Winter Sisters

by Robin Oliveira

  Harley peered at him.

  “Didn’t you know that all the basements in the Pastures are completely under water?”

  A flicker of panic crossed Harley’s face.

  “Don’t worry. Captain Mantel sent me himself to look it over, secure it.” The lie rolled easily off his tongue. “Didn’t want the house of a hero looted.”

  “Flooded? The basement? How high did the water reach?” Harley said, balling a swath of silken sheet into a fist. As pale as he had been, he grew paler still.

  In an offhanded manner, Farrell said, “You’ll be happy to know, though, that I found those girls.”

  “You did?” Harley’s voice was a strangled mix of dread and joy. “In the cellar—where? Oh, the poor dears. Are they all right? Did they survive the water?”

  Farrell paused before saying, “But how could they have survived? They’re dead, aren’t they?”

  An opaque veil drew across Harley’s face as he realized his mistake. He sank against the headboard and shut his eyes.

  It was difficult for Farrell to contain his loathing. He’d almost missed the sisters in the dark. What would have happened to them if he hadn’t found them? “I hear there were two of you.”

  “Two of us what?”

  “Two of you who took the girls.”

  “How did you know where I was?” Harley managed, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “I’ll tell you that when you tell me who brought you here,” Farrell said. “And if there was another man.”

  But Harley had gone silent.

  Sick as Harley was, there was little chance he would escape, but Farrell was feeling none too generous. He called O’Brien in, who manacled himself to Harley with a pair of nippers.

  Farrell next questioned Melody. Locks of her dark hair tumbled across a forehead ridged with worry. “But he’s a hero,” she said, her tone pleading as she glanced between the chamber door and the policeman. “He’s important.”

  “He’s important to you.”

  She affected nonchalance and failed, finally fixing Farrell with a defiant stare.

  “Are you the one who brought him here?” Farrell said.

  Melody shook her head.

  “Then who?”

  She refused to answer, an interesting bit of information that he logged away. “So a sick and injured Mr. Harley somehow just arrived on your doorstep yesterday? Out of the clear blue sky?”

  She nodded, dropping the robe again off one shoulder and looking at Farrell from under a thick fringe of dark eyelashes.

  “Did Harley say anything to you about two little girls?”

  “Little girls? No. It was two little boys. It was in all the papers.”

  Farrell tilted his head to one side. “You think you know James Harley well, don’t you?”

  Melody stiffened and yanked the lapels of her robe together with one hand. “I do know him. He’s good to me.”

  Color rose in her cheeks. In the last two years, Farrell had visited this house perhaps six times, having taken over the duties of bribe collection from another officer who had retired, and he had never seen her this discomfited.

  “How old were you, when you first started all this?” Farrell said, directing a nod at the closed parlor doors and the world beyond, any evidence of its shiny facade absent in this plain, homey kitchen, with its scarred wooden floors and muslin drapes. “Were you young?”

  She lifted her chin, a gesture at once defiant and defensive. “It’s not a terrible life, no matter what you think. I have money saved. Enough to live on for a long time. I’m leaving soon. Harley and I—we—” She stopped then, having concluded that she had said too much.

  In the relative privacy of a laundry outbuilding in back of the whorehouse Farrell questioned every prostitute in turn in order to obscure that he was interested only in Darlene, who happened to be the last. She eyed the policeman warily, leaning against the edge of a crude wooden shelf lined with several copper washtubs. A beautiful woolen shawl covered her bare shoulders and she worried a tip of the fine wrap against one cheek as she said, “The madam isn’t going to be too pleased with me, no matter if you don’t tell her it was me. She’s not stupid. Now what am I going to do? The doctor promised me she’d warn me before you came, so I could get away from the house.”

  “And I promised Dr. Stipp I wouldn’t arrest you. She wrote a note for me to give to you.”

  A look of bemused astonishment flooded the bone-weary features of Darlene’s face as Farrell held out an envelope.

  Darlene shook her head “I’m not good at that reading business. Would you read it to me?”

  “Later, after we talk,” Farrell said, tucking away the envelope in his jacket pocket.

  Darlene cast a longing glance at it before saying, “It was him, right? I was right? He’s the one who hurt those sisters?”

  “Just tell me what Mr. Harley said to you last night.”

  She was a loquacious woman, but the bones of her story matched the one the Stipps had reported, though Farrell was surprised when Darlene added that she had been the one who had cleaned Harley’s wound.

  The prostitute shrugged, as if this were nothing remarkable. “Dr. Stipp showed me how.” She held out her arms and displayed a set of healing scars.

  “How did that happen?”

  She shrugged again. “What does it matter? You won’t do anything about it. Hey, you’re not going to arrest me, are you?”

  “No. Not you. Harley and Melody, yes. And I agree with you that Melody is not a stupid woman. She’ll figure out it was you soon enough. I suggest that you go somewhere else, anywhere that isn’t here.”

  “I don’t have any money,” Darlene said, with a gesture of embarrassment. “I left it all behind in my other house. Haven’t had a chance to earn any here yet.”

  Farrell dug into his pocket and retrieved the roll of bills that Melody had pressed on him—Mantel’s monthly bribe.

  Darlene gaped at the fat wad, then breathed a knowing, resigned sigh. “So you want to—?”

  “No.”

  She looked skeptically from the money to him, and thrust her chin forward. “I always earn my way.”

  “You already have,” he said. He then read her the letter from Mary, in which she recommended that Darlene go to the House of Shelter.

  Farrell gave Darlene a head start down the road before he fettered the madam and Harley to the iron loops bolted inside the wagon bed. Melody spouted a string of epithets at Farrell, though her protest lacked enthusiasm, and soon enough she focused her attention on Harley’s comfort, divining a way to cradle his head in her lap without disturbing his dressing as they bumped down the drive in the police wagon, headed to the county jail.

  Chapter Thirty

  The next morning, at ten o’clock, Viola Van der Veer was doing something she never did. She was listening outside the open door of her husband’s study. Moments before, as she finished dressing, her maid had informed her that the police captain had come to see Gerritt, and she had hurried down the servant’s stairway to hover in the alcove adjacent to the doorway, pretending a sudden and profound interest in rearranging a bouquet of hothouse lilies enshrined on the alcove’s marble shelf. From the study came the crackle of a low fire, along with terse whispers of a conversation. She had never before stooped to eavesdropping, but neither was Gerritt forthcoming, and a visit by a police captain on a Thursday morning merited attention, especially when the city was in such turmoil. Jakob was still sleeping, or he had been an hour ago, when she’d looked in on him. Just after dinner, he had succumbed to deadening fatigue, and this morning had slept through breakfast.

  “I thought you would want to know,” Mantel murmured.

  “Alive?” came Gerritt’s incredulous voice, far louder than the police captain’s careful undertone. “Are you sure? The two O’Donnell girls?” />
  Viola’s heart leaped in her chest. With a swish of her skirts, she swept into the study.

  Gerritt glared at her, his expression a mixture of incredulity and irritation. “What is it, Viola?”

  “Did I hear correctly?” She could hardly get it out, disbelieving. “Bonnie’s daughters are alive?”

  Mantel had been leaning against the back of one of the tobacco-scented armchairs. He turned and removed his brimmed cap. His great coat was unbuttoned, its military-style brass buttons glinting in the low firelight. He had not taken the time to relieve himself of either cap or coat. It was clear that he did not mean to stay long.

  “How do you do, Mrs. Van der Veer? Yes. Those girls have come back to life. Found by one of my officers in the Pastures, apparently. On the streets.” Mantel swiveled to include Gerritt in the conversation. “And I’m sad to bring the news that it looks as if your Mr. Harley might be involved. I would have come to tell you last night, but it was late when Farrell returned, and I thought a visit this morning would draw less attention. Though I don’t know about that now. There were plenty of people afoot this morning. I haven’t much time. We’re doing double duty, all of us. I slept only three hours last night. I’m ragged to the bones.”

  “Where are they? Are they all right? Are they in the hospital? What happened?” Viola said.

  “Did I hear correctly? The O’Donnell girls are alive?” Now it was Jakob at the doorway. He was dressed in a worsted wool suit, a woolen muffler wrapped around his neck.

  “That’s right,” Mantel said.

  “Are you sure?” Jakob said.

  “It’s verified,” Mantel said. “Though I’ve not yet seen them myself.”

  “But how were they found? Where have they been all this time?” Viola looked from Mantel to Gerritt, who echoed faintly, “Yes, where have they been? This is astonishing.”

  Mantel shrugged. “We know very little. But it seems they’ve been staying in James Harley’s house.”

  “Harley’s house?” Jakob said. “No. That’s impossible.”

  Mantel shook his head. “Not impossible. We have a witness—two, maybe. I’ve been keeping an eye on Harley myself lately. There have been some reports about him.”

  “You arrested him?” Jakob said.

  “One of my officers did,” Mantel said.

  “But are Emma and Claire all right?” Viola pressed. “You haven’t said.”

  “Respectfully, madam, alive is better than dead, isn’t it? Other than that, like I say, I don’t know. I’m going from here to find out—”

  “But where are they? May I go with you?”

  “They’re at the Stipps’ house, I’m told. On Madison—”

  “Do they need anything? Can I help in some way?” She could call for the carriage and be there in an instant. “I’ll just go now and get my coat—”

  Mantel held up a restraining hand. “Mrs. Van der Veer. I don’t know the particulars. But I believe that the girls might require some rest. Better to write the Stipps first, I think, to see what you can do.”

  The captain was right. She couldn’t charge over there and impose herself on them, no matter how much she wanted to help. And she had never met Emma and Claire; she’d only heard Bonnie speak of them. If she rushed over now in her excited state, she might frighten them. Gerritt had poured himself some Scotch—Mantel had declined—and he took a sip now. Viola rarely came in here. Gerritt’s study was always dark—at night, clubby, if he were entertaining male friends—but during the day, oppressive. Jakob came to her side and placed his arm around her waist, his presence warm and strong. She might be mourning Jakob today if things had gone differently.

  “What will the DA charge?” Jakob said.

  “Kidnapping, at least,” Mantel said. “I don’t know what else, but Farrell—the officer who found them—he suggested to me that Harley”—Mantel looked away from Viola and Jakob to Gerritt, as if he could not say what he had to say while looking at them—“interfered with them, too.”

  Viola’s knees buckled. She blinked away tears. Jakob walked her to one of the chairs by the fireplace and helped her to sit down.

  Gerritt put a hand on the mantel to steady himself. “Are you certain? Did he admit guilt?”

  “I don’t know. Farrell has no need to justify his arrest to me—only to the district attorney. But mind, Gerritt. Your overseer is in the county jail and you can bet that no magistrate is going to free him without substantial bail, hero or no. That’s what I came to tell you. You’d not have reason to know, otherwise. And now if you’ll forgive me, I have to be off. I have some apologizing to do. I wasn’t exactly convinced that those girls were alive, as you’ll remember, Gerritt, from my visit to her establishment.”

  “Whose establishment?” Viola said.

  Mantel eyed Gerritt with a patriarchal gleam. “Should you tell her or shall I?”

  Gerritt took another sip of Scotch. It occurred to Viola that it seemed very early to be indulging. “Mrs. Stipp operates a medical clinic for ladies of the night,” Gerritt said.

  Viola straightened. “Ladies of the night? Do you mean that she treats prostitutes?” She tried to imagine mixing so closely with the unclad women who hung out of the windows of the bawdy houses along the waterfront, and couldn’t. “That is a bit of a surprise, yes, but why do you regard the information as something I should be protected from? How is Mrs. Stipp’s clinic any different from Gerritt’s House of Shelter?”

  “The difference, madam,” Mantel said, his demeanor revealing astonishment at her unruffled reply, “is intention. Your husband’s good work eradicates the city of the scourge of prostitution. But Dr. Stipp was hiding what she was doing. Makes you wonder what else she was up to. Without a doubt, she’s aiding and abetting, at least. There’s also a rumor that she’s been performing abortions. Not that Harley is much better. He was found in a whorehouse out on New Scotland. The one near Ontario,” Mantel said, nodding at Gerritt, a sly glance slipping between the two men.

  Viola shuddered. This was not the first time she’d heard the two of them make knowing references to the locations of bawdy houses.

  Mantel returned his cap to his head. “There’s depths to Mr. Harley, it seems, that not even his closest friends were aware of. Now, I probably shouldn’t have told you any of this. I want you especially, Gerritt, to be careful. The backlash against you—and your business—for employing Harley is likely to be substantial when word gets out. Folks aren’t generally too pleased about situations like this, even though it’s more than likely that Harley isn’t guilty. What man saves two children when he’s been defiling others?” He tipped his head at Viola. “Sorry, Mrs. Van der Veer. But it makes no sense. Now, don’t go spreading this news around. Those vulture newspapers will be on it soon enough. It’s up to the courts to sort it out.”

  With a second nod of apology to Viola, the captain swept out the door, his greatcoat open and flapping, his dirty boots trailing mud behind him.

  In his wake, Gerritt said, “Shocking. Just shocking. Those O’Donnell girls? And Harley? I can’t believe it.”

  “Will you fire him?” Viola said.

  “Of course not. Not yet. Not until I know something firmer. Now, my dear wife, would you please excuse your son and me? I need to ask something of Jakob.”

  “I’d rather stay,” Viola said, feigning confidence, wondering what punishment this bit of insolence would earn her. “These are Bonnie’s daughters. I want to know everything.”

  “What about writing your note to the Stipps?”

  “It can wait ten minutes.”

  “This is business.”

  When she didn’t rise, Gerritt sighed. “Fine, then. Jakob, I need you to go down to the jail and do whatever it is that lawyers do. And post bail if it’s been assessed, please. We don’t want the poor man incarcerated if we can help it.”

 
“But he can’t do that,” Viola exclaimed. “These are Bonnie’s daughters who have been hurt. And to think, Mr. Harley was in this house for dinner just the other night when all along he had them. And what about Jakob and Elizabeth? They have an understanding. You can’t ask Jakob to do any of this. It’s not right.”

  “As far as I can tell,” Gerritt said, “all that Jakob and Elizabeth have had so far is conversation. And Harley has been a good employee for as long as Jakob has been alive, far longer than we’ve known the Stipps or that hatmaker—”

  “Hatmaker?” Viola said. “Bonnie was my friend, Gerritt.”

  “She was a hatmaker, Viola. Don’t exaggerate—”

  “Father,” Jakob interrupted. “These little girls mean something to Elizabeth. She considers them her sisters. And right now, in your concern for Harley’s well-being, you seem to have forgotten that because of him I nearly froze to death.”

  “Are you forgetting that Harley is a hero?” Gerritt said. “What would it look like if we didn’t extend him ready legal help? You’re a lawyer. He needs one. Much as I deplore what he may have done, at this point he is only accused. What if he is innocent? Think about that. He’s been a friend to this family for twenty years. And if we are to get Van der Veer Lumber up and running again, we need him.”

  The noble words innocent until proven guilty careened through Viola’s mind, but Gerritt’s protestation seemed more a way to manipulate Jakob than a blind devotion to justice at all costs.

  “Father, there are a dozen reasons why this isn’t a good idea. It is better if Harley has someone who is not his friend—”

  “Why, no lawyer would have any business at all if he didn’t bail out his friends. How do you think lawyers get clients?”

  Jakob strode across the room and pulled a compact volume from a shelf. He leafed through it. Viola could tell by its size and the advertising on the back cover that it was the City Directory, a repository of useful information about Albany, from street addresses to the schedule of day boats. It also listed the names of all the lawyers in the city. She knew because she had once gone looking for one, though this being the state capital, you couldn’t walk down State Street without encountering a dozen within a minute. She remembered seeing something like 250 names and addresses listed, though not Jakob’s. He had been examined and ratified by a judge only this last January, and the book was printed in December.