock sounded at his office door, Patrick frowned, annoyed. The door opened, and Glenn Stockton, his new assistant, stepped hesitantly inside.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Walsh, but there’s ah…someone here to see you.”
Patrick’s frown deepened. “I thought I had no appointments scheduled till three.”
The pinch-nosed Stockton nodded. “Yes…well, the thing is, she doesn’t have an appointment. But she insists—”
“She?” Patrick looked past the narrow-shouldered Stockton but saw no one behind him.
“Yes, sir. A young lady.” Stockton’s pale eyes took on a sly glint. “A most attractive lady.” His studying look was unusually bold, even conspiratorial.
Even more irritated, but curious as well, Patrick gestured curtly that Stockton should send the woman in.
With his pipe in his mouth, he leaned over to retrieve the newspaper from the floor. When he straightened, Ruth Marriott was standing across from his desk.
14
Bearers of Good and Bad Tidings
Let each person judge his own luck,
good or bad.
IRISH PROVERB
Quinn O’Shea made a halfhearted attempt to pick up some of the children’s toys off the front porch of Whittaker House. The sun was scorching down like a furnace blast, and she had just decided to go back inside, where the high ceilings and draped windows offered at least some respite from the heat, when she saw Sergeant Denny Price round the corner of Elizabeth Street.
Quinn hesitated. The policeman called out, and at the sound of his Donegal brogue tripping over her name, she waited. The realization that she was actually glad to see the man set off an alarm in her.
Deliberately she chilled her greeting, offering only one curt word. “Sergeant.”
He surprised her by not coming back with his usual impudent grin and cheerful salute. Curious, Quinn saw that he was wearing an uncommonly stern frown, and in one large hand clutched what appeared to be a book.
Taking the steps two at a time, he snapped out his only acknowledgment of her presence. “I need to see Mr. Whittaker right away. Is he in?”
His tone was abrupt, the words clipped. This, too, was a departure from the stream of Irish blarney she had come to expect from him.
“He is,” she replied, studying him as he slowed his approach only slightly. “He’s upstairs with the older boys, painting the hallway.”
With a nod he marched by her and went inside. Quinn turned to watch, pushing back a faint stab of disappointment at his brusqueness. What was it to her, after all, if the man had other things on his mind today besides making a nuisance of himself? At least he wouldn’t be trying to coax her out, for a change.
And didn’t she have other fish to fry as well? Daniel Kavanagh was taking a rare afternoon for himself, coming home early to help the others with the painting. First, though, he had offered to help her with her grammar lesson.
Quinn had finally managed to swallow her pride and ask the Kavanagh lad to teach her how to speak correctly. She was a good reader, with a firm understanding of most of what she read. But when it came to conversation, her efforts were often awkward, if not altogether faulty.
Ever since coming to work for the Whittakers, she had been taken by the fine manners and proper ways of the family—especially Mr. Whittaker and Daniel. Mrs. Whittaker still carried a great deal of the old sod about her, most noticeable in her West of Ireland speech. But both Daniel and his stepfather were gentlemen, and their gentility was reflected in the way they used the language.
Part of Quinn’s agenda on the way to becoming a lady—an American lady—was to learn to speak properly. But there was much she simply didn’t understand about how to say things in an acceptable way. And Daniel Kavanagh seemed more than willing to teach her.
Mr. Whittaker would have been the ideal tutor, of course, for clearly he possessed a fine education. But the man’s time was taken up from dawn to dark with his work; when he wasn’t tending to the boyos or seeing to his own family, he would toil at the hulking piano in the dayroom, writing his music. Certainly he had no time left over for anything else.
Once in a while Quinn would sit in on the children’s lessons, but for the most part their instruction was too basic to be of any real help to her.
Even before approaching Daniel Kavanagh with her request for help, she had known he wouldn’t refuse. The lad could not quite manage to conceal his infatuation with her.
Now and again Quinn felt a nagging guilt that she might be taking advantage, but she did her best to ignore it. She had learned that opportunity was not a frequent visitor, and it was wise not to be too slow about opening the door when it arrived.
“I need to speak with you alone, Mr. Whittaker, if you please.”
Evan noted the policeman’s glance at Billy Hogan, who, along with three other boys, was in the midst of applying a generous coat of white paint to the hallway walls.
“Of course, Sergeant. B-boys, go right on with your p-painting. I’ll be back directly.”
Evan gestured toward the dormitory room across the hall. “We can talk in there.”
As soon as Evan closed the door behind them, the sergeant came right to the point. “Sorley Dolan is out,” he said, his voice hard. “This morning. I thought you’d be wanting to know.”
Evan stared at him, trying to comprehend. “You can’t m-mean he’s free? Not so soon!”
“Scarcely anyone serves their full time these days,” the policeman said with a scowl. “The jails are jammed. There’s not enough room for even half the felons we run in, and that’s the truth.”
Evan nodded. The city’s overcrowded prison conditions had been the subject of frequent newspaper reports over the past year. Citizens were demanding reforms, while the politicians demanded bigger jails. The policemen, on the other hand, continued to urge the city to add more men to their number. It seemed that everyone had a solution, but meanwhile the problem continued to explode out of control.
“Most of the blighters are out the back door not long after we haul them through the front,” the sergeant went on. “Even the lowest sort of riffraff are back out on the street in no time. There’s simply no place for them. We need what cells we have for the murderers and madmen.”
“But the m-madmen shouldn’t be in ordinary jail cells at all,” Evan couldn’t resist pointing out. “They ought to be confined to hospitals or institutions, where they can get the kind of m-medical attention they need.”
“Perhaps. But when the city can’t find room for the hardened criminals, they’re not likely to put themselves out for the lunatics.”
The idea of murderers and madmen jolted Evan back to the purpose of the policeman’s call. “Dolan has no legal rights so far as B-Billy is concerned, does he?”
The sergeant shook his head. “None whatever. But legal rights aren’t going to be stopping a devil like Sorley Dolan. Especially if he’s in his cups—which no doubt he will be by dark.” He paused. “It might be well to keep an eye out for the lad just now, if you take my meaning.”
Worry for Billy settled upon Evan like a blight. What if Dolan were to come after the boy? He was just irrational enough to blame Billy for his own savagery, when all the boy had done was to tell the truth.
The policeman seemed to read his thoughts. “I’ll do what I can to keep track of Sorley, Mr. Whittaker. I’ll be about, sure. And if you should happen to need help, just send one of the littl
e lads running. Any of the men on the force will come.”
Evan knew Sergeant Price meant to reassure him, and he managed a weak smile. But the truth was, he didn’t feel in the least reassured.
“Ah—and I’m almost forgetting the other reason I came,” said the sergeant, handing Evan the most recent selection he had borrowed from the library. “I didn’t like this one as much as the Milton, I confess.”
Evan regarded the sergeant with interest. The big policeman had been borrowing books from the library for weeks now. Evan still found it astonishing that Sergeant Price’s interest seemed to lie almost entirely with poetry, especially classical poetry. His remarks upon returning each selection proved to be surprisingly incisive.
“What is it about Milton that fascinates you so, Sergeant—if you don’t mind my asking?”
The policeman considered Evan’s question only for a moment. “Why, in truth, Mr. Whittaker, I believe it’s the man’s earthiness.”
Evan’s interest was captured. “Earthiness? Milton?”
The sergeant nodded. “Aye. Though he was obviously a God-fearing man and eloquent entirely, he seems to have had a great deal of understanding about his own weaknesses. He’s even a bit coarse at times, it seems to me. A man with his feet in the clay of humanity, so to speak, while his soul soars in the heavens. He can write about sin or sainthood, the loveliness of Eden or the darkness of the devil’s domain itself. But no matter what he’s saying, his words do make music, don’t they?”
Evan stared at him. He thought he had never heard Milton described so succinctly as by this rough-hewn policeman with the enormous hands and gentle eyes.
“Please feel free to choose another book before you go, Sergeant, if you like,” he said.
“Why, thank you, sir, but I’m in a bit of a rush today. Perhaps I’ll stop by tomorrow, though, if you’re sure you don’t mind.”
Evan shook his head. “You needn’t feel you have to ask, Sergeant. You’re always welcome.”
As he watched the policeman descend the stairs, anxiety again swept over Evan. He opened his mouth to call Sergeant Price back, then changed his mind. The city’s law officers already had far more than they could handle. They couldn’t be expected to stand lookout for a drunken cad like Sorley Dolan.
Turning, he stood watching the boys at work at the other end of the hallway. He hated to spoil what was surely one of the few carefree moments in young Billy’s life. Just now he appeared to be enjoying himself immensely, trading boyish jests and good-natured teasing with the others as they splashed paint on the walls. His wheat-colored hair was streaked with white paint, his thin face creased in a smile. The boy looked happy.
Billy had been happy of late, Evan thought, at least happier than he had been before coming to live with them. No longer did he wear that pinched look of worry; other than concern for his mother and two little half brothers, he seemed as free of life’s troubles as a boy his age ought to be.
It was a shame to bring this newly found peace to an end. But since caution would seem to be their only real protection for now, he supposed there was nothing else to do but alert the boy.
Evan sighed and, with a heavy heart, started down the hall toward Billy and the others.
Downstairs, Denny Price would have stopped to talk with the cat-eyed Quinn O’Shea had the girl not been otherwise occupied.
He stood just inside the door, watching her and the Kavanagh lad—Daniel—on the porch out front. Denny’s eyes narrowed as he took in the way the boy was gawking at Quinn. He looked about to swallow his tongue.
So that’s how it was, was it? The lad was sweet on her.
Denny turned his attention to Quinn. Although there was no actual appearance of coquetry about the girl, she was smiling up at the long-legged gorsoon as if he were a man grown, and one to defer to at that.
Denny ground his teeth. Why, most times he was lucky to coax a civil word from the girl! Perhaps on a good day she might even give him a smile and take a stroll with him, but the whole time she looked as if she were ready to bolt and run.
Yet wasn’t the little minx treating young Daniel like gentry? Sure, she could not have set her cap for a cow-eyed schoolboy! Why, he could not be much more than half Denny’s age.
Young Daniel was a good enough sort, of course. He was known to be as decent and straight as they came. He was a smart boy, a fine boy—no denying it. All the same, he was still a boy.
And what of the girl? Denny studied her with the practiced, dispassionate eye of a policeman, suppressing his feelings for the moment. He couldn’t be certain, of course, but he thought her smile might not be quite so strained, and those odd feline eyes of hers might not be quite so guarded, so suspicious, as they usually were.
But why? What was there about Daniel Kavanagh that had apparently managed to sneak past her defenses?
The longer he watched them, the more Denny began to burn. Everything about the Kavanagh lad was quiet and refined: his looks, his voice, even his apparel. Irish or not the boy had a kind of gentility about him that couldn’t be denied. And his manner with the girl was nothing less than that of a knight with his lady. Respectful. Courtly. Gallant.
Jealousy crashed through Denny like a wild boar breaking through a forest. He could deny it all he wanted, but the truth was that he could see why Quinn might take a fancy to a boy like Daniel Kavanagh, young and callow though he was. He was a good-looking, sweet-talking, smoothfaced sort of boy—an educated lad. In comparison, Denny felt square and loud and brutish.
There was no mystery in how a fellow like that could attract a lass. More than likely, Daniel Kavanagh was just the kind of lad a girl like Quinn O’Shea would be drawn to.
Denny swallowed down his disappointment. He had felt all too keenly his own lack of appeal to her. When she wasn’t being altogether obstinate, she looked at him as if he held all the interest of a tree stump.
He wasn’t quite sure what accounted for her indifference. At times he thought she was just hostile to men in general. Other times he thought it was as simple as the fact that he was an Irishman. A big, uneducated, heavy-handed Irish cop.
Why couldn’t he just stay away from her, then?
Disgruntled with himself, Denny made a fierce attempt to suppress his envy of the Kavanagh lad, at least for the moment. Sure, and a challenge was good for a man now and then. He wouldn’t be much of a policeman if he turned tail in the face of combat, would he?
Finally he managed to plaster a big, confident smile on his face. Stepping out from the shadows, he walked onto the porch, where he wedged himself deliberately between the young knight and his lady.
In her opulent parlor on Staten Island, Alice Walsh sat on the piano stool smiling with considerable pleasure over the legal document propped up on the piano in front of her—and the letter beside it.
The legal paper was a contract issued by the New York publishing house of Firth, Pond & Co. Eventually, if everything went as it should, the contract would result in the publication of sheet music for a choral suite and two numbers for band instruments—all composed by Evan Whittaker.
Alice was as excited as if the contract had been written on her behalf. Evan Whittaker had no knowledge of her efforts. Only Harold Elliott, a member of the church choir and an employee of the publishing house, had been taken into her confidence.
For some time now, Alice had not only served as Evan Whittaker’s accompanist, but had taken on the additional task of transcribing his choral and instrumental compositions. The diligent, mild-mannered Englishman already had more than enough to do. Composing at the keyboard had to be laborious for a man with only one arm; he certainly didn’t need the added effort of copying his final arrangements.
A few months past, Alice had taken the liberty of showing some of Mr. Whittaker’s arrangements to Harold Elliott for his opinion. To her delight, Harold had been enthusiastic enough to take the selections on to his superiors at Firth, Pond & Co. After a frustrating delay, during which Alice all bu
t hounded poor Harold, the publishing house was at last offering a contract.
But almost as exciting as the contract itself was the letter beside it. Because Evan Whittaker was a new name to Firth, Pond, the publishers had approached one of their most popular composers, Stephen Foster, for an opinion on Mr. Whittaker’s music. Foster had not only applauded the new music, but his enthusiasm had been such that he had written a personal letter of encouragement to the composer.
Like Alice, Evan Whittaker was a great fan of Stephen Foster’s compositions. Now, not only was he being offered a contract by Foster’s own publishing house, but he had received the composer’s enthusiastic endorsement as well.
A publishing contract could mean a great deal to Evan Whittaker and his wife, Alice knew. Certainly the royalties, no matter how nominal, would be welcome. But somehow she sensed that this unexpected tribute from Stephen Foster might mean just as much, if not more, to the diffident Englishman as any monetary reward.
She could hardly wait to present him with the contract and letter—indeed, she had decided against waiting until the weekly Thursday rehearsal in Five Points. Instead, she would go to Whittaker House this very afternoon.
As her mother often said, bad news could always wait, but good news was never too early.
15
Feeble Breath of Hope
What good for me to call when hope of help is gone?
EGAN O’RAHILLY (1670–1728)
For a moment Ruth felt a rush of satisfaction when she saw the stunned look on Patrick Walsh’s face.
Obviously, he had not expected her to come to New York. Not for a minute would he have given her credit for that much courage. One of his pet names for her, after all, was his “pretty, timid sparrow.” She presumed he meant it as an endearment, but the image had wounded her deeply.
Ruth had always been self-conscious to a fault. Patrick often praised her “good looks” and “fine figure,” and Ruth was secretly pleased that he found her attractive, even though his compliments embarrassed her.