It was a terrible, terrible story. I couldn’t help wondering why Fiona had not married him. Were they waiting for things to blow over? Before I could think of a way to ask, he continued.
“She refused to marry me. After all that. She said it was a time worse than ever to be poor, that she would not bear a child, only to see it starve before her eyes. She avoided me. She wouldn’t see me. I waited for her anger to subside. I thought I could protect her in the long run.”
I wondered if he even knew that she had aborted the baby. He was so sad, I thought he must know. “But why didn’t you tell the truth when she refused to marry you?”
“I promised her. I couldn’t go back on that, I couldn’t hurt her. I thought I could clear Brian’s name by finding out who the real spy was. Then I heard Stark was looking for men to sign up and he was paying well. It was easy to make him believe I was desperate enough to do anything. I didn’t know he was a Pinkerton, but I got him to take me on for the bomb plot. But then I couldn’t trust the police down here or the company to stop it. The company was behind it. I knew you and your brother could convince the detective to stop it. He wasn’t in the pay of the company. At least Stark was exposed. But when I hid in the factory, I saw LeClerc take the sticks of dynamite. I followed him only to see Fiona come to him at his lodgings and stay with him.
“I thought she had refused to talk to me because of what had happened with Brian, but I could see it was because she had transferred her affections to LeClerc. I could see it all then. That was why she had tried to rouse jealousy in Brian. She had hoped to get him to marry her immediately, so when the baby came she could tell him it was his. I saw that now she was trying to do the same thing with LeClerc. Unlike me, he was a man her father admired. Most of the town admired him. She thought her child would never starve in front of her eyes with LeClerc as a father. But I knew he had the dynamite and I tried to warn her. I waylaid her the next day. I told her I understood if she was trying to give our child a better life by getting LeClerc to marry her, but I warned her about the dynamite. If he used it, he would go to jail for sure. She spurned me. She told me she would never ask a man like LeClerc to be the father of my child. He was going to help her get rid of it. She knew about the dynamite. She wanted him to use it. She wanted to help him blow up a train. She warned me that, if I told anyone, she would tell the police how I had killed my brother.
“You know the rest. I tried to stop them by telling you. But when the detective was shot and they got away with one of the sticks, I had to stop them myself. I couldn’t find them, but I thought they would try for the Diamond Special. I saw you following Stark, so I thought you knew something. When I saw LeClerc planting the stick, I knew he was trying to destroy the track so the train would derail and it would be a disaster. I had to stop it. At least they couldn’t make it seem the strikers had done it. He got away but at least he didn’t leave that blame for all the others to shoulder.”
“Stark wanted him to blow up the tracks.”
“Yes, miss, and he would have killed you to make it happen. He would have killed us both. There’s no blame in what you did.”
I looked up at his tear-stained face flickering in the lantern light and realized that my whole world had changed from the minute I had pulled the trigger on Detective Whitbread’s gun. It would never be the same again.
THIRTY-ONE
“Emily, what happened? Come here, let me look at your face.” Dr. Chapman was alarmed when I appeared in his office the next morning. I had awoken with a swollen face, my body stiff, and deeply bruised in some places. It was painful to walk. My head ached dully as if a huge pillow surrounded it and pressed against me. I was aware that the cuts on my cheeks, and the bruises around my eye, gave a hint at my injuries from the night before. But I had been careful to cover every other bruise that might give evidence against me. The previous night, Joe had taken me back to the Florence only after convincing me that no one must know about the dynamite on the tracks and the catastrophe so narrowly averted.
“I am all right, Doctor. I merely fell after I rushed from the colonel’s office last night. I was angry, and in my anger I managed to trip and fall and injure myself. It was no more than I deserved for letting my temper get the best of me.” It was difficult to tell him this outright lie, but I had promised Joe O’Malley, and I knew we had to hide the truth. Still, I felt a little sick, lying to Stephen. “How is Detective Whitbread?”
“He is much improved, Emily. Mrs. Foley stayed with him all night. I’ve only just sent her home on a wagon with one of her neighbors. She is still calm. Emily, I was so sorry you were unsuccessful in persuading Colonel Turner to do anything about Mr. Stark last night. I have to confess,” he gently pressed my bruised cheek as he examined it, “I told them about the dynamite. Colonel Turner immediately sent men to retrieve it. They took it away when I let them into the storeroom. I’m sorry, Emily, but it was much too dangerous to keep it here, you must know that. I tried to find out where you had gone. Turner can only do what he is allowed to do. He must abide by the rules, even if he does not always agree with them. You must believe that, in the end, Stark will be made to pay for his actions.”
I flinched as the picture of Stark’s enraged face lunging toward me appeared in my mind. The doctor apologized, thinking he had hurt me. I could not tell him. I was deeply ashamed and frightened by what I had done. I had killed a man. No matter what excuse I had, nothing could change that fact. And what had that death accomplished? Did the death of Stark end the strike? Did it make Pullman the perfect place for working men and women to live in peace and prosperity? Stark was dead and I was only too aware that I had awakened to a world as badly off as when he was alive. We had prevented the dynamite from making the situation even worse, but LeClerc had gotten clear away. How could that be right? I was too ashamed to tell the doctor that. Too afraid of how deeply disappointed he would be if he knew. As he gently felt my face with his long fingers, I wished I had never come to Pullman, that he had never met Fiona MacGregor and I had never met Raoul LeClerc, that we were back at Hull House where he had so kindly offered me his name to protect me from being alone in the world after my mother’s death. What a fool I had been to deny him—because of pride. I thought he was feeling pity for me and not a romantic love such as I imagined it might be. And now I felt what a fool I had been. And now I had a secret I could never tell him. I had killed a man.
I pushed his hands away, unable to bear his touch. “I am all right. Can I see Detective Whitbread?”
“If he is awake, let me . . . ”
There was a knock on the doorjamb. The door was open. Corporal Giles came in. “Excuse me, Doctor. Colonel Turner sent me to enquire after Detective Whitbread. How is he?”
“He is much improved, Corporal. I believe he will recover. He is in the next room.”
“Would it be possible to see him, sir?”
The doctor frowned. “He is very weak. What is it about?”
“It’s this, sir.” The corporal took a bundle from under his arm and walked to the examining table, where he unwrapped it. It was Detective Whitbread’s long-barreled pistol. I let out an exclamation. I had dropped it after shooting Stark. I never wanted to see it again. “You recognize it, miss? It’s Detective Whitbread’s, we believe. One of the policemen recognized it. It’s a special issue, I guess, with this ivory handle. You’ll want to know where it was found. It’s that man Stark. He’s dead. He was found this morning. He was sent to patrol part of the track last night. We keep men all along it for when the Diamond Special goes through. At first, we thought he was careless and got run down. We run a second train on the track beside the Special. It has no warning lights, it runs black and it’s got armed men, so if the special gets ambushed they can protect it. We tell all the men to keep off the tracks, but that Stark, he wasn’t one to listen. We thought it was his own fault.
“But then we found this, you see, near where he was hit, and when we looked more closely at him, we saw he
was shot. He had his own gun, you know, so it’s not that he couldn’t defend himself. But we found this and they said it’s the detective’s. We think Stark must have had a gun battle with someone. But we don’t know who. He wasn’t much of a man, that Stark. So the colonel wanted me to return this to Detective Whitbread and let him know what happened to Stark.” He looked down at the gun and wrapped it up again.
I saw the doctor look at the pile of Whitbread’s clothes in the corner, but he didn’t say anything. He had folded his arms and was thinking. “There’s one thing, sir. There’s no way Detective Whitbread could have recovered enough to have gone out last night, is there? We didn’t think so, but the colonel wanted me to ask to be sure. There’s some of the men are saying it’s Whitbread who got Stark, you see.” He cleared his throat. “There’s some think he died and it was his ghost came back to get his man. That’s what some of them are saying. The colonel wants to put a stop to it.”
“Oh, if that’s what you think, I assure you there is no way he could have gotten out of his bed last night. And I am happy to report he is not a ghost. He is very weak but I have every reason to believe now that he will be able to recover. Come, follow me. I’ll show you,” he said, as he walked out the door. We followed him to the corridor and into the next room.
Detective Whitbread was lying on a cot, breathing heavily. The air was warm, and smelled of sweat and blood. There was a small basin of water, covered with a cloth, on a table beside the bed and I could see the chair pushed away that must have been where Gracie sat all night, tending him.
“He was here all night. We never left him alone, someone was with him, and I was next door. I slept in my office.”
Even though Stephen spoke softly, I saw Whitbread’s eyes flutter. He cleared his throat and attempted to raise his head. The doctor stepped to his bedside. “Whitbread, you’re in the clinic. You are very weak. Don’t try to talk.”
“Dr. Chapman. Miss Cabot.” I stepped to the doctor’s shoulder, anxious to see Whitbread’s face and reassure myself he was going to recover.
“You were shot at the train siding yesterday,” I reminded him.
“Indeed . . . Mrs. Foley. How is Mrs. Foley?”
“She’s fine. You saved her. You took the bullet that was meant for her. She was here all night with you. She is fine.”
“Very unhinged, going after Stark like that. Should not be left alone.” He closed his eyes. It was too much of an effort for him to keep them open.
Dr. Chapman took his wrist and held it. He was checking the pulse. “She’s calmed down. Seeing you shot seems to have cured her of her affliction. She tended you all night until I sent her home to the children this morning. She’ll be back, I am sure, and you will see. She has regained her senses.”
“Stark shot you,” I hurried on. “It was Stark again. He was aiming at her.”
“This will happen if you aim a gun at a man like that, it must be admitted,” Whitbread offered dryly, his eyes still closed.
“Still, that man shot into the crowd again. Colonel Turner wouldn’t do anything, but last night Stark was killed. He was hit by a train and he is dead.”
“The corporal, here, has come to return your gun, Detective, and to ascertain that you were not there last night to push the man under the train. They’re saying it was your ghost that did it,” Dr. Chapman told him, releasing his hand.
Whitbread laughed then. It was a dry little cough of a laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. “I regret to say I was unable to pursue the man, although I do—or did, I should say—consider him a criminal. I am happy to report that whatever ghost may have been involved, mine is not yet available for such activities. That is no doubt due to your efforts, Doctor, for which I thank you.”
“You are very welcome, but now you must rest. Corporal, Emily, we must leave Detective Whitbread to his sleep. If you please.” He shooed us to the door, motioning the corporal to leave the detective’s gun on the table at his side.
But Detective Whitbread called out for me. “Miss Cabot!”
I turned back. “About the other matter, Miss Cabot. Did you safely deliver the materials? What we found in the brick shed?”
I reached out to touch his shoulder. “Yes, that is all taken care of. All of it is out of harm’s reach. You mustn’t worry about it.” With a sigh, he relaxed, closing his eyes again.
I followed the others to the door. As the corporal hurried away, the doctor turned to me with speculation in his eyes. He knew that Whitbread’s pistol had been in the pile of his clothes the night before. He stared at my face as if counting every pore, every scratch, and every bruise from my supposed fall. I was tired. Perhaps he would see through me and discern the terrible thing I had done. I would never live it down. He shook his head. But before he could begin to lecture or interrogate me, we heard someone climbing the stairs.
It was Gracie Foley, in her good, green taffeta dress with her dark green velvet-trimmed hat, complete with a jaunty feather, on her head. She wore leather gloves and carried a folded set of stiff parchment papers.
“Mrs. Foley, there is no need for you to return so soon. He is resting. You must be exhausted from your efforts last night,” the doctor told her.
She looked back and forth between us. Her face was drawn and weary but determined, as ever. In that she reminded me of Whitbread.
“Joe has left. He has fled.” I thought she searched my face in particular and I knew Joe must have told his sister what had happened the previous night. I steeled myself to hear her tell it to the doctor. But she had a different errand. “He left a confession. He wrote it out and he made me promise to give it to him.” She nodded towards the door of Whitbread’s room. “I must give it to him. I must do it this morning.”
“What has he confessed?” I asked, before the surprised doctor could say anything.
She looked at me dully. “’Twas him who killed Brian. ’Twas Joe who killed our own brother. And last night he killed that man Stark, too.”
THIRTY-TWO
I was dumbfounded. The doctor was merely surprised. “It wasn’t Stark who killed your brother Brian? We heard that Stark was killed last night—someone from the army was just here—but they didn’t know who shot him. Was it really your brother Joe who killed Brian, not Stark? Why?” the doctor asked.
“Stark killed my Mooney,” she said sorrowfully, “and he shot the policeman,” she nodded at the door. “But he did not kill Brian. It was a bloody tragedy, but it was Joseph who done it. And he saw the detective jump in front of me to take the bullet. He feels he owes it to him to tell him the truth. Joe killed our brother Brian and he’ll not have anyone else blamed for that, not even Stark who has enough bloodstains on his soul as will never wash away. Joe did it and he wants the detective to know.” She took a step forward, but I jumped in between her and the door.
“Mrs. Foley, Gracie. You can’t tell that to Detective Whitbread. He is my friend. He is a good man, a very good man. But he is upright in the extreme. If you tell him that your brother has done this, he will never be able to let it go. He will hunt him down. He will not rest until he catches him. You must see that it is wrong. After all your brother has done, it is Stark who was the most guilty and he is dead.”
“I know what happened last night,” she told me looking me in the eye and I knew her brother had told her that I was there. “I know that Stark is dead. But what is right, is right. He had to get it off his chest. It is a terrible thing to kill your own brother, Miss Cabot. A terrible thing.”
Dr. Chapman had moved behind my shoulder. “In any case, Mrs. Foley, I must ask you to wait to reveal this information to Detective Whitbread until he is recovered. Come away and think about it for awhile and let him rest.”
But the detective had heard us. “Dr. Chapman, is that you? Is that Mrs. Foley? Dr. Chapman?”
The doctor frowned and shook his head. He looked at Gracie. “Miss Cabot is right, Mrs. Foley. If you tell Whitbread what you have told us, he will never forgive your
brother. He will never let him alone.”
“Dr. Chapman, I hear your voices . . . please.”
The doctor opened the door. “Yes, yes, we are sorry to disturb you. Mrs. Foley has returned. But you must rest.” Gracie swept past Stephen quickly, settling herself into the chair at Whitbread’s bedside. She was a substantial woman, sturdy in every move, but the little green feather at the top of her hat trembled as she opened the sheaf of paper in her lap.
“I have come to bring you a confession.”
“Really, Mrs. Foley, I must insist you put this off until later.” The doctor tried to intervene but, meanwhile, Whitbread was raising himself on his elbows, trying to prop himself up. Gracie jumped up and shoved some pillows behind his back. As she carefully rearranged herself back in the chair, the doctor murmured, “Oh, really.”
Detective Whitbread could barely raise his head on his neck for a few moments. He saw the papers she had placed in his hands and he looked across at her face. His eyes were rheumy with sleep, but I thought I saw a hint of amusement. And of respect. It occurred to me that Detective Whitbread really admired the Irish widow. She had some of his own implacability. It pierced my heart because I knew what was coming and what a rift it would make between them.
“Read it, if you would please,” he told her.
She pursed her lips, but she took the pages, smoothing them out on her lap. I could see the carefully shaped, printed letters that were like the ones in the note I had received warning of the bomb in the clock tower. Her bosom rose with a deep breath and she read it out in a loud voice:
Death at Pullman Page 23