by BJ Hoff
Odd, that she would be so ill at ease with one as attentive and so obviously enamored of her as Daniel Kavanagh, yet she could feel almost comfortable—at least some of the time—with the exasperating Sergeant Price. For someone who had never known anything but oppression and intimidation from the law, it seemed peculiar entirely that she could be more herself, even occasionally enjoy herself, in the company of a policeman.
True, he could set her teeth to grinding when he acted the buffoon or flashed that wide-mouthed, smug grin at the most inappropriate times. But as insufferably thick-headed as she sometimes found him, Quinn would give the man this much: he could make her laugh. At the least likely times, on the most unexpected occasions, the big sergeant could make her laugh, even at herself.
At those times she could almost forget that he was a policeman.
But not for long.
Within ten minutes after the start of rehearsal, Evan Whittaker considered the possibility of canceling all rehearsals until Alice Walsh returned.
If she returned…please, God.
He had seen her only twice since her husband’s death. The burial service had been private, with no calling hours beforehand, but he had gone to Staten Island anyway, just to express his concern for the family.
He had found Mrs. Walsh terribly shaken, but seemingly glad to see him. There had been a heavy sorrow about her, of course, but with more composure than he would have expected. But then, Alice Walsh had always impressed him as being a strong, resourceful woman. Depending on the outcome of next month’s hearing, Evan had hopes she would eventually move past this ordeal and make a life for herself and her children. He fervently hoped that life would include her returning to help him with the singers and the band.
The entire sordid situation had to be unbelievably difficult for her. It was a hideous story, blown out of all proportion because of the potential for scandal. Supposedly, Walsh’s mistress, who had been carrying the man’s child, had confronted both Patrick Walsh and poor Alice that dreadful day, with disastrous consequences. Walsh had cold-bloodedly murdered his paramour by shoving her down the stairway. Evidently Walsh had meant to put a bullet into her, just to make absolutely certain she was dead. Alice had tried to stop him, and he had been shot in a struggle for the gun.
Apparently Sara Farmington Burke was the only person to whom Alice Walsh had confided the ugly facts of the situation. According to Sara, it was nothing less than remarkable that Alice Walsh had not suffered a total nervous collapse from the ordeal.
For his part, Evan was convinced that Mrs. Walsh would bear up, if only for the sake of her children. Still, to learn that her husband had been unfaithful—and to learn the ugly truth from the other woman herself—would surely be enough to devastate even the strongest will. And to have to live with the fact that she had shot him, albeit accidentally—well, it would be no easy road for her to follow.
Yet a few days after her husband’s burial service, Alice Walsh had surprised him and Nora by appearing at Whittaker House, bearing a sheaf of papers and even managing a faint smile as she gave them the exciting news: Firth, Pond was offering a publishing contract to Evan for some of his instrumental and choral arrangements.
It was almost inconceivable that, in the midst of her own personal anguish, she would make the effort to travel from Staten Island on an errand of goodwill for others. Evan had virtually been struck dumb by her selfless generosity.
Even now, weeks later, he still found his astonishing good fortune, which had come about almost entirely through Alice Walsh’s efforts, nearly impossible to believe, especially coming as it had on the heels of her own personal tragedy. He would be unceasingly grateful for her encouragement. He wished there were some way to repay her, but she had asked for nothing in return but his and Nora’s prayers on behalf of her and the children.
Certainly he was becoming more and more aware of just how much Mrs. Walsh contributed to the boys’ choir as he tried to muddle along without her each week. Being a one-armed director, he conceded grimly, was difficult enough in itself. But attempting to be a one-armed director and a one-handed pianist was simply impossible.
For the moment, however, he would have to make do. The boys were clearly waiting for his lead. With a sigh, he scanned the familiar faces, his intention being to choose one of the older lads to help beat time, leaving Evan free to pick out parts on the piano.
Only then did he realize that Billy Hogan was missing.
“Where is Billy?” he asked. His eyes scanned the group, an assortment of ages and skin colors. One or two shrugs and a number of blank expressions were his only reply.
While waiting for Oscar, the group’s newest and youngest member, to go and fetch Billy, Evan rehearsed the others in a quick review of some of their favorite songs. A few of the older boys had left the singing group altogether, opting for the military-style band Evan had recently formed some months back—again with the help of Alice Walsh. Others had chosen to be active in both groups.
Although most of the members still lived in the Five Points district, Evan had recently moved rehearsals to the house here on Elizabeth Street, an easy walk from the notorious slum. This enabled him to keep a close eye on the smaller boys now living at Whittaker House, and at the same time be available to Nora. Besides, he was convinced it did the boys good to get out of that ghastly pit, even if for only an hour or so a week.
When Oscar didn’t return right away, Evan grew impatient and inexplicably disturbed. He had been worried about Billy Hogan for some weeks now, fearful that, against all practical advice, the boy would take it upon himself to go to see his family. Although Evan had made the strongest sort of appeal that Billy avoid the Five Points—thereby staying out of the abusive Sorley Dolan’s reach—he had stopped short of forbidding him to go. In reality, he had no right to forbid the boy anything, since he was not his legal guardian.
That prompted another thought, one which occurred frequently these days, but which he had so far kept to himself. He wasn’t sure how to broach the subject with Nora—or with Billy, for that matter. But he sometimes considered trying to gain legal custody of the boy…if Billy were willing, that is—and if Nora approved.
From what he could tell, the child’s mother was virtually indifferent to him. There had been no attempt to contact Billy, no communication of any sort, in weeks. Even with Dolan hanging about the premises, the woman could surely manage to get in touch with her son, if only to warn him to stay away. But there hadn’t been a word from her, and Evan had sensed the boy’s bewilderment and hurt.
His heart ached for Billy Hogan. He had come to care a great deal for the little fellow with the straw-colored hair and fine-boned features and angelic voice. He wouldn’t mind at all calling Billy his own. But he hadn’t the slightest idea how Billy might feel about the possibility.
The appearance of Oscar roused him out of his thoughts.
“Can’t find Billy nowhere ’tall, Mistah Evan. Miss Quinn says she ain’t seen him either. And the cat, Finbar—seems like he’s disappeared, too.”
Evan stared at the small mulatto boy for a moment, then turned back to the others. “Has anyone seen Billy? Billy Hogan?”
Again there was no reply. A growing sense of uneasiness swept over Evan. He was almost certain he knew what Billy was up to.
The boy seemed to relish every rehearsal, usually showing up early and hanging back after the hour was over. Billy simply would not miss for no reason.
Evan made the reluctant decision to go on with rehearsal. If Billy did not return before the end of the hour, he would leave at once for the Five Points.
He might not be legally responsible for Billy Hogan, but certainly his heart held him accountable all the same.
30
Travesty of Justice
For Man’s grim Justice goes its way,
And will not swerve aside;
It slays the weak, it slays the strong,
It has a deadly stride…
OSCAR WILDE
(1854–1900)
When Michael Burke stopped by Jess Dalton’s office in the Bowery early that same Thursday afternoon, he found the big curly-headed preacher considerably more cheerful than when they had last met.
The pastor’s handshake was vigorous, his smile quick. “Michael! Good to see you. You’ve come with the clothing collection your enterprising wife promised, I expect. Come in, come in!”
Michael sank down in the chair Dalton indicated, while the pastor went to sit behind the desk.
“I promised Sara to ask after your wife and family first thing,” Michael said.
Jess Dalton’s smile remained cheerful. “Kerry is doing well enough, considering the circumstances. Casey-Fitz is a great help to her. And we’ve had some good news about Amanda, as a matter of fact. The court has granted an extension of our petition. Winston can’t take Amanda anywhere for another month.”
Michael leaned forward. “That’s wonderful, Pastor. You must be greatly relieved.”
A muscle tightened at the corner of Dalton’s eye, and his smile faded. “We’re grateful, of course. At least this will give our attorney more time to investigate Winston’s background and prepare a stronger case in our behalf. But as long as there’s even the slightest chance that we might lose Amanda—” He stopped, looking down at his clenched hands on the desk. “Well, it’s difficult.”
“You’ll have the girl before all is done,” Michael said. “I can’t believe any judge with half a heart would send the child off with a virtual stranger. Why, she’s little more than a babe.”
A worried expression settled over Dalton’s features. “I pray you’re right. But the fact is that Winston isn’t exactly a stranger to Amanda any longer. The court has allowed him to see her each week—only for an hour, but that’s probably long enough for him to ingratiate himself with her. She’s a very trusting little girl.”
He shook his head, then glanced up. “Ah, Michael, I have a veritable war going on inside me these days. At times I think that if I truly want what’s best for Amanda, and if Winston is prepared to make a good life for her, perhaps I shouldn’t fight him. But then I see the anguish in Kerry’s eyes or feel the knife twist in my own heart, and I can’t seem to get beyond the terror that we might actually lose her—or my rage at Colin Winston for being the cause of it all.”
Michael nodded but said nothing. He knew about rage well enough these days.
Since the death of Patrick Walsh, he had harbored a silent but steady fury. He knew the resentment simmering in him was wrong. He called himself a Christian, had tried to live as one most of his life. But a real Christian possessed the grace of forgiveness, didn’t he? A real Christian left the business of judgment up to God. Yet despite a fundamental belief that God was fair and would eventually bring His perfect justice to pass, he could not seem to rid himself of the growing bitterness in his heart. He felt disillusioned, cheated—and angry.
There had been a time when he had vowed to bring down Patrick Walsh, to make him pay for all the evil he had wrought, the lives he had ruined—including that of Michael’s own son, Tierney. Instead, Walsh had ultimately been destroyed by his own weakness of the flesh. Confronted by his mistress, the woman he had wronged, he was slain, if accidentally, by the hand of his wife—the woman he had betrayed.
Somehow it seemed grossly unfair. There should be the very devil to pay for a man like that, a man without scruples, without conscience.
Walsh had been thoroughly corrupt, a pirate who had pillaged uncounted numbers of the city’s immigrant population. From his merciless dock runners, preying on those just off the ships, the shameful tenements from which even the rats tried to escape, the taverns and gambling dens and brothels, he had unleashed almost every form of depravity and corruption upon the city. He had even tried to corrupt Michael’s own son, and failing that, had tried to have Tierney killed.
Michael could not help but believe there should be a merciless retribution for one who had caused so much misery, so much tragedy, in the lives of thousands. There ought to be justice.
And for longer than he could remember, he had intended to be an agent of that justice.
But now Walsh was gone, killed in an instant, no doubt surrendering his life with little suffering and no remorse. The vermin had gotten off entirely too easily.
Michael’s stomach wrenched. He and Sara had argued about his “irrational obsession,” as she called it, again this morning. She was being affected by his helpless rage at Walsh’s death, but still he couldn’t seem to help himself. Or maybe he didn’t want to.
His mouth filled with the vile taste of his own bitterness. He looked up to find Jess Dalton studying him with a curious expression.
“Why do I think you’re angry, too, my friend?” The pastor’s voice was gentle. “What burdens you so?”
Michael blinked, regarding the kind features of the big man across the desk. For a moment he was tempted to unburden himself and seek Dalton’s counsel. Preacher or not, he obviously understood anger. Jess Dalton wasn’t one to condemn another man for his feelings.
But what was the point? Walsh was dead. There was no changing fate, no going back. And words, no matter how wise or well-intentioned, would not extinguish the coals of bitterness that still smoked in his own heart.
He gave a tight smile and shrugged. “No burden, Pastor. Just some things I need to work out. But tell me about this Winston character. Last time we talked, you were making plans to have him investigated.”
The big preacher’s unsettling blue gaze searched Michael’s for another moment, then cleared. “Yes. Hancock—Lawrence Hancock, our attorney—is doing just that. He has a man in England working on it, and another here. So far we’ve learned little more than we already knew. Winston was estranged from his father—Amanda’s grandfather—and had been for some time. Before Amanda’s mother died, she told Nicholas Grafton that her brother drank and gambled heavily. Apparently, he was altogether irresponsible. Their father ordered him out of the house more than once because of his profligate ways.”
Dalton stopped, again frowning. “But that’s not necessarily going to keep the court from awarding him custody of Amanda.”
“So you are suing for custody, then?”
“Oh yes. We had the preliminary adoption papers under way when Winston showed up, but now we’ve had to go back and institute an actual suit for temporary custody.”
Michael frowned. “It seems obvious to me, Pastor, that almost any judge would find you and your wife far more acceptable guardians for the child. Especially since she’s already been in your home for several months.”
Jess Dalton shook his head. “But Colin Winston is her uncle. That makes all the difference. Or at least it may, unless we can find evidence—significant evidence—to absolutely prove he would be an unfit guardian. We need something rather drastic, I’m afraid.”
“That might not be as difficult as you think,” Michael offered, getting to his feet. “It’s been my experience that a man who spends his life at the bottle and the gaming tables often leaves a wide and dirty trail behind him. I don’t know that there’s much I can do to help, but I’ll nose about to see what I can turn up. For now, though, I’d best be off. Where would you like the clothing boxes, by the way?”
Dalton stood, coming around to again shake Michael’s hand. “In the hall will be fine. Tell Sara we’re grateful, as always. And you know we’d appreciate any help you can give us with Amanda.” He paused, his friendly, bearded face close enough that Michael could see the question in his eyes. “And, Michael—if I can ever help you, you’ve only to ask.”
Once more the preacher’s compelling gaze seemed to probe Michael’s soul.
An uncomfortable idea altogether, he realized, given his soul’s present condition.
Colin Winston scanned the marquee of the dime museum with distaste. The display left little doubt as to what waited inside.
The place was no museum at all, of course, but a freak show. In this dreadful sl
um called the Bowery, such places seemed to abound. Apparently Americans were fascinated by the grotesque.
Still, it ought to be just the place to find the sort of ruffian he was looking for. Not necessarily among the freaks themselves, although that was a possibility. He thought it more likely that one of the disgusting creatures inside might point him to the sort of thug required for the business at hand. If not, he would try the rough-looking blighters milling about on the corner.
He paid his admission to a scowling barker with a drooping moustache and a flashing diamond ring on every finger, then passed by the mean-looking dwarf manning the door. Winston met the loathsome creature’s scowl with a sneer of his own and went inside.
He paid scant attention to the human monstrosities on stage, registering only the vaguest awareness of a bearded lady and a revolting youth without legs billed as the Turtle Boy. He turned his gaze to a decidedly ugly specimen being introduced as the Strong Man. An enormous thick neck joined a head like that of an iron bull to a body that looked as invincible as an oak tree. Beside the Strong Man, at the end of the row, stood a tall, thin albino, almost spectral in appearance, and beside him, a man with two empty sleeves and a horribly scarred face.
Winston shuddered and hurried on, exiting the exhibition hall through a side door he thought might lead backstage. A wizened old man on a stool near the door stopped him, gruffly asking his business.
“Actually I’m looking for a particular chap,” Winston said pleasantly. “Perhaps you could help, or at least might direct me to someone who could.”
The other simply stared at him, obviously unsoftened by Winston’s forced cordiality.
“Large fellow,” Winston chattered on, attempting to describe the sort of criminal type he hoped to find. “Bit of a rogue. Somewhat unsavory, I’m afraid. Anyone come to mind?”