A Spark of Death

by Bernadette Pajer

  “You are Mr. Bradshaw?” Her voice was soft, throaty, almost husky. She looked at the boy, keeping a straight face as she took in his attire. “And Justin?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Are you really her? Are you Missouri of the letters? Uncle Henry’s Missouri?”

  “Yes. I believe I am.”

  Her smile was wide and revealed lovely white teeth. Her shoulders drooped with relief that at last she’d been recognized. Bradshaw quit pointing foolishly over his shoulder and asked her in, taking her small traveling bag.

  “Do you have more luggage? Shall I run down to the station?”

  “No, thank you. It’s to be delivered tomorrow.”

  “It’s in your letter, I assume, that you were coming. But as you can see, we didn’t open it.” He pointed toward the letter on the mantel.

  “Why hasn’t my uncle read my letter?”

  He hoped she couldn’t read the apprehension in his face. “He left for Alaska before your letter arrived. I’m sorry.”

  She looked about to faint. He rushed to her side and helped her into the parlor, into his easy chair by the fire. He told Justin to hurry into the kitchen and make a strong pot of tea. The boy took off with speed.

  “He makes tea? He’s so young.” Her voice had become vague.

  “He’s very careful with the kettle. His tea is usually quite good, but I don’t recommend his sandwiches. He puts pickles on everything, even jam.”

  Bradshaw draped a russet afghan over the girl. She looked small and vulnerable beneath it. He stood with the breadth of the carved mantel between them, hands clasped firmly behind his back. His professorial pose, and he assumed it gratefully, like grabbing hold of a life jacket.

  “Uncle Henry’s in—Alaska?”

  “On his way. I believe it takes about ten days in good weather for the boat to reach port. I was going to forward your letter as soon as he wrote me of an address.”

  She tried to smile, but the effort of staving off tears wouldn’t permit it. She shook her head in apology and pointed to the mantelpiece.

  “You want me to read it?”

  “Please.”

  He took up the letter, opening it with his pocketknife, wondering if inside he would find Henry’s reason for fleeing and her reason for arriving. Had Henry confided something to his niece that had compelled, perhaps frightened her into journeying clear across the country?

  Justin came in with the tea, taking tiny steps to keep the good china from rattling. As he busied himself pouring out for their company, Bradshaw began to read. He got no further than ‘Dear Uncle Henry’ before he had to stop and readjust his mental image of the author from a little girl to the young woman now in the room.

  “Dear Uncle Henry,

  Oh, Uncle Henry. Mother, your dear sister, is gone. Influenza came to our valley. I nearly died myself, more so from a broken heart than from fever, and now I find myself alone and needing you….” Bradshaw read the letter with some difficulty, feeling as if he were prying deeply where he should not.

  Henry’s niece wasn’t here because of anything Henry had done. She was here because she had suffered a tragedy and was now alone in the world. He finished the letter, learning that Missouri’s hair, that unusual glossy mahogany hair, had been sacrificed to a delirious fever. Missouri’s life had been spared, but not that of her mother. Her father had died some years ago. And now she’d come to stay, believing she would find comfort and security with her Uncle Henry.

  Bradshaw sensed his boy by his side and felt an overpowering pang of love. He placed a trembling hand on the blond head—the cap had apparently been shed in the kitchen—and felt the child’s silky hair and warmth of life radiate to his palm.

  “Is it bad news?” the boy asked in a whisper.

  “I’m afraid so, son.” But telling the boy would be a delicate task, and Bradshaw needed time to prepare. “It’s time for you to get to bed.”

  “But, Dad—”

  “We’ll talk later. You can visit with Miss Fremont tomorrow. Now, go on.”

  The boy turned reluctantly. “It’s very nice to meet you, Miss Fremont.”

  “I’d like it if both of you called me Missouri.”

  Justin smiled. “Good night, Missouri.”

  “Good night, Justin. I’m very pleased to meet you, too.”

  When Justin had gone, Bradshaw turned to Missouri. He wished he’d been better prepared to console her. He was ashamed to feel a flash of annoyance at having to deal with her now, with his life upside down. “You’re not wearing black. People usually do.”

  “My mother wouldn’t have wanted me to wear mourning clothes. She didn’t believe in them. When my father died, we wore our brightest colors.”

  “Oh.” He could think of nothing more to say to such a declaration.

  The tea cupped in Missouri’s delicate hands seeped warmth and apparently a bit of strength. Her voice was stronger, steadier. “Without death, life would have no boundaries and our days would not be so precious. My mother was a firm believer in the common sense of nature.”

  Again, he was stuck for a reply. “I’ll go on up and prepare your room. You can stay in Henry’s room.” Thank heavens Mrs. Prouty had done such a thorough job of cleaning. “I’ll come get you when it’s ready. Unless—” He ran an eye over her slightly trembling frame. “Would you like a bath? We have a modern bath upstairs, and hot running water.”

  She sighed. “Back home, we dragged a tub into the kitchen and boiled water for an hour. I’ve never had a modern bath. Sounds like heaven, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “It’s as easy as turning on the tap. I’ll go up now and get things organized.”

  He hurried up the stairs, his mind finally working now that he had something to do. He pressed the chained plug into the bath and set the hot water flowing. He was searching the hall linen closet for the good towels when a faint voice rose up the stairs and made itself heard above the running water.

  “Mr. Bradshaw?”

  He crossed to the top of the stairs to find Missouri at the bottom, looking up at him.

  “May I borrow your ink?”

  “Ink?” His thoughts were on soap and wondering if Mrs. Prouty had anything more delicate than the Ivory bars she supplied for him and Justin.

  “I want to write in my journal, and I’ve run out.”

  She looked so wan, he wondered she had the strength to even think of writing. “Oh, yes, certainly. You’ll find a jar on the writing desk in the parlor.”

  She thanked him, and Bradshaw turned again to the linen closet, sniffing the shelves for the source of a slight whiff of lavender. He was rewarded with a paper-wrapped bar of fancy soap that Mrs. Prouty had wedged between a pile of sheets. But the moment he had the bar in hand, a dread came upon him. He had directed Missouri to his desk, where a murderous graph featuring himself and her uncle was spread. He spun on his heels, gripped the banister, and hurried carefully down the stairs. But he was too late.

  Missouri stood at his desk, staring down at the graph of Oglethorpe’s last day.

  She looked up. “Who’s Oglethorpe?”

  Bradshaw explained, attempting to make the preposterous event, along with his murderous diagram, as mundane, as possible.

  Missouri laughed, a delightful sound. A touch of color tinged her complexion. Bradshaw couldn’t help but be glad that this awkward moment had taken her momentarily from her sorrow and weariness. “I’m sorry.” She covered her smiling mouth with a slender hand. “A man’s death isn’t funny, but Uncle Henry would find it amusing to see his name on your list of suspects. Surely, you don’t really believe he had anything to do with this Oglethorpe’s death.”

  “In order to be completely fair and systematic, I have to include him because of as yet unexplained circumstances, until I’m able to exclude
him.”

  “I see,” she said, obviously fighting back more laughter. “Yes. Very fair of you not to take personal prejudice into consideration. Very commendable, Inspector Bradshaw. Is that why your own name is also listed? Do you consider yourself a suspect?”

  “No, but the police do.”

  She stared at him, still smiling. “They do? Why?”

  “Because I have no way to yet prove my innocence.” As glad as he was of her calm, amused reaction, he was also concerned by it. Missouri had never met Bradshaw, she knew him solely through correspondence, and she hadn’t seen her Uncle Henry since he last visited Pennsylvania, more than a decade ago. Her innocent faith in the both of them revealed a naiveté that was possibly dangerous for a young woman on her own. He wanted to tell her not to be so trusting, so imprudent. Instead, he crossed to the desk and handed her the bottle of ink. As she watched, he carefully folded his diagram and locked it within the desk.

  “I don’t want Justin to know of this diagram. He’s very fond of your uncle, and he might not understand.”

  “Of course. It’s our secret.”

  He couldn’t meet her eye. She was too delicate, too trusting. Too feminine. “I’d better—” he said, pointing up where the rush of water could be heard filling the tub. He hurried up the stairs.

  ***

  The next morning, Missouri declined Professor Bradshaw’s invitation to attend mass with him and Justin. She claimed she called no religion her own. The sky was her vaulted ceiling, she said with a completely straight-face, the trees her hallowed halls. “A hymn is sung in every bird song, a prayer whispers on the breeze.”

  Justin had looked at Bradshaw in puzzlement.

  A bit later, while kneeling in a back pew beside Justin, Bradshaw wished he had chosen Missouri’s cathedral rather than his own, for his own was full of people who turned to stare and whisper. They had read every word the newspapers had printed and listened to every bit of gossip concerning Oglethorpe’s death. They didn’t need a photograph to recognize him, they’d seen him in church every Sunday for the past eight years. And they judged him with an un-Christian like, even an un-American haste. Guilty until proven innocent, their glances said to him. He ignored their attention. He would not let them intimidate him into leaving his place of worship. Shame on them. A half hour later, he added a shame on Father Murphy for a sermon so blatantly about murder and confession. Did no one see Bradshaw’s innocent son sitting beside him? For Justin’s sake, Bradshaw kept his poise and dignity. For Justin’s sake, Bradshaw went through the motions, kneeling at the appropriate times, reciting clearly the Latin responses, taking Holy Communion.

  He felt eyes trail him even after they left the church. Twice Bradshaw turned around abruptly, positive he had seen someone following them. But no one had been there, and Justin had laughed at his father’s strange behavior.

  They arrived home to find Missouri kneeling in the flowerbed, digging away cheerfully. Justin hurried inside to change into play clothes, but Bradshaw lingered in the front yard, observing Henry’s niece as she lovingly fluffed soil around a pink pansy she’d freed from the weeds. She looked as if she had no cares in the world. How did she do it? How, after all she’d been through, did she achieve such serenity so quickly? Literally overnight. He was jealous of her, he realized. Jealous that he still struggled to overcome his life’s traumas while she, after one good night’s sleep in a strange house, could so happily toil in a flowerbed as if it were her own. Jealous that she felt she didn’t need traditions such as wearing mourning black or going to church and he so very much did.

  She sat back, smiling radiantly up at him. “The lawn needs a cutting.”

  “That’s Justin’s chore. He’ll be out after breakfast.”

  “Oh breakfast! I made biscuits and gravy, I hope you don’t mind. I left a pan warming in the oven for you.” She took in a great long breath. “I love digging in the dirt. I’m so glad you have flowers and a kitchen garden, Mr. Bradshaw. Children need to see things growing one season to the next. It helps them understand life, and death, the cycle of the human soul.” She gestured with her trowel, a graceful, circular motion that somehow took in the universe.

  “We like fresh vegetables.”

  She cocked her head, searching for deeper meaning where he meant none. He’d simply felt he ought to respond to at least one of her observations.

  Her mention of cycles made him think of an empirical law of physics. Conservation of energy meant there was no waste, no loss of energy, no true end to anything, only transformations from one form to another. Bradshaw had never thought about life in terms of cycles, and he certainly had never lain awake thinking about the human soul in such terms. But he imagined Missouri Fremont did, and now he was afraid he would as well.

  These thoughts were haunting him a moment later as he stood in the kitchen, licking clean a plate of the most delicious buttermilk biscuits and sausage gravy he’d ever tasted. He nearly leaped from his skin when the bass voice of Mrs. Prouty bellowed behind him.

  “Professor Bradshaw! What’s the meaning a this?”

  He turned to his housekeeper as if every day she caught him licking his plate. “I believe it’s called breakfast.”

  Mrs. Prouty wore a crisp white apron over her starched gray dress; sturdy shoes now braced in a wide stance supported her ample girth. She carried a tin bucket, bubbles still clinging to the wet insides, which meant she’d been home long enough this morning to have begun cleaning, and long enough to have met his house guest.

  “Miss Fremont is what I mean, sir. Out there on her hands and knees, digging in the dirt. And her spending the night here, alone, with you!”

  “Miss Fremont is Henry’s niece, Mrs. Prouty. You’ve enjoyed her letters, as we have. She’s practically family.”

  “Not your family, Professor. What’ll people think, a professor spending the night alone with a young girl? It’s bad enough the town’s gone mad thinking you—”

  Thinking he what? Killed Oglethorpe? He could see in Mrs. Prouty’s flashing eyes that he’d guessed correctly what she was afraid to say aloud.

  “Why didn’t you come and get me?”

  “There was no need, Mrs. Prouty.”

  “No need? No need?”

  She shook as she bellowed, and her cockney accent grew thick as gravy. Her own cement-like gravy, not Missouri’s light and flavorful gravy.

  “What time did Henry leave on Thursday?”

  “Now, listen ‘ere, Professor Bradshaw—”

  Bradshaw folded his arms, and raised a brow.

  Mrs. Prouty grudgingly complied. “The last time Henry left the ‘ouse Thursday, with a bag stuffed with all his clothes, it was just after lunch time. About noon.”

  “What do you mean, the last time?”

  “He was in an out of here more than Justin on a snow day. In or out, I told him. Make up your mind.”

  “He didn’t go to work?”

  “He left like he was going, then I had to call him back because the telephone rang.”

  “Who was it that phoned him?”

  “I haven’t a clue. She didn’t say. Henry left again, then came back an hour later, waving a rolled up newspaper like he was one a them orchestra conductors. He was gone again while I did the ironing, then back for half an hour. He didn’t mention a word about leaving for good until he come down the stairs and said he was off to search for gold.”

  “Did he say anything about the university? Did you notice if he had black grit or specks on his clothes, they would have been shiny if you looked close, sparkling.”

  “Black grit? Sparkling? That man is always covered in filth. He brings home more of Denny Hill in his boots than he leaves behind.”

  “But was there anything on him Thursday? Any shiny black flakes in particular? In his room when you cleaned on Sa
turday?”

  “A lot of gravel and grit, and more than one empty whiskey bottle, but not a speck of it sparkled that I recall. It was plain old dirt. What in the world do you want to know about sparkles for?”

  “It’s not important.”

  “Of course it’s important. You wouldn’t have asked—”

  “Let it be, Mrs. Prouty.”

  She shrugged, indicating her willingness to let some subjects drop. “But as for Miss Fremont, now, it ain’t my place to say—”

  “Aah, at last we agree.” He strode from the kitchen before she could get out another word. The telephone, of the candlestick variety, was located in the hall. He picked up the receiver, put it to his ear, and was greeted by a pleasant female voice asking, “What number please?”

  He put his mouth to the transmitter. “No number, I was hoping you might answer a question for me. This is Professor Bradshaw. Last Thursday a call was placed here to my home. The call was for Mr. Henry Pratt. I don’t suppose it was you who connected the call?”

  “Last Thursday? No, sir. That would have been Melody.”

  “Could I speak with Melody?”

  “She’s not on duty. I could leave her a message, if you like. What is it you’re wanting to know?”

  “I’d like to know if she remembers who placed the call. Is that likely?”

  “We place hundreds of calls each day, sir. But I’ll pass the message on.”

  “Thank you.” He dropped the receiver on the switch hook and checked his watch. Time to catch the train.

  Chapter Fourteen

  As part of their commitment to the community, faculty members of the University of Washington were expected to visit schools, attend benefits, and give lectures to women’s and youth groups. Some projects Bradshaw avoided—anything with meals or music usually spelled the sort of mingling he detested. But educating the public on the wonders of science, the power of electricity, was something he thoroughly enjoyed. The tour at Snoqualmie Falls was his favorite.