A Spark of Death

by Bernadette Pajer

  No wonder Henry had been waving the paper about with such glee. He thought he’d struck it rich.

  Bradshaw tore the article from the page and tossed the rest of the paper back in the compost heap. He followed Mrs. Prouty into the kitchen where, after flattening the article on a dish towel to dry, he washed the grime and grounds from his hands.

  “Mrs. Prouty, on Sunday, when Artimus Lowe dropped by, what exactly did he say, do you remember?”

  Mrs. Prouty actually blushed. “Oh, he’s a handsome young man, that one. And quite the talker. I don’t know what he sees in Henry’s niece, but he seemed quite taken with her.”

  “But did Mr. Lowe ask about Missouri when he first arrived? Or did he ask to see Henry?”

  “Now you mention it, he did ask first for Henry Pratt. I was a bit surprised, a dandified young man like that wanting to see Henry. Most of Henry’s friends I wouldn’t let onto the front porch. Mr. Lowe said it was on some matter of urgent business. When I told him Henry had up and gone to Alaska, he smiled, and what a nice smile that lad has. He said maybe I could tell him about the young woman in the front yard, and it was then I realized he’d seen Henry’s niece and had taken a fancy to her.”

  “Hmm. Indeed he has, but trust your initial impression of Artimus Lowe, Mrs. Prouty. If he comes around again, shoo him off the porch with your broom like you would any other of Henry’s visitors.”

  Mrs. Prouty gleamed happily. “I’ve got a new broom, Professor. The bristles are sharp enough to sting.”

  ***

  Midnight found Bradshaw wandering the streets of Seattle in search of anarchists. He’d spent the first part of the evening arranging and rearranging facts and getting nowhere. Never before had he been faced with so much discordant information, positive it fit together in some logical way but unable to believe any scenario he could piece together. The dry facts fit—Marion, Henry, and Artimus Lowe all had motive. Henry and Lowe had opportunity. They all could have had help. But in order to believe any or all of them had killed Oglethorpe and attempted to kill Bradshaw, he’d have to dismiss his assessment of their natures. And he couldn’t. He refused to believe he’d learned nothing over these past eight years. He might have lived in isolation, but he hadn’t been blind. He’d watched. He’d practiced reading people, their voices and expressions and gestures. To ensure he never again made the mistake he’d made with Rachel, he’d learned to be observant and trust his instincts. To do otherwise courted disaster.

  His instincts told him he was missing something vital. McKinley’s visit remained a nagging fact with no leads. His visit was like an odd electrical component with no visible purpose. What was he missing? Where should he even begin?

  With anarchists. A single phone call to the UW’s Professor of Political and Social Science told him where to look.

  And so midnight found him in the yellow glow of street lamps, hat low over his eyes, hands deep in his pockets as he mimicked other lone men. He passed by bars where music and laughter flooded into the streets, he heard the scuff of his own footsteps as he passed laundries and druggists and shoe shops all locked up tight. The air was damp and carried various scents to him, metallic oils, sweet perfumes, the fishiness of the nearby tide flats, even the warm yeastiness of a bread company baking loaves for early morning delivery.

  On Third Avenue, between the darkened windows of Mme. Melbourne, Clairvoyant and Queen City Leather Goods, he spotted the sign. FREEDOM. Black block letters against a red background, the simple word was the only thing visible behind the glass in the dark curtained window. Chinks of light escaped the edge. There was no welcome sign on the door.

  Now what? Did he march inside and start making accusations? Demand answers?

  “Out late for a school night, aren’t you Professor?”

  The voice had come from the shadows of the recessed doorway of the clairvoyant. It caused him dismay but not alarm. He stepped closer to better see Detective O’Brien.

  “Good evening, Bradshaw.”

  “Have you found a connection? Between Oglethorpe’s death and McKinley’s visit?”

  “I’ve been watching the anarchists for years. A hobby of mine. It’s ironic, don’t you think, that the very freedom they say doesn’t exist in this country allows them to meet in secret and plot the overthrow of the government?’

  “Is there a connection? Has McKinley been warned?”

  “It’s hard to protect a man who refuses to be adequately guarded, but yes, a message has been sent. You’ve got your own troubles. It wouldn’t be smart for you to be seen here. I wouldn’t go inside.”

  “Like you said, it’s a free country.”

  “It’s not me who would make something of it. It’s the citizens of this fair city. They want this crime solved, they want to feel safe again—well, safe as long as they don’t venture into the Tenderloin district. They’ve marked you as their man and they’d love to have some sinister motive to add to their belief in your guilt. They’ve already decided your friend Pratt was your accomplice.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen the papers.”

  “There’s more than what’s in the papers. They’ve formed a committee and they want an arrest.”

  “They? Who are they?”

  “Upstanding citizens. You know the type. You’ve been doing your own investigating, Professor. What have you learned?”

  Bradshaw looked out at the empty street. What had he learned? What could he say definitively? How could he point at Henry, at Marion when he didn’t believe them capable of murder? Even Lowe, whom he disliked, who was clever and opportunistic and in debt, whose tread was light and swift—even he seemed incapable of murder. To save himself, to save his son, was he willing to sacrifice a potentially innocent person? Point a finger without absolute proof?

  “Haven’t you got any other suspects?”

  O’Brien laughed. “You’re as good at redirection as me, Professor. I will say that I’ve interviewed a few of the same people you have.”

  “Then why ask me for my opinion?”

  “They might have been more forthcoming with you. Most people don’t like to open up to a police detective.”

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  O’Brien suddenly grabbed his arm and pulled him deeper into the dark recess. Bradshaw saw the familiar figure on the sidewalk, hat lower over the eyes than usual. The sound of his light footsteps, the expensive leather upon the gritty pavement, sent a chill up Bradshaw’s spine.

  At the freedom sign, Artimus Lowe rapped three times on the door, paused, then gave another single knock. When the door swung in, he disappeared inside.

  Bradshaw searched O’Brien’s gaze. The guarded eyes told him nothing.

  “Go home, Professor. If you think of anything you’d like to share, come see me.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Before breakfast the next morning, Bradshaw went down to police headquarters, but not to share any information with O’Brien. He’d been summoned by a messenger boy.

  In the cellar of the old City Hall, smelling of damp and mold and unwashed bodies, Bradshaw found Artimus Lowe behind the iron bars of the same jail cell he had occupied himself a few nights ago. Lowe looked none the worse for his experience. His blue cashmere suit and tan vest were of the latest fashion and untouched by jail grime, and his handsome young face unlined by the trauma.

  “Thank God, you’ve come!” Lowe approached the bars but didn’t grasp them.

  “Good morning, Mr. Lowe.”

  “Please, Professor. You must help me. Tell them I’m innocent and get me out of here.”

  Bradshaw waited until the jailor retreated to a chair near the cellar door and snapped open the morning paper. “Mr. Lowe, I don’t understand why you’ve asked for my help. Surely, you realize what you need is a lawyer.”

  “I don’t need represent
ation, I need someone to tell them I’m innocent.”

  “I don’t know that you’re innocent.”

  Lowe gripped the bars, so upset he forgot to avoid the filth. “Help me, Professor.”

  “Did you push me in the river?”

  “What?”

  “You were seen returning to the falls,” Bradshaw lied, watching Lowe carefully.

  “What are you talking about? The falls? I was arrested last night for Oglethorpe’s murder.”

  Was he a good actor or was his puzzlement genuine? “You must have given them good reason to arrest you.”

  “I didn’t do it, you know I didn’t. Oglethorpe was dead when I got there, I swear to God.”

  “You were there?”

  “You know I was. And I would have told the police about Henry Pratt by now if it weren’t for his niece.”

  Bradshaw’s legs suddenly grew weak, but the only chair in sight was beneath the jailor. He joined Lowe, gripping the filthy cold bars for support.

  “Mr. Lowe, I think you’d better start at the beginning.”

  “Can’t we do this later, when I’m out of here?”

  “Are you an anarchist?”

  “No! I attended a few meetings to learn how they think, but I’m no anarchist, you must believe me.”

  “What, another thesis paper?”

  “The law school is holding a mock trial of the Haymarket anarchists next week. It counts as half our final grade. I’m defending August Spies, the leader who was convicted and sentenced to hang, so of course I needed to learn all I could about anarchy. But the police say I used that as an excuse to attend the meetings. They think I was plotting to kill the President, for God’s sake!”

  “You left the Administration Building at half past three. I saw you. And you admitted to me a moment ago that you’d seen Oglethorpe.”

  “But he was dead when I got there. In that birdcage. Just sitting there. It was horrible. I panicked and left. I didn’t see any reason why I should get involved. I have enough on my plate with school and my parents refusing me money—I didn’t need the complication.”

  “Why were you visiting Oglethorpe? Was it you who sent that woman with the note summoning him to the lab?”

  “You mean you really don’t know?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Your friend Henry Pratt sent that note. He had some cousin of your housekeeper’s deliver it. You didn’t seem to know last Sunday on the train, but I felt sure Henry would have sent you word by now or your housekeeper would have learned from her cousin. You really don’t know?”

  Bradshaw dropped his head. A tremendous weight pushed on his shoulders. His bones had turned to lead. Henry Pratt. Mrs. Prouty’s cousin.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said hoarsely. “Henry—”

  “No, Professor. Henry Pratt didn’t kill Oglethorpe. At least, I don’t think he did. Listen, I’d better start at the beginning. Last year, Pratt and I both invested in Oglethorpe’s oil stock.”

  “Yes, I know about that, and that you learned from Mrs. Oglethorpe that you’d been cheated.”

  “I was in a bind, Professor—my father—well, that’s a whole other story. My parents are annoyed enough that I chose to go to school in a frontier town, they’d never forgive me for losing so much on a bad investment. My father’s never lost a cent. Now I’m up to my neck in debt. I thought I could convince Oglethorpe to pay up, to do the right thing. He was damned conniving about the whole deal.”

  “So what did you do when Mrs. Oglethorpe telephoned?”

  “I was in a lecture when she telephoned and didn’t get the message until after noon. I wanted to confront Oglethorpe, but I figured there was strength in numbers, so I went to find Pratt to go up to the university with me.”

  “What time was it, when you went in search of Henry?”

  “A little after two.”

  “And did you find him?”

  “He was at the bar across from Cooper and Levy Outfitters, whistling Dixie, and buying drinks on the house. He took me aside and told me how he’d gotten his fair share. He knew Oglethorpe would never leave class at his summons, so he typed up a note using your name and the Electric Machine as the bait. Once he’d gotten Oglethorpe alone in the lab, he threatened him, said he’d to go to the police with how Oglethorpe had cheated us, he’d tell the newspapers, anyone who would listen, and of course the scandal would have ruined the Professor, so he paid up. It wasn’t for the full amount Henry would have made, but it was enough to satisfy him. Enough to buy a full Klondike outfit.”

  “And Oglethorpe was alive when Henry left?”

  “I assume so. Henry told me to get up the university and get my share, too. I went, but I didn’t get my money because Oglethorpe was dead, as I told you, in that cage. Oglethorpe lied to me, yes. He stole from me, yes again. And I was bitterly angry—but I didn’t kill him.”

  Bradshaw rubbed his temples. “You said you knew on Thursday that Henry was going to Alaska.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why did you come to my house on Sunday and tell my housekeeper you wanted to speak to him?”

  Lowe actually looked sheepish. “Because I knew he wasn’t there. I came by to talk to you about the whole mess. You were at the end of your street when I got there, with your son, and I was going to run to catch up, but then I saw in your front garden the most intriguing girl—“

  “Yes, yes,” Bradshaw interrupted, not wanting to hear again the young man turn into a lovesick fool. “I take it your infatuation made you question the correct course of action.”

  “I was dying to know who she was. I went round back to talk to your housekeeper. Once I learned Henry was her uncle, I didn’t dare risk getting him involved. How could I do something so horrible to such an exquisite—”

  “The truth, Mr. Lowe, is always the best course of action. Your delay has only made things worse.”

  “But you’ll get me out of here.”

  “I have no proof of your innocence, only your word. I do believe you, but do you really want me to go upstairs and tell them that they have the wrong man? That they should be sending men to Alaska to search for Henry Pratt? They certainly won’t set you free simply because I tell them you’re innocent.”

  “We don’t know it was Henry. I don’t think he would have sent me up to the university to see Oglethorpe if he had just killed him.”

  “Frankly, Mr. Lowe, I don’t know what to think. But I won’t betray my friend unless I know for certain he has done wrong.”

  “But that means I must stay here.”

  “That’s up to you.”

  “But Professor, if I tell them about Henry, and he is innocent, even if he’s guilty, then his niece will hate me forever.”

  “So you asked me here to tell the police for you? So that Missouri would hate me instead of you?”

  “It’s different for you. You’re her uncle’s friend, you’re her self-appointed guardian. She would understand if you—”

  “She would not understand, and she would not forgive.”

  Lowe looked as if he wanted to argue further, to say that it couldn’t possibly matter what a lovely young creature like Missouri thought of a dour old man like Professor Bradshaw. The words weren’t spoken, but Bradshaw understood what he saw in the young man’s eyes.

  Anger, or perhaps jealousy, gave him the energy to stand tall, shoulders back.

  “I can’t help you, Mr. Lowe. Not now. If I learn more, I will let you know. In the meantime, tell the police whatever you like. If I were you, I’d get a good lawyer.”

  ***

  When the back door of the mansion opened, Bradshaw didn’t know what to say. He’d known from Mrs. Prouty’s prattling that her cousin worked for the Peterson family on First Hill, but in all these years Mrs.
Prouty had never mentioned, that he recalled, her cousin’s name. The Japanese boy who answered the door stared at him silently.

  “If it’s the ice man, tell him to leave an extra block,” came a replica of Mrs. Prouty’s voice from the depths of the kitchen.

  “Not ice, Mrs. Gertie. A stranger.”

  “I’m Professor Bradshaw, young man. Would you ask Mrs. Gertie if I might have a word?”

  Mrs. Gertie appeared behind the boy, younger than Mrs. Prouty by a few years, not quite as stout, but equally stern. She positively glowered at Bradshaw.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “I’m Professor Bradshaw.”

  “I know it.”

  “Could I speak to you for a few minutes?”

  “Haven’t got the time, I’ve a house to run.” She began to shut the door.

  “It’s about Henry…” the door continued to swing, “but if you’re busy, I’ll just ask the police.”

  The door reversed direction, and a moment later, Bradshaw found himself seated in a tiny servants’ parlor, a cup of strong tea balanced on his knee. He’d been given tea by Miss Trout, tea by the Oglethorpe’s maid, and now tea by Mrs. Prouty’s cousin. Was it this way for Detective O’Brien, he wondered? Tea with each interview? A man would have to possess healthy kidneys and a strong bladder to get through a full day of questioning suspects.

  “You didn’t say nothing to Gladys, did you, Professor?”

  “Gladys? Oh, Mrs. Prouty. No, no. Your cousin has no idea that you are involved with Henry.”

  “We’re not involved, Professor,” she said with a contradictory blush. “I’ve merely stepped out a few times with him, gone to the moving pictures like, had lunch at the park. He’s a nice fellow. He makes me laugh,” and as she spoke, she miraculously looked younger, prettier, and quite capable of laughing. Henry, he thought, you old dog. “Gladys would never understand. She’s that set against him.”