“We need to leave. Immediately,” Alistair urged, scooping up Ella and heading for the front gate.
“Yes, I believe you are right.” I eyed the growing crowd around the boy on the ground. “Phaeton,” I ordered. “Come at once.”
He joined the rest of us, and we hurried away as quickly as we might.
“This may complicate things,” Alistair huffed. Ella was heavier than she looked; I knew from experience.
“It was hardly his fault, Alistair. The boy was attacking him.”
“I’m sure his parents will accept that as a reasonable cause for Phaeton’s actions.”
I heard the sound of a police whistle from behind us.
“Oh, dear…”
“I suggest we move a little faster,” Fred panted. “Give Ella to Phaeton, Alistair. We’ll make better time.”
He did as she suggested, and we ducked into an alley and made our way toward the boarding house through the back streets and byways. We were safe for now, but we would have to do something about Phaeton. Something that would make it acceptable for him to walk the streets.
By the time we felt confident enough to slow our pace, Phaeton walked head of us carrying Ella, who had fallen asleep in his arms. With one eye on the child, I filled Fred in on the whole blackmail problem, since Alistair already knew the particulars.
“Interesting,” she murmured. “And you’re sure she is telling the truth about the girl’s parentage?”
“She’s a nun, Fred. Why would she lie?”
“Because she’s a nun? This certainly isn’t something a nun would want to admit.”
“I believe her.”
“Then it seems to me we need to neutralize the threat by providing some sort of proof who Ella’s parents are. If we can find a marriage or birth certificate, there will be no way for this Sissinghurst person to blackmail anyone.”
“That makes sense, actually,” I admitted. “But how do we do that?”
“Where was Ella born?”
“Bridget never said, but I got the impression it wasn’t here in New York City. And Nettie’s marriage was out of state, I believe.”
“You need to go and ask her where these things occurred. It might require some field work,” Alistair contributed. He sighed, looking over at Ella cradled in Phaeton’s arms. His face softened. “A little girl takes precedence over my capability testing.”
He could be quite endearing when he was behaving reasonably.
“I’ll go and see her immediately.”
Turnabout was fair play, Amy thought philosophically, as she watched the figure fumble about her things. She watched as the intruder searched first wardrobe, and then jewelry box. Thank goodness she had had the foresight to move her valuables to the safe. Still, the villain slipped several pieces into his pocket.
She had no doubt in her mind who the scoundrel was. In fact, she had rather been expecting him.
Slipping forward with bated breath, she considered the best course of action. She could just shoot him and get it over with, but that might lead to unfortunate repercussions.
She could try and subdue him somehow, but that had dangers of its own.
The vexing question was…had he brought a gun as well?
-- Garrett Goldthwaite
Analytical Amy and the Case of the Covetous Cad
Chapter 17
Yet another trip to the convent. Oh, joy.
I have sworn to be honest on these pages, so I suppose I need to explain my aversion to the orphanage which was the only home I ever knew growing up. It wasn’t because I didn’t enjoy seeing Bridget. She just brought back so many memories…and not all of them were good. That was what worried me.
The orphanage is really the first clear memory I have—I must have been about five at the time. Before that, everything is nearly a blank. Occasional vague flashes of faces, the faint memory of a voice or a laugh; but nothing concrete. I have a tintype of my parents I was given by Mother Mary Margaret when I left the convent, but I really don’t know for sure what happened to them. I tell people they died in the cholera epidemic of 1854—and as far as I know, this is true—but I have no proof.
To be honest, I’m not even sure they died. There have been plenty of other epidemics, illnesses, accidents; but I have no proof they succumbed to one of them. Maybe they simply abandoned me, unable to deal with a child in a world where it was hard to feed oneself, much less a toddler.
I have always been told they came to America in the late 1840s. I might even have been born in the Old Country, for all I know.
Eighteen-sixty-five was the year I left the convent, and I never looked back—until the letter from Bridget. I lost track of Bridget and the others because I couldn’t bear to be anywhere near the convent. But I was going back now—practically daily—for Bridget. Because she was the best part of my unlamented childhood.
It was early in the day still. Might as well get things over with.
Fred offered me the use of her mechano-velocipede to save me the trouble of borrowing the carriage or hiring a cab. Now that Alistair had returned, I saw no reason I needed to continue bothering Roderick or Phaeton any time I wished to go somewhere. Besides, it was my first opportunity to ride the machine on my own.
I quite enjoyed it. It was faster than either of those other transports, and the wind in my hair was most exhilarating. It’s good that I don’t believe in putting it up any more often than strictly necessary; any considered coiffure would have been blown to pieces by that very wind.
Arriving at the convent, I wheeled the machine up the steps to the front door. The porter let me in with a stifled sigh—no doubt she also tired of these daily disruptions—and I guided the machine into the front hall.
“Mother Superior is in the chapel,” she told me, shaking her head at the incongruous contraption.
At least there was no shouting today—one advantage of Ella’s being away from the orphanage. I parked the motorbike in a corner with its little stand and went in search of Bridget.
I found her in the chapel, as predicted, supervising the arrangement of the altar for afternoon Mass. I had completely forgotten it was Sunday; I had left behind my trips to church as well when I exited the convent for good.
“Bridget, I needed to ask you a few more questions.”
“Of course, Jo. Anything I can do.”
“You told me that Nettie and her young man were supposed to have been married before he was killed in the War. What was his name?”
“Morgan…Matthew…no, Matthias—that was it. Matthias Redmond. They met in Connecticut when she was teaching school. The War had just begun when they met, and then he was killed in action, and she came home expecting his child. But what good will this information do? Ella is still illegitimate. This coming to light will ruin Nettie’s life.”
“Not if she and Matthias were legally married.”
“Nettie did claim they were, but she had nothing to prove it. I always assumed she was just trying to save face. If there ever was a marriage certificate, it was lost in the aftermath of the War. Without that, it’s merely her word that a ceremony occurred, and that isn’t enough to legitimize Ella in the eyes of the law.”
“It won’t hurt to go look, will it? What was the town in Connecticut? Who did she claim married them?”
“I don’t think she ever told me, Josephine. You would have to ask her yourself.”
“Does she have a telegraph node where she’s staying?”
“I’m sure the Vanderbilts do. It would probably be the quickest way to contact her. There’s a telegraph office on the next street over.”
“How can we word it so that Nettie will understand what we are asking for without upsetting the applecart?”
Bridget paced. “When we were children, Nettie and I had a sort of code. I’m sure she would remember it if she saw it. Send this: Nettie—When you bought the soldier doll for the orphan, where was the shop? I would like to find another. Sign it ‘Bridget’. I think she’ll un
derstand that. At least, I hope so.”
“I suppose we have no choice. If it doesn’t work, all I can do is head to Connecticut and start looking. And we really are running out of time. I don’t want to go in blind.”
“Whatever answer you get, do you have time to get to Connecticut and back before the wedding?”
“I hope so.”
I didn’t bother taking the motorbike to the telegraph office—it was faster to cut through the convent grounds to the next street. Thank goodness telegraph offices remained open on the Sabbath; I suppose the need for communication is not something that stops because it is time for church.
I sent the message precisely as Bridget had dictated it. Would Nettie understand?
I’m sure I nearly drove the poor operator insane asking every ninety seconds or so whether or not a reply had arrived. It was half an hour or more before it did.
Bridget
The soldier came from Litchfield. That’s where I met the orphan too.
Nettie
I hurried back to the convent with the telegram.
“Looks like I’m going to Litchfield,” I told Bridget, handing her the sheet of paper. “I’m reading this correctly, aren’t I?”
She nodded.
“Yes. It looks like Matthias and Nettie met in Litchfield, and that’s where Ella was conceived. If they were married, it must’ve been there.”
“If there’s a record, I’ll find it.”
“When will you leave?”
“As soon as I can arrange it. The wedding is…?”
“Next Saturday.”
“Then I guess I’d better hurry.”
~*~
After I filled the others in on the new plan, I went upstairs to pack. Alistair followed me.
“Jo, you shouldn’t be doing this alone.”
“It’s my concern, Alistair, not yours.”
“An unescorted woman is not likely to glean many answers. If I were to come with you…”
The thought of some time alone with Alistair was a great temptation, but I couldn’t ask it of him.
“You have work to do here, Alistair, and the trial has put you weeks behind with it. I can’t ask you to waste more of your time.”
“You’re not. I am telling you that I’m coming.”
Well, far be it from me to stop the man when he has his heart set on something.
“Then you’d better go and pack a bag.”
Half an hour later, we were in a private train car on our way north to Connecticut. Once again, Alistair’s bottomless wallet had come in handy.
I have ridden in many a train, of course, but never in such luxury. The seats were buttoned velvet, and there was a hot plate for tea right in the wall. We hadn’t ordered a sleeping car, but the seats were easily wide enough and of a length for me to sleep, if not Alistair. It was one of the most comfortable methods of transportation I had ever experienced, and I resolved not to go back to a coach car if I could help it.
After meeting Leonora, I felt less guilty about taking advantage of him. She had proven my suspicions that the family pockets were very deep indeed.
I wondered what Alistair’s real motive for coming with me on this venture might be. I was perfectly capable of speaking to ministers and preachers on my own, and those were the men I needed to see. If anyone had a record of Nettie’s marriage, it would be such a man, and they were hardly likely to offer me violence—not that Alistair was one to counter an attack if they did.
“Alistair, why are you here?”
“I told you. You’ll need help with the interrogations.”
“No, I won’t. There’s no danger. There’s no reason why men of God wouldn’t be as likely to speak to a woman as a man.”
“Perhaps I just want to spend more time in your company?”
The thought sent a pleasant tingle through me…
“You never have before.”
“Come, Jo, it wasn’t my fault I’ve had to spend so much time in Ohio. Do you think I wanted to? But seeing Paul Blessant behind bars was important to us all.”
“Oh, I know that. Still, I could have been useful. Taken notes, gotten you lunch, something…”
“Perhaps, but it was mostly boring as sin, Jo, and I thought that you might be better served at home.”
“I see.”
So, he was thinking of me when he confined me to home. Interesting.
On the one hand, the fact that he had given me a thought at all was flattering. On the other hand, thinking I would be less bored at home made me think he didn’t really know me at all. It was a bit irritating.
I faked a yawn.
“I’m sorry. I haven’t slept much lately. Perhaps it would be best if I try to take advantage of this time to get some rest.” Closing my eyes, I stretched out on my seat and proceeded to ignore him. Let’s see how he liked it.
With a sigh, Alistair settled into the opposite corner of the car and closed his eyes. I peeked at him from under my lashes. He had made a good faith effort. Perhaps I would forgive him.
Tomorrow.
Gliding soundlessly forward, she brought the butt of her pistol down on the intruder’s head. He fell to the ground with a satisfying groan.
Thinking quickly, she whipped the belt from her dressing gown and tied the miscreant’s hands behind his back.
She would call the police…but first, she’d get some answers.
-- Garrett Goldthwaite
Analytical Amy and the Case of the Covetous Cad
Chapter 18
I really did fall asleep; and when I awoke, it was daylight, and the train was pulling into Litchfield station. I shook Alistair awake and gathered my things.
We stepped out of the train into a sleepy little town. I knew that it once had been the seat of education for a great many people, both men and women. Lawyers and diplomats had walked its streets, but it had faded back into quietude.
I could see three church steeples from the station alone.
“We may as well start there.” I pointed across to the plainest of the churches. It seemed a logical place for two impoverished young people to wed in a hurry. I was assuming they were impoverished—neither teaching nor soldiering paid particularly well.
Alistair gave me his arm, and we set off for the church, carrying our cases. It was early yet, but most church folk I had ever dealt with rose with the sun and worked past its setting.
A knock on the door was answered by a minister with somber suit and pious expression.
“May I help you?”
“We’re looking for information about a marriage,” Alistair replied. “We’ve been told that the ceremony was performed sometime in eighteen-sixty-four or -five…”
“The records are sparse from those tragic times. Do you have the names of the participants?”
“Henrietta Doyle and Matthias Redmond.”
“Matthias is not a common name,” said the minister thoughtfully. “I would remember that one. I have been the minister of this flock for almost two decades. I have never heard of him.”
It would have been far too easy to expect to find the answer at the first place we looked. But when it wasn’t at the third, or the fifth, or the seventh, I began to despair. There couldn’t be too many more places to look.
Still, the trail had one more stop. Each minister had pointed us toward another, and the final church was located on the very edge of town. It was very plain, hardly more than a clapboard shack, but it was clean and whitewashed. The only ornament was a brass cross above the door, polished to a gleaming finish. It was a Congregationalist gathering—about as far from our Catholic upbringing as it was possible to get if it was here Nettie’d had her wedding.
A stooped man in faded black opened the door.
“Yes?”
“Good afternoon, sir. We—” I began.
“What may I do for you, my good man?” he asked Alistair.
I felt a flash of irritation. It wasn’t unexpected, but to be ignored so blatantly wa
s frustrating.
Alistair opened his mouth to reply, but something in my face must have stopped him. He closed it and gestured to me.
“We are looking for information on a marriage,” I murmured. “A Miss Henrietta Doyle to Matthias Redmond.”
The old man nodded.
“Ah, yes. I remember them. A beautiful bride she was…that long red hair. And he was a strong fellow, but bashful as a child.”
“Did you perform the ceremony?” Alistair asked.
“I did.”
I gasped then asked eagerly, “Do you have any proof?”
“What sort of proof?” he bristled. “Is my word not good enough for you?”
“A marriage certificate, perhaps? A record of the ceremony? Anything at all—someone is trying to hurt Mrs. Redmond by saying it never occurred.”
“I might do, but it’s been a long time. I can’t promise.”
“We’d be ever so grateful if you could look,” Alistair told him.
The old minister sighed.
“Come with me. Such things are kept in the rectory.”
He led us to a neat little cottage behind the church. Taking a key from his pocket, he opened the door and let us into his home. There was a desk against one wall, with a cabinet of drawers beside it, not unlike the ones in Augusta’s archives He went to the drawers and began sifting through his records.
“Here it is,” he said at last. “Marriage certificate for one Henrietta Redmond née Doyle and Matthias Redmond. September fourteenth, eighteen-sixty-four.”
September of 1864—and Bridget had said Ella was born in November of 1865. She was the legitimate issue of a sanctioned marriage. There was nothing for Sissinghurst to hold over Nettie’s head. Although why she hadn’t just told Bridget so definitively, I couldn’t imagine.
“Might we have a copy of this?” I asked.
The Nearly Notorious Nun Page 13