A Spark of Death

by Bernadette Pajer

  Bradshaw said, “You must have hated him.”

  “Hate is a very strong word. I certainly hated that Marion loved a man who didn’t deserve her.”

  Bradshaw set the photographs of Olive and Wes on the desk, facing the doctor. “What about the children. Do you love them?”

  Unshed tears filled the doctor’s eyes as he looked at his two children.

  “Do you love them so much you found a way to be a part of their lives? Were you afraid your new child would grow up unloved in Oglethorpe’s house?”

  Dr. Swenson touched the photographs tenderly with his fingertips. “The funny thing is, I thought about his death. I’d imagine some accident, a runaway horse, double pneumonia. Some sudden and rapid fatality, always brought on by his own stupid arrogance. I imagined myself comforting Marion, and her turning to me, realizing it was me she loved all along. But now that it’s happened—well, it’s not like the fantasy. Marion’s mourning, the children’s sorrow, and my guilt. Oh, I didn’t do it, Professor. I had nothing to do with Oglethorpe’s death in that electric contraption, but I as good as wished it upon him. Marion is turning to me, but as a friend only. She’s changed toward me. I think maybe she’d had thoughts, too, about what life would be like without her troublesome husband. Now his death has killed any chance of a future for us. I think she means to honor her late husband by denying me the chance to be a father to my own children.”

  ***

  Bradshaw stood on the steps of Doctor Swenson’s office building unsure what to do next. Traffic was heavy, and the policeman at the intersection was busy keeping the vehicles untangled. A shiny new motorcar was causing a stir with its sputtering progress, spooking horses and drawing pedestrians dangerously into the street for a closer view.

  The bustling activity only made Bradshaw more unsure of what to believe. Marion Oglethorpe had borne children of her doctor, and Oglethorpe had recently learned that the child she now carried wasn’t his own. Had maternal protective instinct driven her to kill her own husband? Had she arranged it all, persuading Henry to lure Oglethorpe to the lab where she hid, waiting to end her misery with a shocking jolt?

  Or was it Dr. Swenson, who had foolishly given Marion Oglethorpe the children she so wanted, that had waited in the lab and done the deed once Henry had gone? Did Swenson kill Oglethorpe at Marion’s request, or of his own accord so that he could become father to his own children and husband to Marion? Had Swenson been up at Snoqualmie and pushed Bradshaw into the river?

  And what of Artimus Lowe? Who so neatly tied all elements together, from anarchy to revenge, and even the lightness of his footstep?

  And then there was Henry. Henry, by all accounts, was responsible for that note that summoned Oglethorpe down to the lab and hence his death. Henry had been in the lab near the time of Oglethorpe’s death, for he’d extracted that payment from Oglethorpe sometime after the note was delivered. And Henry had fled on the first boat out of Seattle to Alaska.

  Who was the guilty party? They all had motive, all had opportunity, and all had ability. The possible circuit paths to Oglethorpe’s death formed and reformed in Bradshaw’s mind, components rearranging themselves, wires crossing and shorting at so fast a rate for a moment Bradshaw thought he could hear the crackle of the circuit, smell the sharp odor of burning wire and metal.

  Not until the policeman directing traffic shouted “Fire!” did Bradshaw understand that what he heard and smelled was real.

  Traffic became a snarled mess as the policeman abandoned his intersection. Drivers jumped from their vehicles and the motorman and passengers leaped from the streetcar to join the pedestrians running down the hill in the direction of the black smoke. Bradshaw was among them. He’d not been living in Seattle in ‘89 when the Great Fire consumed thirty blocks of the city’s very heart, but many of those around him had, and he saw the panic on their faces.

  Seattle had been rebuilt upon more solid foundations above the burned-out rubble, and the buildings now were mostly of stone and brick. But there was enough fuel even in the newer, safer construction to fan flames of fear.

  Fire alarms rang and shouts for help were heeded.

  Unfortunately, it was the Seattle Tent Factory that burned, a three-story wooden building, formerly a hotel, built hastily after the Great Fire to be a temporary structure and never replaced. Huge flames leaped from broken windows, and choking black smoke billowed into the sky. The fire department had not yet arrived, but the creamery across the street had thrown open its doors and tossed out every vessel and container available. A bucket brigade had been formed, and Bradshaw joined in, passing the sloshing tin pails and rope-handled tubs along the line.

  “Is everybody out?” Bradshaw shouted above the din to the denim-clad man beside him.

  “Everybody but the boss. Started in his office.”

  The buckets were passed so rapidly, talking became impossible. The heat of the fire added to the heat of hard work. Bradshaw soon soaked through his shirt and was glad for the cooling water that sloshed upon his hands and feet.

  The fire wagon arrived with bells clanging, and within seconds their blasting hoses attacked the flames. The makeshift buckets were set down with relief.

  Bradshaw stood back with the others to rest and watch and hope. The denim-clad worker was still beside him.

  “Did you say you worked there?”

  “On the production line, folding and packaging.”

  “Any idea what started it? You said it began in the manager’s office?”

  “It was probably an accident, but we’ll get the blame.”

  “You mean the employees?”

  “We’ve been trying to bring in the union and get fair wages. The boss said he’d fire every one of us. They’ll blame it on the organizers, you wait and see. Organizers or some dang fool anarchist.”

  ***

  The setting sun illuminated the charred and dripping remains with an amber glow. The firemen had gone, as had the helpful crowd, but Bradshaw, wet and soot-covered, sat wearily upon the hydrant, wondering what the world was coming to. Unhappy marriages, underpaid workers, zealous anarchists. Behind every face lurked secrets, even behind his own. He didn’t know whom to trust or where to turn. Only in his son’s precious face did he believe pure goodness and innocence existed—and he felt unworthy, just now, to behold it. So he sat.

  Detective O’Brien, looking impossibly clean in his brown suit and Roosevelt hat, emerged from the black depths of the destroyed building, mildly surprised to see Bradshaw.

  “You knew Gordon Purdy?”

  “Who? Oh, you must mean the manager. No, I didn’t know him. He had family, I suppose?”

  “Wife, three grown children, one grandchild.”

  What a night this would be for them. “I hope it was an accident.”

  “Why?”

  “Intentional death is so much harder to live with. The anger and bitterness never go away.”

  “You’re speaking from personal experience.”

  Bradshaw looked O’Brien square in the eye. “You know I am.”

  O’Brien shrugged. “We had to investigate every possibility.” He extended a hand. Bradshaw accepted it. It wasn’t an apology O’Brien was offering, but a truce of sorts. An acknowledgment of Bradshaw’s having withstood both the inquest and the uncovering of his personal past with dignity.

  “Artimus Lowe is only part of the puzzle, you know, Bradshaw. That committee I told you about wanted an arrest. I gave them one. We’re still investigating Oglethorpe’s death. We may have to question you about Henry Pratt.”

  Bradshaw nodded, waiting for questions to follow. But O’Brien was content for now with giving him the warning. He had another, more immediate concern.

  “There’s something I want you to see.”

  Together, they walked through the gutted fi
rst floor of the tent factory. The smell was sharp, like having one’s head stuck up a chimney. In what must have been the manager’s office, O’Brien crouched before the charred remains of an inner wall. He pointed to a blackened bell that had been part of a signal system. The connecting wires were completely melted.

  “I don’t know why, but when I first saw that, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. The fire chief believes that’s where the fire started.”

  Bradshaw stared at O’Brien for a moment. He wondered if everyone went about this world, getting insight and clues to important events in the form of tingles and goose bumps.

  O’Brien pointed again at the wires. “What do you think?”

  Bradshaw hunkered down and examined the burnt wires. “There was a short in the wiring. You see this here? It takes much higher temperature than normal fire to melt copper this way. There must have been an electrical arc, but the battery power needed for a bell system shouldn’t have caused all this, not unless there was something highly combustible nearby. Did anyone mention if the lights went off before the fire?”

  “Yes, as a matter-of-fact. The conveyor system, too.”

  “That would explain it then, there must be a transformer for the bells wired into building’s electrical system. Plenty of power there for a short to cause damage.”

  O’Brien rubbed his neck. “The production foreman said the bell hadn’t been working properly since yesterday. Would you be able to tell if something was deliberately tampered with?”

  “Not now. All the evidence will have been destroyed by the flames,” he said, but the hair on the back of his neck was now standing up, too.

  “This is the second death in Seattle this week connected to union organizers.”

  “Second?”

  “Charles Jackson was the first. He was found dead in his hotel bath of apparent heart failure. The coroner suspects electrical shock may have been involved, but he can’t prove it. There’s no evidence on the body, but an electrician was summoned the evening before Jackson’s body was found because of trouble with the lights.”

  “Was this Jackson a very large individual?”

  “Professor, you continue to amaze me. Yes, an extremely large individual. You didn’t know him, by chance?”

  “No. I saw the body at the funeral home.”

  “He’d been traveling under a false name, but a man of that size doesn’t easily blend into a crowd. He worked for the Pinkerton Detective Agency and was here to dredge up business. A half-dozen factory owners whose employees have been trying to unionize had already signed on when Jackson was found, dead in the tub. It took six men to haul him out.”

  “The workers here, in this factory, were talking to the union, I was told. Are the deaths connected, Jackson’s and Purdy’s?”

  “I believe so, but I have no proof. All I have are questions.”

  Bradshaw stood, his muscles and joints complaining all the way. He followed O’Brien out of the damaged building to the evening air.

  “I’d like to use you as an expert witness, Bradshaw. For this case, and for Jackson’s, if Cline can come up with enough evidence. Would you be interested?”

  Bradshaw took a deep breath, but he still smelled and tasted soot. “Is this typical in police work, Detective? Unending questions, unearthing people’s personal traumas, and deaths with no solutions?”

  O’Brien pushed up the brim of his hat and chuckled. “That’s only on the bad days. On the good days what gets me out of bed in the morning are the unending questions, unearthing people’s traumas, and the challenge of investigating deaths with no obvious solutions.”

  Bradshaw shook his head. “I believe I know what you mean. Call on me, Detective. If you feel I can be of service. I’m going home now. Before I fall down.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “Mr. Bradshaw?”

  “Hmm?” Bradshaw sat heavy in his easy chair staring into the hearth fire, too tired to drag himself upstairs to bed. Too tired to think. He’d bathed and changed, but the scent of soot had seeped into his pores.

  Missouri sat opposite him, studying a book about the operation of the telephone and switchboard at her new place of employment. He expected a question about crossed lines or faulty switches.

  “The police questioned me today.”

  He took a weary breath. She was going to ask about Henry, and Gertie, and that note.

  “They came to the hotel and Mr. Padelford had to relieve me at my post. They asked about Uncle Henry and you and Artimus Lowe. They even asked about anarchy.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “That I don’t know anything. What could I know? I only arrived in Seattle on Saturday. And all I know about anarchy I read in the newspapers.”

  She gripped her book so tightly her knuckles shone white.

  “You were correct to tell the police whatever they asked.”

  “It’s not what I told them that concerns me, it’s what they told me. And it has nothing to do with Professor Oglethorpe or any sort of assassination plot.”

  “They told you about that possibility?”

  “I figured it out for myself from the sort of questions they were asking.”

  “So what is concerning you?” He looked into her amber eyes, made deep and simmering by the firelight.

  She chewed her lip. “They said that your wife committed suicide.”

  He tore his gaze away.

  “I think they were trying to unnerve me. They seemed to believe I knew much more about you than I was telling. I told them that although I’d been corresponding to my uncle for years, and that I knew my uncle shared my letters with you, I truly knew very little about you. I certainly know nothing of your politics, or my uncle’s, nor especially Artimus Lowe’s. I think they’re trying to put together some conspiracy that involves all of you but can’t make it fit together.”

  He got to his feet, eyes on the hall, the stairs, escape from this conversation. “I don’t know what happened to Professor Oglethorpe, Missouri. I can’t promise you that your uncle isn’t involved. I’m fairly sure Mr. Lowe will eventually be released from jail. I only know for certain that I am not guilty of murder or anarchy. You are safe here in my home.”

  He took a few steps.

  “But is it true? About your wife?”

  He stopped, his back toward her. “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “It’s none of your business, Miss Fremont.”

  “It explains so much about you. You might feel better if you talk about it.”

  Bradshaw spun around and found she’d risen, clutching her book. Her eyes were full of pity. Something inside him exploded. He ripped the book from her hands and threw it across the room with such force it splayed against the wall with a crash before dropping to the floor. He stormed from the parlor, taking the stairs two at a time. Only his son sleeping in the next room prevented him from slamming his door until the house shook.

  ***

  When he came downstairs a half hour later, he found Missouri in the kitchen, washing out tea things at the sink, back erect, her pale bare neck vulnerable.

  She turned toward him, and he thrust a yellowed news clipping out to her. She dried her hands and, without meeting his eyes, took the clipping from him. She brought it nearer to the gas lamp by the sink and began to read.

  Her shoulders folded inward. He couldn’t see her face, and he was glad of it, but he continued to watch her read, hearing each word as if the clipping were being read aloud.

  YOUNG WIFE SWALLOWS CARBOLIC ACID

  BOSTON, November 12 – A dinner party hosted by Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw in their home ended tragically last night. According to Mrs. Bostwick, who attended the affair, Mrs. Rachel Bradshaw had grown distraught by the bitter silence of her husband. In the midst of t
he meal, she rose from the table, strode to the sideboard, and filled her wineglass with carbolic acid. She toasted her husband with the words, “If silence is what you want, I give you an eternity of it” then swallowed the acid before any of her astonished guests could stop her. Immediately, she cried for help, but within seconds she could no longer speak and though the doctor was quickly summoned, Mrs. Bradshaw could not be saved. She was twenty-six years old. She leaves her husband and an infant son of four months.

  ***

  Bradshaw sat alone in the dark parlor. Only the muted light from the kitchen and the dying embers softened the darkness. He heard Missouri enter and move toward the lamp.

  “No,” he said. “No light.”

  She stood gently silhouetted. Her voice was rough from her tears. “Uncle Henry never told me.”

  “I swore him to secrecy.”

  “You aren’t to blame.”

  He didn’t reply. He often felt he was to blame.

  “Was she unkind to you?”

  He laughed, and the sound was bitter and hollow. “Unkind? She hated me.”

  Missouri stepped softly on the carpet and knelt at Bradshaw’s feet.

  “Tell me.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, he did. There in the darkness, as the little mantel clock ticked away the night, he began to speak of things he never spoke of. Slowly at first, hesitantly, but as the memories came flooding back so did the words. He told her everything. He told her about the hectic courtship to Rachel Sutherland in Boston. He told her of the wedding plans, the hopes and dreams they’d shared. He’d been young, unobservant, oblivious to what should have been obvious signs of Rachel’s true nature. He’d not questioned why such a beautiful and wealthy young woman was willing to settle for a poor, newly graduated engineer and teacher. She could have chosen any man, he’d thought, and so he’d been flattered when she chose him.

  Immediately after the wedding, she’d revealed her true self. She had refused to move to Seattle, although that had been their plan. Everything he wanted, everything they’d planned, she suddenly despised. When she discovered her pregnancy, she was furious. For nine months, Bradshaw had cowed to her every whim and mood, terrified that her violent temper would endanger the child she carried. When at last his son was born, he’d wept with relief and joy. Rachel had thrust the child away and refused to have anything to do with him. Bradshaw had taken over the care of his son, feeding him Mellin’s Infant Food, bathing and changing him. His parents hired a nursemaid to help him, but Bradshaw only left Justin in her care when he had no other choice, when he had to work. His son became his entire life.