by Renée Rosen
“This is absurd,” said Marsh. “Of course someone had to have heard something, seen something. And what about this Vera Scott woman? What the devil are we supposed to do about her?”
“I took her to a hotel up north,” said Spencer. “She’s waiting there to hear from me.”
“Do you think she’ll talk to the reporters? Do you think she’ll talk to anyone?” Delia asked.
“I told her not to say a word. Not to anyone.”
“And you trust her?” Marsh was horrified.
“She’s scared to death,” said Spencer. “She thinks she’s going to jail. Trust me, she’s not going to talk.”
“This will work,” said Delia.
Marsh stood up, stuffed his hands inside his pockets and walked around the room. Finally he stopped and looked at Delia. “Just tell me exactly what you’re suggesting.”
“I’m suggesting that we stick with Spencer’s original story and tell the press that Junior accidentally shot himself.”
“Actually,” said Spencer, “that was Junior’s idea, too. He said he’d just bought a new gun. It’s still up in his room. He said to tell you he’d shot himself by accident while he was cleaning it.”
“Then that’s our story,” said Delia, slapping her hands to her lap. “We’ll come up with a statement for the press and we’ll stick to it. And don’t look at me like that, Marshall. We can’t have this in the papers. We can’t do that to Albertine or to the children.”
“And what about the taxi driver and the servants?” asked Marsh. “Surely they must have seen that Junior was shot when you brought him back home.”
“We told them he was drunk. Even we didn’t notice that much blood until we got him upstairs, so I highly doubt they did,” said Spencer.
“And what about that Vera Scott woman?” asked Marsh. “I don’t trust her.”
“Then we get rid of her. We send her away—overseas somewhere.” Delia said this as if she were disposing trash in a bin. She was shocked that she was so coolheaded and so was Marsh. Again, he shot her a mortified look. “Well?” she said. “Can you think of a better way to handle her?”
“We’ll never get away with this. I’ve never lied to the press before,” said Marsh. “They have ways of finding things out.”
“You’ve also never been put in this kind of predicament before,” Delia reminded him. “This is more about protecting your family than lying to the press.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Delia stayed up with Marsh most of the night, going over the statement he would give to the press, looking for loopholes, anything that could trip them up.
Before he gave an official statement and before Marsh talked to his friends at the police station, Spencer made the travel arrangements for Vera Scott and took Marsh and Delia to the hotel where she was waiting. Thankfully the number of reporters looming outside their mansion had thinned and Spencer was able to appease them by simply saying he was taking Mr. and Mrs. Field to the hospital.
Later that morning they arrived at a shoddy-looking hotel up on Diversey Parkway with peeling paint on the walls and threadbare carpets in the lobby. A musty smell hung in the air. Vera Scott’s room was up on the second floor at the very end, and while they waited out in the drafty hallway, the door opened just a crack. The chain latch was still in place, letting a sliver of Vera Scott’s face show through.
“Who else is with you?” she asked.
“I’ve brought Mr. and Mrs. Field,” said Spencer.
“No police?” she asked.
“No police.”
Delia heard the chain slide across the latch and then the door opened. Vera let them into the tiny hotel room with a radiator clacking and condensation climbing up the windows. Vera’s dark hair was tousled and her lip rouge was smeared. It was barely ten o’clock in the morning and Vera was dressed in a flashy sequined dress, presumably the very dress she’d worn the night of the shooting. The bed was unmade and the sheets were rumpled; her shoes were lying under a chair, soles up.
After they were all inside, Vera asked about Junior. “Is he going to be all right?”
Spencer nodded. “The operation was a success.”
“Oh, thank God.” She rested her open hand across her chest. “I don’t know what I would have done if he’d died. You’re not going to turn me in to the police, are you? It was an accident. I swear it was. I never even held a gun before in my life. You won’t turn me in, will you?”
“That depends on you,” said Marsh.
“What do you mean? What do I have to do?”
“Leave Chicago. Leave the country,” he said, matter-of-factly. “If you agree to leave and keep your mouth shut, you’ll stay out of jail.”
Vera’s eyes grew wide and Delia watched her go from being a shrewd New York City woman to a frightened little girl. “But I don’t have any money to leave town, let alone get out of the country.”
Marsh reached for an envelope tucked inside his breast pocket. “This should cover your needs and ensure your silence.”
“How much?” she asked.
“There’s twenty thousand dollars.”
Vera Scott took a deep breath as she looked inside the envelope. It was probably more money than she’d ever seen in one place, at one time. It was probably more money than she’d expected to ever see in her lifetime.
“You’ll go to San Francisco and then take a steamer bound for the Orient.”
“The Orient!” There was that frightened little girl again, looking at them with alarm in her eyes.
“Hong Kong,” Spencer clarified. “We’ve made all the arrangements. And in the meantime, I need you to stick around here. Don’t go anywhere.”
“You mean I have to stay in this hotel room like a prisoner?”
“Unless you prefer a jail cell,” offered Marsh.
“Okay, fine.” She folded her arms across her chest.
“I’ll come back and get you tomorrow,” said Spencer.
“And now, Miss Scott,” Marsh said, replacing his hat, “I’ll expect to never see or hear of you again.”
• • •
On Saturday, November 25, Marsh and Delia paid a visit to Marsh’s longtime friend, the police chief, Stephen Collins. By noon that same day, the official statement was made to the press, and immediately after that, word of Junior’s accidental gunshot wound was on the front page of every newspaper. The story caught on, the details expanding with each edition.
The Chicago Tribune was the first to report that:
Police Chief Collins stated that his detectives had conducted a thorough investigation that included questioning members of the Field mansion staff as well as neighbors. After examining all the evidence, Collins was satisfied that the shooting was the result of a self-inflicted accident.
Delia spent the balance of the day keeping tabs on all the newspapers. The Chicago Daily News seemed to corroborate the story by reporting that Junior had recently purchased the automatic revolver from Roach, Hirth & Company on Wabash and Monroe. By six o’clock that evening Delia was satisfied that the press was under control, though a slew of reporters still hovered outside the hospital and both of the Field mansions, their pens and cameras ready, hoping for updates. But as it stood, there was little to report. Thankfully Junior’s condition had stabilized. Delia and Marsh went back home to get some rest and suggested the same to Albertine, but she refused to leave the sickroom.
Early the next day, on Sunday, November 26, while Marsh went back to the hospital, Delia accompanied Spencer to take Vera Scott to the train. By the time they left the depot, it had started to snow again, light flakes that spiraled down, landing on the windshield of Spencer’s motorcar. The leather upholstery was stiff and so cold it seemed as if it were on the verge of cracking. They could see their breath in the air.
“Is he in love with her?” Delia asked
.
“Who?”
“Junior. Is Junior in love with that woman?”
“They’re just friends.”
Delia gave him a knowing look. “A man and a woman are never just friends. Even when they are.”
Spencer gripped onto the steering wheel and sighed. “He talked about leaving Albertine for her.” He stole a worrisome look at Delia. “You won’t say anything to his father, will you?”
“What, and crush him? Absolutely not.”
After that, Delia hardly said a word on the drive back to the hospital. When they arrived, she and Spencer worked their way through a handful of reporters that were clustered together at the entranceway. Once inside, they headed down the long corridor of shiny tiled walls and found Albertine waiting outside Junior’s sickroom. As soon as she saw her, Delia felt a panic creep up her spine. Albertine looked pale and drained, her eyes rimmed red, a handkerchief clutched in her hand.
“What’s wrong?” Delia asked, rushing over to her. “What’s happened?”
“Junior’s fever spiked.” Albertine dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. “He has an infection now.”
Delia dropped into the chair next to her. “How serious is it?”
“The doctors are in with him now,” said Albertine. “They said it’s not good.”
“Does Marsh know?”
Albertine nodded.
“Has anyone notified Ethel?”
“We wired her and she’s on her way from London.” Albertine’s voice began to crack. “I don’t think she’ll make it here in time.”
Spencer went over to Albertine and sat with his arm around her shoulder.
“Where’s Marsh?” Delia asked.
“He’s in with the doctors,” Albertine managed to say before she broke down completely, sobbing into Spencer’s shoulder.
Delia entered the sickroom, shocked by the change in Junior’s condition. When last she’d seen him, just the day before, he’d been weak, but alert. He was sitting up and talking, making plans for when he got out of the hospital. Now he was frail, his breathing labored and shallow, his skin mottled.
Marsh turned when he heard Delia come in. He looked exhausted; deep lines had formed around his eyes and across his brow. His skin was nearly as white as his hair. He held her tight and just shook his head. No words were needed to tell her that his thirty-seven-year-old son was dying.
The family stayed at the hospital Sunday night, taking turns sitting with Junior. It all seemed so final, so unreal. When it was just Delia alone with Junior, she reached over for his hand and pressed it to her cheek. She didn’t know if he could hear her, but still she spoke to him.
“I couldn’t have loved you more if you’d been my own son. I remember when I first saw you with your governess in the neighborhood. After that, I always tried to keep a piece of chocolate or a lollipop in my pocket just in case I’d run into you. . . .” She continued to reminisce, sitting at his side, holding his limp hand in hers. Before she got up to leave she leaned over and whispered in his ear, “And don’t worry about Vera Scott. No one will ever know. That will be our little secret. . . .”
On Monday morning, Father Hugh McGuire entered the sickroom and administered the last rites. Afterward, unable to bear it any longer, Delia and Spencer helped Albertine into the hallway, where she collapsed in a chair sobbing. Marsh stayed with Junior.
Twenty minutes later, the door to Junior’s room opened and everyone held their breath. When Marsh stepped out into the hallway, his blue gray eyes were misted over. He seemed lost. Delia had never seen him that way before. He looked at them all and nodded. It was over.
• • •
At first no one questioned the family’s explanation that Junior had accidentally shot himself. Delia was beginning to believe that they would escape the scandal unscathed. But then, not three days after they’d buried Junior, Marsh walked into the sitting room and handed Delia the latest edition of the Daily News.
“Now what?” he asked, dropping down in the chair next to hers.
Delia scanned the headline: “Reenactment of Field Shooting Leads to More Questions Than Answers.” Her skin turned clammy as she read the article. Her eyes scanned the words in disbelief.
“They’re asking how Junior’s gun could have caused that type of injury,” said Marsh, wringing his hands. “All the experts agree that even if the gun had been dropped and dislodged, it would be impossible for the bullet to have entered Junior’s body at that angle.”
Delia set the newspaper down and reached for his hands. She didn’t know what to say.
“And lastly,” added Marsh, pulling his hand away, “they’re questioning how a seasoned gunman like Junior could have accidentally shot himself. What are we going to do? I knew this wouldn’t work.”
“It’s going to be okay. It has to be okay.”
Marsh paced before the windows. Neither one of them spoke.
They were locked into their silence when Spencer rushed into the sitting room, his dark hair slick with sweat, a newspaper tucked under his arm. “Did you see the Chicago Defender?” he asked.
“Oh God,” said Marsh. “What now?”
Delia felt sick.
Spencer pulled the newspaper from under his arm and snapped it open. “They’re claiming that an anonymous witness said that Junior was shot during a poker game. Supposedly he’d won a lot of money off some man who turned around and shot him. They’re just making that up. It’s a blatant lie.”
Delia didn’t have the heart to remind Spencer that everything they’d conjured up was a lie as well.
Spencer folded the newspaper and slapped it on the coffee table. “And that’s better than the Eagle. They’re calling it a suicide.”
Delia felt everything inside her begin to sink. It had taken all her strength to get through the funeral, and now this. They had to start defending their position all over again. She glanced across the room. Spencer was slumped down in the chair, running his hands through his hair. Marsh stared out the window, hardly blinking at all. Spencer was coming unglued and Marsh was too grief-stricken to think clearly. It was up to her. She summoned all her will and felt everything inside her pull together, propping herself up.
“Now listen to me,” she said, looking first at Spencer and then at Marsh. “Junior accidentally shot himself. In his home. That’s what happened. Nothing else. Do you hear me?”
“And what am I supposed to tell the reporters?” asked Marsh. “They won’t go away.”
“You tell them exactly what I just said. And then you do whatever it takes to make them go away.”
“Are you suggesting what I think you’re . . .” He couldn’t finish the thought.
“It’s the only way, Marsh. Thank God you’re in a position to do it.”
Only Delia, Marsh and Spencer knew the truth and they, along with the rest of the Field family, stood firm. Delia had told the lie to herself and everyone else so many times she was starting to believe it herself. An infection as a result of an accidental self-inflicted gunshot wound was the cause of death. No dispute. It was backed up in full by the police and the coroner’s office and everyone else that Marsh paid to preserve his family’s honor.
Still Delia searched the newspapers every day, holding her breath, waiting and fearful that someone else would question their story. She was antsy and couldn’t relax. The truth was, she felt cursed. It had been one tragedy, one loss, after another. First Nannie and then Arthur and now Junior. She was afraid to ask what could possibly happen next. Here she and Marsh had finally found their happiness and now it was already buried beneath their grief and sorrow.
Marsh was destroyed by the death of his son. She’d never seen him so broken or overcome with emotion. There were days he couldn’t get out of bed. One afternoon she found him sitting in the chair with an unopened newspaper on his lap. He was still t
here an hour later.
Delia went over to his side. “Would you like to go down to the store today? ”
Marsh stared out the window and shook his head.
“How about a game of chess?”
“Not now,” he said, barely moving his lips. He shook his head again, his eyes as empty as his heart. “What the hell was I thinking? Who the hell cares if Junior worked in the business or not? I’m just now starting to realize that I didn’t even know my own son. I didn’t know what he wanted, what he hoped for. What did he want for his family? I have no idea.” Marsh shook his head, bewildered. “I’ve lost my boy and now it’s too late to tell him that I don’t give a damn that he didn’t become a merchant. Why was that so goddamned important to me all those years?”
Delia pulled over the ottoman and sat across from him. He seemed to have aged so after losing Junior. “You were only doing what you thought was best for him.”
“For him. Or for me?” He shook his head. “I squandered all that time. And for what?”
Delia sat with him the rest of the afternoon. The daylight streaming in through the windows threw changing shadows about the room as she tried everything she could to console Marsh. No matter what she said, what she did, he’d just shake his head. The man who had rebuilt Chicago after the Great Fire now could not rebuild himself. Part of him had died right along with his son.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
1906
Six weeks after Junior’s death, the day after New Year’s, Marsh was talked into going golfing with his good friend Robert Todd Lincoln and Spencer. Marsh was actually just starting to come out of his darkness and told Delia he thought this was just the thing he needed.
“But it’s the middle of winter. No one golfs in the wintertime.” Delia stood in the hallway with all of them, protesting. “And besides, you said you were getting a sore throat.”