The Case Book of Emily Lawrence

by KB Inglee

  Emily went on. “I imagine you made something similar. Men’s trousers under your skirt. It would take a mere minute to change a fashionably dressed, well-bustled woman into the polite man, and back again.”

  “But why would someone like you indulge in such activities?” asked Charles.

  Mrs. Fulton glanced at the door and took a deep breath, as if planning her escape, but she held her ground.

  “Your theory about The Duke being a woman dressed as a man is most unlikely, and I am not admitting that I am involved. But it isn’t hard to understand why someone would do these things. If one’s husband gives one a set amount for housekeeping each month, and there is never enough to make it to the end of the month, what is one to do? If one’s husband does not ask for an accounting, then it might be possible to add a substantial sum to it without its being noticed. Now an intelligent woman might very well think of a way to increase that amount in such a way that the time out of her life would not be noticed. If one could commit an armed robbery in an hour or two, and in that time earn enough to bring decent food to the table, and one were not timid or easily frightened, one might very well consider it. One might even come to enjoy it. If one didn’t become greedy, one would probably never get caught.”

  Mrs. Fulton led them to the front door and opened it. “Good day to you, Mrs. Lawrence. I, too, admire accomplished women.”

  Emily shook Mrs. Fulton’s hand and met her gaze. “In my experience, things of this sort have a way of getting out of hand. I have a suspicion that the police will not pursue the investigation for armed robbery. However, The Duke carries a gun, and chances are good that one day it might go off. Murder would be a different matter.”

  They filled Detective Glazier in on the interview and dropped him at the police station, with a promise of a full written report.

  In the cab back to the office, Emily shook her head. “Well, Charles, I have clearly chosen the wrong profession. I have to work several days a week for my money.”

  Charles patted her hand. “The police have our information. It may be enough to free the man they arrested on Tuesday afternoon. I would hate to see the wrong person held responsible for these crimes.”

  Then he asked, “You admire that woman, don’t you?”

  “Yes, in a way. She is brave, she has brains, and she is resourceful. She knows exactly what she is doing. She thought her way out of a bad situation. Part of me would like her to get away with it, but she is breaking the law.”

  * * * *

  The police never approached Charles or Emily about the case. Emily heard that Mrs. Fulton had been questioned at police headquarters, but she was not arrested for the crimes. Perhaps they believed that a woman could not commit armed robbery. On occasion Emily’s work took her past the Fulton house. She always paused to look at it thoughtfully. The shabby house received a new coat of paint in the spring, and no one ever heard from The Duke again.

  Washington City, May 3, 1877

  Dear Susan,

  The Decoration Day parade passes within a block of the office. If the weather is good I will sneak out to watch. The day seems to have lost some of its luster over the years. Perhaps because there is always some reason to hold a parade here in Washington, none seems very special any more. This will be like all the others except for the memories.

  This is a day for remembrance. And I do remember. My first memory is of the room in the attic where strangers came for a night or two. I was able to pretend they weren’t there except the first time. I wonder frequently if I should ask Mr. Higginson who they were, especially the man with whom I made friends. I still look for him in the streets.

  I remember knitting enough socks and bandages to last the rest of my life. I remember how excited we all were when the soldiers came home and paraded through Cambridge.

  Do you have many parades in Chicago? Do you and the children attend them all? I know you always love any display of pageantry. Anna and I find them spoiled by such things as remembering how many lives were shattered, how many or few gains were made.

  But you enjoy them for what they are, not for the memories they bring.

  The best thing about Decoration Day is that there is only a month left before we close the office for the summer and head north.

  Have you read Anna’s latest work? Grand, isn’t it?

  Much love to you and yours,

  Emily

  DECORATION DAY

  Washington City, May 1877

  Emily was too short to see over the heads of the people in front of her. She could hear the bands, and the clopping of the horses’ hooves on the hard road, but she could see only the intricate green and gold candle-wicking on the back of ornate jacket worn by the woman who blocked her view. She glanced up at the second floor windows on the other side of the street. Five tall windows were lined up above the green and white striped awning that protected the sidewalk from the glaring sun. Though it was only May, the streets shimmered in the heat, and the shade of the awnings was welcome.

  Four of the windows burst with spectators trying to get a better view of the parade. The second window from the left seemed empty at first. Why would that be? She studied the empty window. There was something there. Was it a stick? Or was it the barrel of a long gun following the procession up Fifteenth Street?

  There was no policeman in sight.

  She jabbed her elbow into the ribs of the tall woman. “Who is in the carriage just coming around the corner?” she asked, as she tried to worm her way around the woman and into the street.

  “General Pottsworth and his wife. Can’t you see?” The woman moved half an inch to the left and finally Emily had a partial view of the Victoria with the general and his wife decked out in their parade best.

  The sun was hanging in the humid air just above the widow with the gun. Emily snatched the mirror from her purse and reflected its glare onto the side of the building. Could she blind the shooter? She moved the reflection along the façade until it tipped over the edge into the open window. At that precise moment, the gun went off.

  A cloud of smoke hung in the window, but the gun barrel was gone. The noise of the report startled everyone into action. People yelled and moved as rapidly as they could in the dense crowd. Some of the women sobbed. The impulse was to move away from the sound of the gunshot, but no one seemed sure where the shot had originated. Emily pushed her way to the carriage and found all the inhabitants unhurt. Mrs. Pottsworth clung to her husband, who comforted her absently as though she were reacting to some trifle. Stuffing from the back of the driver’s seat spilled down onto the floor at their feet.

  Emily shouted to the driver, who was climbing over the seat to reach the Pottsworths, “Someone has shot at the General. Get them out of here as fast as you can.”

  Where were the police when you needed them? She darted across the street and plunged into the building where the shot had originated, pounding up the stairs. In the hall she was faced with three doors. Which led to the room with the shooter? She chose the center one, a glass door panel with Tyler & Griffin painted in gold letters at eye level. She pulled open the door and dashed into the room. It was empty, but the acrid smell of black powder hung in the air and wisps of smoke still drifted out the open window.

  Emily stood in the middle of the room and looked around the office. The casement window was wide open, as were most of the other windows in the city. A large desk covered with papers stood dead center, facing the window. A library table was pushed against the interior wall. On it was a balsa-wood model of a single-storied building, enclosed in a glass case. Next to it stacks of paper tied with gray ribbon obscured several photographs. The first appeared to be two middle-aged men at some formal affair. Tyler and Griffin? There were two pictures of large buildings surrounded by trees and parkland. The other two were of family groupings. A boy of about twelve and a young woman held horses on either side of a stat
ely matron with a kind face. In the other photograph, children of various ages were seated on either side of their parents in the manner of a formal portrait.

  A straight-backed chair lay on its side by the window as though the shooter had pushed it over in his hurry to escape. A scrap of paper on the floor listed the order of the parade in a simple round hand. Emily glanced at it and put it back as she had found it. She pulled her note book from her purse and sketched a quick floor plan.

  Scraping sounds came from beyond a door in the wall to her left. These were followed by a rattling of the knob and then a loud banging.

  “Who is there?” she asked.

  “Roger Tyler. Let me out, you fool.”

  She tried the knob. “I can’t. The door is locked.” She twisted the knob again to prove her point.

  “Key is in the middle desk drawer.”

  “Don’t count on it,” she muttered to herself. She searched the drawer but found no key. The shooter must have used it to lock the door and taken it with him.

  “I’ll get you out as soon as I can,” she called to him, and began working at the lock with the pair of lock picks she always carried in her purse. It took a few minutes, but at last the lock clicked open. Mr. Tyler burst through the door so quickly he almost knocked her down. The room he had been imprisoned in was a closet and quite dark inside.

  “Who are you? What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “My name is Emily Lawrence.” She handed him her business card. “Someone used your window to shoot at General Pottsworth during the parade.”

  “The General?” He seemed dazed. “Whiskey, bottom drawer.”

  Emily found the bottle with a glass and poured two fingers of whiskey into it.

  “Sit down Mr. Tyler.” She pushed him into the desk chair.

  Tyler took a gulp before he looked at her card. “Agent? What kind of agent?”

  “My husband and I run an investigation agency around the corner on H Street. I saw the muzzle of a rifle poking out your window. After the shot was fired, I came to see what there was to see. The police should be here soon. I suggest you don’t touch anything while we wait. Who did this to you?”

  Emily was often surprised at how readily people answered her questions, but Mr. Tyler spilled out his story with suspicious ease, as though he had rehearsed it in the closet and couldn’t wait to get it all out. “A tall, dark man carrying a satchel came in and asked if he could watch the parade from my window. Of course I told him he most certainly could not. He grabbed me and pushed me into the closet and I heard the lock click.”

  “When did this happen?” she asked.

  “I arrived at the office at eight-thirty. I had been working for about half an hour. I could already hear the music from the parade, but it hadn’t turned onto this street yet.”

  What work he had been doing? There was not a single paper on his desk. “Do you remember anything particular about the man that might help us find him?”

  “He was wearing a dark shooting jacket. Oh, yes, he had a scar on his left cheek.”

  “Had you ever seen him before?”

  “No, never.”

  As he spoke, she made a circuit of the room adding information to her notebook now and then. It seemed an eternity before a young man in police uniform poked his head in.

  “Ah, Patrolman Clark, come in. This is the room that the shot was fired from. I haven’t touched anything but the closet door, the bottom desk drawer and that piece of paper on the floor by the chair. Mr. Tyler was locked inside the closet, and has touched nothing except the chair he is sitting in. Oh, I did rummage in the middle desk drawer a bit to see if I could find the key to the closet.”

  “Mrs. Lawrence.” The patrolman tipped his cap. “How did you get here so fast?”

  “I saw the shot fired, so I knew which window it had come from. When I got here I could smell the smoke from the gun.”

  The patrolman nodded. He went to the window, whistled sharply, and gestured for someone in the street to join him.

  Emily was surprised when Charles walked in.

  “Mr. Lawrence, where are the police?” she asked.

  “Mrs. Lawrence, how did you get here? Clark is the police. The rest are questioning spectators, looking for someone who saw anything at all. I assume that would be you.”

  She didn’t provide the brief explanation she had given Clark. She knew he would want a complete report when they got back to the office.

  “Let’s leave it to our betters, shall we?” He took her arm and steered her out the door. “Back to the office. Then write down everything you saw and did. Otherwise you will be seen as interfering in a police investigation. Clark will secure the office. He knows where to find us. Your notes will be a help to Captain Hobbs, I’m sure.”

  She snorted as she usually did when he took care to explain things she already knew. They walked together in silence the few hundred yards to their office. She went right to her desk and continued the notes she had started at Tyler & Griffin.

  * * * *

  It was eleven the next morning before Captain Hobbs of the District Police came to the office looking for them. Hobbs was the most ordinary-looking man Emily had ever met. Average height, hair somewhere between brown and black. He dressed in brown tweeds like the government employee he was. Only his voice was distinctive. Whether soft and kind, or loud and demanding, it carried an authority that made you believe he knew more about you than you did yourself.

  “I knew I could put off questioning you until I had interviewed everyone else. You have a written report for me, as usual?”

  Emily took the papers out of her desk drawer and handed them to him. He pulled a chair up to the work table and began to read. Emily poured him a cup of coffee.

  “I’d like to know a few things,” said Emily, when Captain Hobbs had folded the papers and slipped them into his coat pocket.

  He sat immobile for a minute then nodded.

  “Did the carriage belong to the General?”

  “Yes, and before you ask it, the coachman is their personal driver. We questioned him. The General has lived a sedentary life since the war. He drives them out on Sunday afternoons, but seldom any other time.”

  “Why shoot at the General and his wife?” asked Emily.

  “No idea why they might be targets. If it was some wartime grievance, there has been more than enough time to settle it. Neither can anyone imagine that it is a more recent slight of some kind.”

  “Do you have any leads as to who the shooter might be?”

  “None. These kinds of things often go unsolved. Our best chance is for someone to brag about it to his chums over drinks.”

  “What are you going to do next?” she asked.

  Captain Hobbs paused a bit before answering. “The business partner, Griffin, is the only person we have not questioned. I’ll corner him after lunch.”

  “You said the driver was on the General’s staff. Would you mind if I questioned him myself?”

  Captain Hobbs and Charles glanced at each other. They clearly thought this was another of her harebrained ideas.

  “We have his statement already, so I don’t see the harm in it, although no one is free to go with you just now.”

  Charles looked startled, echoing Emily’s confusion. Were the police desperate enough to use every resource to find the shooter, even a private detective?

  Captain Hobbs sighed. “This is a public assassination attempt. My men are spread thin all over the city questioning everyone they think might be involved. And I’m sure the General’s household would appreciate the more discreet investigation that Lawrence Research can provide.”

  * * * *

  The coachman lived in a garret over the barn. It was tiny but comfortable, sparsely furnished yet homey. The coachman, Romulus King, invited Emily in and offered her a seat in t
he wing chair and a cup of tea. His smile was bright but tentative. A daguerreotype in a brass and velvet frame graced the table by her elbow. It was the kind of picture soldiers carried next to their hearts during the war. This one showed a young woman with a particularly dour face, dressed in a riding habit.

  The coachman glanced at the photo and removed it from the table before sitting down.

  Emily introduced herself and reminded him that they had met briefly at the parade. He glanced away, and ran his hands along his thighs. Was he unnerved to have a woman, a white woman at that, in his private space, or perhaps viewing his private photographs? She told him how lovely the horses had looked in the parade, though she had no memory of them at all. This seemed to put him at his ease.

  “Have you driven for the General for long?” she asked.

  “Fifteen years, ma’am. I’m kinda spoils of war, you might say. Worked horses for my master ’til the war came. Ran away to the Union army and tended horses for them. General found me on the picket line with the army horses and hired me after the war. Got this when some sniper was aiming at him and missed.” He touched an almost invisible white line on his left cheek.

  Emily nodded. So this man had been a slave. His skin was light enough that he could have passed for a white man, if conditions were right.

  “Do you have any idea why someone would do this?”

  “No, ma’am, I can’t think why someone would shoot at the General. I heard the sound of the shot, and felt something hit the seat behind me. I knew from the war what was happening.” He touched the scar on his face. “There were so many people all around us that it was hard to get the carriage out of the way.”

  “You knew right away that someone was shooting at the General?”

  He nodded. “The General is a kind and generous man. ’Course there’s still Rebs out there who might like to see him dead.”