The Daughters of Jim Farrell

by Sylvia Bambola

  “Miss Kate, would you start by giving me the details of this case?”

  Virginia sank lower in her chair as she watched Kate’s face contort. Now he was in for it.

  “This case happens to be the unjust execution of our father. Kindly remember that.” Kate’s violet eyes flashed beneath thick, black lashes. “You’ll be dealing with four women who have endured a great loss and I do hope we can count on your tact and sensitivity.”

  “I . . . beg your pardon. I meant no disrespect. But a good detective can’t afford to muddle facts with emotions. I’ll endeavor to be as sensitive as possible, but if you want results, I must, above all, be accurate and thorough.”

  Virginia quelled a smile. Ah, a man who can hold his own. She braced herself for Kate’s reaction. To her surprise, her sister remained calm.

  “Point taken. I can recommend no one better to outline the facts than my sister, Virginia. Let her be the first to speak.”

  Joshua nodded then turned to Virginia and readied his pencil.

  “For you to understand what happened,” Virginia said, coming directly to the point as usual, “I must go back a few years and talk about the man who changed everything, and brought us to this end. The man: Franklin B. Gowen; a lawyer who eleven years ago was elected district attorney for Schuylkill County. By the following year he was making eight thousand dollars annually, a tidy sum considering most mine workers made less than three hundred. From there he went on to head the legal department of the Philadelphia & Reading Railroad. Within five years he became acting president. He was only thirty-two. As president he quickly took over the Schuylkill Canal and the county’s feeder railroad lines. This gave him control over all transportation both in and out of Pennsylvania’s lower anthracite region. But Mr. Gowen was ambitious. Not content with his victories, he set his sights on the local collieries. One problem: the charter of the Philadelphia and Reading Railroad prohibited the company from owning mines. An obstacle Mr. Gowen was willing, and eventually able, to overcome. It took a bit of trickery, but the charter was ultimately changed.”

  “Virginia!” Charlotte’s back was as rigid as a knitting needle. “That is imprudent. Mr. Gowen is very influential in these parts, and nothing escapes his notice. It would not do if he heard you talk that way.”

  “Well, unless you plan on telling him, dear, I don’t see how he’ll find out.” Out of the corner of her eye, Virginia saw a strange look come over the Pinkerton’s face, as though he was offended by what she had said. Surely, he didn’t know Mr. Gowen? Or did he?

  “About two years ago Mr. Gowen began buying up mines from small independent operators. Before the railroad started mining coal it made its money hauling it. Even here Mr. Gowen exerted pressure, and manipulated the market. He believed cheaper coal would create a larger market thereby increasing the tonnage his railroad transported. Through a series of maneuvers he was able to bring down coal prices from three dollars a ton to two-fifty, breaking the backs of many independent miners. As you can imagine, it caused quite a stir around here, not to mention undue hardship for the families who owed their subsistence to the mines. This led some collieries to oppose the further purchase of mines by the railroad. They feared if Mr. Gowen obtained a monopoly he’d manipulate the cost of coal as he had done before, and bleed the mine workers dry. My father, who was the Superintendent of the Schuylkill Division of the Reading Railroad, was well known and respected in these parts. That’s why Mr. Gowen enlisted him as land agent, one of many, to help persuade those resistant independent operators to sell their mines. Roger Blakely, the man my father was accused of killing, was one of them.”

  Joshua Adams was clearly agitated as he put down his pencil and rose. “I appreciate the history lesson Miss Virginia, but I think it would be more beneficial to focus on those details pertaining directly to your father.” He walked to the fireplace, now used only in the evenings or on chilly mornings, and stood with his back to the women. “More relevant facts would serve us better.”

  “Well, the fact is, Mr. Blakely didn’t want to sell. And on that premise alone the prosecutor based his case, claiming my father tried to change Mr. Blakely’s mind, not willing for his ‘lucrative commission’ to be forfeited, and that during this effort they argued and fought and my father killed him.”

  “Mr. Adams, you took copious notes during the ‘history lesson’,” Kate said a bit tersely. “Do not these more pertinent facts deserve to be entered into your notebook?”

  Joshua turned from the fireplace, his forehead looking like plowed furrows. “Of course,” he said, walking to the desk and scribbling something on his pad. “Please continue, Miss Virginia.”

  “My father told us that Roger Blakely had sent him a note asking to meet him at his colliery after sunset; that he had important information to share. Father insisted his visit had nothing to do with the sale of the colliery, and that Mr. Blakely was already dead when he got there; killed by his own knife. Unfortunately, my father discarded the note before the meeting and was unable to find it again.”

  “Any evidence of theft? Something to indicate a robbery?”

  Virginia shook her head. “The only thing missing was a worthless paperweight.”

  “Which was curious,” Kate added, “since a stack of paper money remained untouched on his desk. So obviously the motive wasn’t robbery.” She glanced at Virginia. “Now, tell him about the notebook.”

  “The notebook . . . yes, Father’s notebook. It’s on the desk by your right hand, Mr. Adams.” Virginia watched the detective pick it up and flip through the pages. “In it are lists of names. Most are independent colliery owners, but not all. Kate thinks there may be clues in the way the names are listed and grouped, and why some are underlined and others not. Kate thinks it can help you with the case.”

  “Kate thinks! Kate thinks! Virginia, you make it sound like I’m the only one who sees value in Father’s notebook, when we’ve all agreed there could be something in it.”

  “Well . . . yes, Mr. Adams . . . we . . . think there will be something useful in there.” Poor, expectant Kate. So hopeful that this young, nervous Joshua Adams could be the instrument of justice she so desperately wanted. And poor downcast Charlotte. Who only prayed for this whole dreadful affair to be over so she could get on with her life.

  But Virginia knew her own feelings—which ran in an entirely different direction—were just as strong as those of her sisters. For what Virginia had never discussed with either Kate or Charlotte, what she had never allowed to fully enter the foyer of her mind until now was . . . suppose Father really was guilty?

  “Have we wasted our money, do you think?” Charlotte removed the quilted bonnet from an ornately scrolled silver teapot. She had been fretting about this for hours, ever since laying eyes on that ridiculous Mr. Adams. She may not have the keen mind of her sisters but she knew deficiencies when she saw them, and she saw plenty in this Pinkerton agent. Could someone unable to properly dress really deduce clues and bring their family’s unfortunate matter to a happy conclusion? She doubted it.

  “Well, have we wasted our money?” she repeated. When no one answered, she poured her perfectly steeped tea, which she had been carefully timing for the past seven minutes, into one of the three cups positioned neatly on the round tea table by her side. “I mean, this Mr. Adams . . . well . . . just look at him. How can he be credible? Aside from not even knowing how to dress, consider his face! Even that defies fashion. Instead of sporting a proper mustache or beard, he has scraped himself to the skin.”

  She glanced at her sisters who sat in nearby chairs, illuminated by the small crackling fire in the hearth and two green astral oil lamps on side tables. She had wanted to voice her concerns earlier but the business of running a boardinghouse had prevented her. Now she would have her say. If they were going to dredge up this whole unpleasant matter, they should at least have someone capable of doing it properly. Otherwis
e, even more scandal could ensue. And . . . that would be intolerable.

  “And consider his questions!” Charlotte handed a steaming cup to Kate. “The same ones over and over again: ‘Why did your father discard the note? What were the first words he said when you saw him that night? Why was there blood on his hands and coat?’ I tell you I was ready to scream! I mean . . . how many times did he want us to repeat our recollections? And what presumption! Suggesting that he pose as our country cousin while investigating Father’s case!” Charlotte picked up a small plate of buttered bread and handed it to Kate.

  “Imagine that any of us would actually claim kinship with that man! For my part, I’d be mortified.” She raised a fresh cloud of steam as she poured Virginia’s tea, then her own. “And he’s impertinent, too. I think he forgets he’s in our employ. He certainly took you down a peg, Kate.” Charlotte peered at Kate over her cup as she drank, feeling a bit guilty that she had been pleased by the take down. “So no, I absolutely will not claim any kinship with him.”

  “You’ll claim it. We all will,” Kate said. “We’ll do exactly as he says. We must give him every assistance if we expect him to succeed.”

  Charlotte returned her cup to the muslin covered table—a table which, much to her embarrassment, was vastly inferior to Mrs. Gaylord’s who served tea wearing white gloves, and whose buttered bread was so carefully rolled it never soiled her gloved fingers. She disliked confronting Kate, the sister who always seemed so sure of herself and intimidated Charlotte. She took a moment to compose herself, then placed her hands on her lap. “You may wish us to participate in this ridiculous lie but are you prepared to tell Mother of the deception? You know it will grieve her that you have chosen this path, especially since she’s been opposed to your plan from the beginning.”

  Charlotte’s breath caught when she saw the pained expression on Kate’s face. She didn’t want to be cruel. Or shallow. Though she knew she was sometimes both. But she wasn’t loved and admired like Kate. Nor did she possess the brains and ambition of Virginia. All she had were her fine looks and a man of high position who wanted to marry her. For her, life was never going to get better than this. But already Benjamin Gaylord was struggling beneath the cloud of her shame. Must he endure more by now having to make the acquaintance of an unseemly relative; a relative, by all appearances, the Gaylords would assume had crawled out of some back country cow pasture?

  She wanted to clear Father’s name. Truly she did. But she had never spoken of any country relatives. Would Benjamin think her false? Think she had been misleading him? Think that perhaps she had even more embarrassing relatives she was keeping from him? Would she slip even more in his or his mother’s estimation?

  She stiffened in her chair. “Surely there must be another way? Surely this Joshua Adams can come up with a more acceptable pretense? Why can’t he just say he’s one of our boarders or . . . something . . . else?”

  Surprisingly, Kate smiled. “Charlotte, dear, is it the dishonesty that concerns you or having to admit to the Gaylords you have an unbecoming relative?”

  Charlotte felt her cheeks burn, and looked away.

  “I despise using deception,” Kate continued, “and Mother will not approve. But let me bear the consequences. I’ll tell her myself. I think we must allow Mr. Adams his lead.”

  Virginia, who had been gazing at the fire while drinking her tea, leaned forward and placed her cup on the table. “Charlotte I understand your concern. I know the association Mr. Adams proposes will not sit well with the Gaylords, but it will hardly be the severest test of your mettle, and you must be brave, dear, and prepare for it.”

  “Why, whatever do you mean?”

  “I don’t mean to be blunt, but here it is, we must assume that whoever killed Mr. Blakely is still in the area. And he will hardly sit still while our cousin stirs things up. Beating bushes and overturning rocks always bring out the snakes.”

  “You’re not suggesting that any of us could be harmed, are you?” Charlotte’s heart pounded.

  “Virginia, I don’t think we need to . . . .”

  “No, Kate. You wanted to pursue this, we all did. But we must be prepared for the consequences. And all I’m saying is that this investigation could produce some danger not only to Mr. Adams, but to us all.”

  “That’s . . . ridiculous. Who would want to hurt us?” But even as Charlotte said it, she felt her heart sink. Once, when she had been on a hunt with the Gaylords, she and her horse became separated from the group and happened upon a fox ensnared in a trap that had been carelessly left out and meant for some pesky raccoon. One of its legs was nearly severed from the force of the snapping steel, and she had watched in horror as the fox chewed the rest of it off, then hobbled away. It was eventually cornered by the dogs but she never told anyone what she had seen. Nor had she forgotten it. Now she wondered if a person could become that desperate. Desperate enough to hurt himself and others in order to avoid entrapment. And with the fresh vision of that fox in her mind’s eye, she knew the answer was “yes”.

  Kate tapped lightly on the thick mahogany door. “Mother, may I come in?” When a soft voice answered “yes,” she opened it and entered. Her mother, dressed in a cotton nightgown, sat on the edge of her four-poster bed brushing her long hair that was always kept beneath a net by day. Kate marveled at how lovely and young her mother looked with her hair down. A deep auburn, it showed little sign of graying.

  Her mother rested the silver trimmed brush on her lap and smiled. But Kate saw the worry in her eyes as though she knew this visit would not be a joyous one.

  “I fear you will be unhappy with me.” Kate sat down beside her. “But Joshua Adams, the Pinkerton agent you met earlier, is going to protect his cover by claiming he is our country cousin, and I have convinced my sisters to go along. Please do not blame them. I take full responsibility. But he must have a pretext that is reasonable. If he claimed to be one of our boarders would it make sense for him to ask questions about Mr. Blakely’s death? Why would a perfect stranger care? But if he’s a relative who has come to help clear Father’s name, well . . . you can see how that is more believable.”

  Her mother put down the brush and began braiding her hair. “Do you think God works through lies and deception? Do you really think His will can be done in this manner? Just what do you expect to gain?”

  Kate rose to her feet. “I don’t know. The truth, I hope. And justice.”

  “You already know the truth. And as for justice, you know how elusive that can be, as the many proofs in the collieries and surrounding patches testify. Oh, Dearest, do not look for justice in this world, but rather look to God. In the end, He will right every wrong.”

  “I’m determined to do this, Mother. I need peace. But how can I find it without answering this puzzle? This thing gnaws at me so. I’ve tried telling myself it doesn’t matter, that I can live with the shame, but I can’t. How do you do it, Mother? How?”

  Her mother took Kate’s hand and held it a moment before releasing it. “I am sad over our loss. And in many ways I even feel cheated. But I don’t feel shame because I know your father, the kind of man he was. And so do you. And all the false accusations in the world can’t change that.”

  “I accept that here.” Kate tapped her forehead. “But not in here.” She placed her hand over her heart. “Hating is wrong, I know, but I can’t help it, Mother. I hate all those jurors who found Father guilty, and the judge, and the prison officials, and all the vultures who came out to watch the hanging. Sometimes . . . sometimes I feel as if I hate the whole world.”

  “I know you don’t mean that, Kate. Even so, you must guard your heart. It’s easy to hate. It’s the easiest thing in the world. But hate is torment. Like a worm, it is never satisfied. It will eat at you, consuming you more and more as time goes on. You’ll never have the peace you seek if you allow bitterness to grow. I beg you, Kate, don’t compound one sin
with another.”

  “I can’t let it go. I wish I could, but I’m not like you.” Without another word she left the room. But as Kate closed the door she heard her mother praying and knew the prayers were for her.

  Kate hadn’t meant to snoop. Not at first, anyway. Like her sisters, she was assigned the task of changing the straw-filled tick that covered the bed slats in all the bedchambers, and had volunteered to do Joshua Adams’ bed, which raised eyebrows, including Mother’s. But Kate wanted to see how Mr. Adams lived. It would tell her much; perhaps even revive her dwindling confidence in him. His first impression had been most unsatisfying. Even her sisters questioned his abilities.

  At first glance his room appeared in good order, a great contrast to the condition of his clothing. Well, that was something in his favor. Perhaps he possessed some measure of discipline after all. As she opened the top seam of the tick on his bed, she spotted an ornate leather case on the corner of his small desk. Next to it was a sharpening bone, a leather strop and a small brush of badger hair. All shaving implements. Did the ornate case contain his razor? It seemed rather large. Father had maintained a full beard which he trimmed with scissors, so the only razors she had ever seen were those in the hardware store window.

  Sidestepping the two large bundles of straw on the floor, she moved toward the desk. This was unlike her. She never violated a boarder’s privacy. On the other hand, didn’t she have the right to know more about the man she had hired? In spite of her nagging conscience, she picked up the case, opened it, and was surprised to see not one but seven ivory-handle razors, all arranged in a neat row, and each held in place by a thin leather strap. She had heard it said that seven was the number of razors a prudent gentleman owned. A razor for every day of the week? She pulled one out. It had a nice balance, and the gleaming blade and highly polished ivory handle testified to the care given these instruments. It also revealed something about their owner. Apparently, Joshua Adams was careful, fastidious and perhaps a bit vain.