by KB Inglee
“I met him and his wife when they came aboard.”
“Would you be kind enough to remove your hat and spectacles?” asked Emily.
He was years younger without them. Blond hair spilled from under his formal officer’s cap and his blue eyes sparkled.
“Thank you, Mr. Smith. When we have interviewed everyone on your list, we will need to call on you again.” Before Charles dismissed the purser, he asked, “Please summon the Captain if you would be so kind.”
When they were alone, Charles turned to Emily.
“All right, smart lady, why did you bring the carafe here?” he asked.
“You know that I’ve been looking into this fingerprint theory. Miss Lee has what Faulds calls arches, while the fingerprints on the glass were made by someone who has whorls. I have loops. You have whorls. And you were out of the room at the time of the murder. Charles, did you kill him?” She tried to sound serious but couldn’t help the smile that nudged at the corners of her lips.
Charles broke into raucous laughter. “So it wasn’t Miss Lee, after all. Now all we have to do is figure out who else besides me has whorled fingerprints.”
When the captain was seated, Emily said, “Show me your left hand, Captain Bates.” Though he held it out to her, his frown showed he was skeptical about what she would learn. She took it and turned it palm up. Then with the magnifying glass she had laid out earlier, she examined the tip of his left thumb.
“If you are trying to prove I did the murder, you are wasting your time. From the time I left the dining room until I was called to the Watkins’s stateroom, I was with my first mate and at least one other man.”
“No,” said Emily, “I didn’t think you were guilty. I wanted to be sure I could carry out my threat.”
She turned to her husband. “He has arches, Charles. He didn’t do it.”
Captain Bates looked astonished. “You can tell by looking at my thumb that I didn’t do it?”
“Seems so,” admitted Emily, pleased to be able to make use of such theoretical knowledge. “There is a good chance that it was the murderer who picked up the carafe with his left hand to wash the blood off his right hand. That would account for the wet spot on the carpet. The mark he left shows clearly one of the three patterns of fingerprints described in an article in a British medical journal.”
Charles laid out their plan of attack to the captain. “We would like to see Mrs. Watkins and Miss Lee first, and then the people who were gathered outside the door. They can come here one at a time. I would like you be present at the interviews.”
Emily sighed. A long night stretched out before her. So much for no responsibilities. But they would be in Cambridge before the midday meal, if the police didn’t hold them up.
Mrs. Watkins was first. Emily started with gentle questions to which she knew the answers. Was Miss Lee inclined toward anyone on the crew, or perhaps another passenger? Miss Lee had mentioned an officer who was paying her particular attention. Mr. Watkins did not know who the officer was. He wasn’t interested in Miss Lee’s romantic inclinations and had found her presence an imposition.
Did Mr. Watkins have any enemies, and were any likely to be on this ship?
Mr. Watkins had many enemies; what lawyer does not?
“Please let me look closely at your hands again, Mrs. Watkins. We may be able to find your husband’s killer before we reach Boston.”
Emily examined Mrs. Watkins’s thumb as she had the captain’s, chatting all the while about arrangements for the comfort and safety of the two women.
“Arches, Charles. Thank you, Mrs. Watkins. Is Miss Lee taking care of you properly? You will let us know if there is anything we can do.”
The others passed through quickly with Emily looking at each thumb, and Charles asking a question or two about where they had been at the time they heard the scream and who was with them.
As the night wore on Emily became more and more adept at classifying the thumb prints as whorls, arches, or loops.
At last they were ready for the purser again.
“Please show me your hands, young man,” said Emily as Charles questioned him, more as a distraction than to elicit any information.
At her request Smith tucked his hands into his pockets. “Why?” he asked.
“Each person has a unique set of lines on the tips of his fingers. It is possible to identify a person by them. The killer left a recognizable print on the carafe.” She indicated the vessel on the table, far out of reach. The stain, now dried and brown, showed clearly. “If you touched it, we will know.”
Despite all her new-found experience, she would never be able to make a more precise identification without a lot of study and practice. And a better magnifying glass. But the ruse worked.
Mr. Smith sat quietly for some time before he looked up at her and said, “You needn’t bother. It is all over the ship about how you have been looking at people’s fingertips. That’s my print on the glass.”
“I thought it might be,” said Emily. “You looked familiar to me, but it took me a while to realize where I had seen you before: last week in court, at the trial of Mr. Kleeg. Did you favor Miss Lee to get close to her guardian?”
“It wasn’t all that hard. She is a pleasant young woman. I didn’t mean to hurt her or have her implicated in my actions.”
“Tell us why you killed Mr. Watkins,” said Charles.
“Mr. Watkins is a lawyer. Do I need a better reason?” As his small flash of defiance died, he took his hand out of his pocket and held up for her to look at.
“To kill him? Yes, you do,” said Charles.
“I know the reason, Charles. Mr. Smith lied about meeting Mr. Watkins when he came on board ship. I saw this young man in the hall outside the courtroom while Jude Kleeg was being tried. His father is the bank guard who was shot in the robbery. Lawyer Watkins made sure no one would be punished, not for the loss of money, not for the irreparable damage done to a human being. Smith is a common name. I didn’t recognize him until after the murder, even when I saw him on the deck several times with Miss Lee. He wore neither his uniform nor the gold wire spectacles in court. It took me some time to realize where I had seen him before.”
“Jude Kleeg made sure Father would never work again. He stole his livelihood and his dignity. When I saw the lawyer who had freed such a monster come aboard ship in Washington, I knew I had to take some action.”
“You took the statue from Miss Lee’s room?”
“No. I only wanted to talk to Watkins. He was sitting holding the statue and looking at it. He put it down when I came in. I had been watching him, trying to understand why he would defend someone like that. The fact that he bragged about it infuriated me. If I was going to confront him it had to be tonight. He was so smug. He said it is the job of a lawyer to get his client off, guilty or not. Then he said my father was the crook, trying the sympathy of the court with faked infirmities.” The purser glanced at the statue and went on.
“I knew the statue belonged to Alice; she had shown it to me. I didn’t think, I just reached for it and hit him. I didn’t mean to have Alice suspected of the crime.”
He glanced at the carafe, then at Emily. “I picked up the carafe to wash enough of the blood off my hand so I could get to my own cabin and wash more thoroughly.”
“The wet spot on the floor,” said Charles.
Captain Bates had been sitting quietly during the other interviews. At Smith’s announcement he rose, his face showing the depth of his astonishment. He sputtered a bit but was unable to put together a sentence. At length he took the young man by the elbow and led him toward the door.
Emily spoke softly to their retreating backs. “Mr. Smith, it wasn’t your fingerprints that gave you away, but your guilty conscience.”
Washington City, February 1, 1886
Anna Dearest,
&nb
sp; At the moment we are engaged in a most interesting case. Of course I can’t tell you a thing about it, but it started in Washington several weeks ago, and involves as substantial trust and a complex court case. When it started we were simply to find the missing daughter. There, I have said more than I should have. What I am getting to is that Charles was called to New York by our client. He has been gone for the last three weeks.
We spend the greater part of each day together, at home and in the office. I thought I would be glad for a little time on my own, and I was for about two days. Then I started to miss him more than I expected. It seems you don’t realize how much you love someone until they aren’t near you.
Part of his assignment is to meet someone in Camden, New Jersey, and escort that person north. I will be joining him there for the weekend. He will pick up his charge on Monday morning and head back to New York.
I hope this dreadful case ends soon. Sometimes I think our lives are run by the agency rather than by ourselves. Lest you think I am becoming tired of this work, let me tell you little gives me as much joy as working beside Charles.
Hope everyone at your house is well.
Love,
Emily
CAMDEN REQUIEM
Camden, New Jersey March 1886
As the ferry slipped closer to the shore, the only interesting thing in sight was the couple arguing in the bow.
New Jersey spread out flat as her mother’s dinner plates and the city of Camden was a series of low buildings of no particular charm. The smokestack of Joseph Campbell’s plant rose into the sky catching her attention briefly. Even Emily’s Spartan kitchen sported a bottle of Campbell’s Catsup. Low warehouse buildings lined the shore and the railroad yard appeared as a scar on the brown and gray landscape.
In contrast to the drab background, the man and woman were colorful and animated. The man was the woman’s senior by perhaps twenty years. Both were well dressed and looked prosperous. The man, in an expensive overcoat with fur trim, pointed at his companion as though accusing her of something. His words were drowned out by the roar of the engines as the ferry maneuvered toward the dock. The woman’s intricately patterned blue and antique gold outfit contrasted with the brown and gray of the shoreline. She leaned forward, put her gloved hands flat on his chest, and pushed with all her strength. The force of her shove sent her hat askew, the pheasant feathers bobbed, and the blue and gold silk chapeau threatened to fall to the deck.
Emily moved along the rail to listen to their conversation. Any well-trained detective would do the same. The engines dropped to half speed and halved the noise as they approached the landing. The debate became audible above the throbbing.
“What do you expect of me?” the man yelled. Emily could not hear the response.
The man went on, “I cannot do that. You ask too much.”
This time Emily could hear her reply. “That’s what you are paid for.”
Emily scanned the dock as the woman stalked away from her companion. Charles should be there waiting for her, since his train reached Camden an hour before her ferry. She hadn’t seen him since he had left for New York City three weeks ago, and it might be another two before he returned to Washington City. They had chosen to meet in Camden, a two hour train ride for him. They would have two days together before he had to be back on the job. She took a deep breath, looking forward to their reunion.
The man who met her at the dock was not Charles. “Your husband has been delayed. He will be along first thing in the morning. I am Richard Dawkins. I am in the employ of Joshua Marshall.” This was the man who had hired Charles to investigate a family affair that began in their Washington office and led on to New York. “I was on my way through and Mr. Lawrence asked me to see you settled until he could get here. I will take you to the hotel and join you for dinner before I continue my journey.”
Mr. Dawkins didn’t seem pleased with his charge, but he saw it through like a gentleman.
“I have my room already. I will see you at dinner,” he said as he left her at the hotel desk. The arguing couple from the ferry stood behind her. When she had signed the register and received the key to her room, she stepped aside, pretending to look for something in her purse.
“Reginald Maitland and this is my daughter, Christine. We have adjoining rooms.” Christine Maitland stood silent at some distance from her father with her back to him.
“Yes, sir,” the clerk told them the room numbers and handed them keys. Rooms 314 and 316 would be next to Emily’s 312.
* * * *
The hotel was like the places she and Charles always stayed when they traveled: clean, comfortable, and inexpensive. Her room provided an ample bed, a night stand, and a dresser. The bath, only two doors away, was spotless and warm. The dining room provided abundant but uninspired food. When she took her seat at the dining table, Mr. Dawkins placed a small package in front of her.
“From Mr. Lawrence.”
She frowned. “He sent me a box instead of coming himself?”
“Mrs. Lawrence, don’t shoot the messenger. If I can do this for him, you can put up with it. We are both in a somewhat awkward position.”
“Of course,” Emily agreed. “Tell me how the case is going.”
“Looks like it may wrap up earlier than we thought. Mr. Marshall is waiting for his daughter to arrive from Philadelphia. When she gets to New York she will give a deposition, and that should tie up the last details. Then it is all up to the courts. There is a great deal of money involved, you know.”
As he told her about the case, Emily opened the box which contained one of the new Waterman Fountain Pens. It was marbled green and white with a gold nib. She had wanted one since she first saw them two years ago.
Mr. Dawkins seemed impressed. “They are very convenient. You can carry them in your pocket and you don’t have to mess with ink bottles more than once a day. I’ve had one for a few months now.” He drew it out of his pocket and showed it to her. “The nib wears in response to the writing of its owner. Once you’ve broken it in it won’t write well for anyone else. You’ll like having it.”
She would rather have had Charles. Such an expensive gift meant he wasn’t going to show up this weekend, but if his staying away could clear the case earlier, she was all for it.
“Tell me about your work,” he said, turning the tables.
* * * *
Emily retired to her room and settled into the shabby but comfortable chair for the evening. What should she do with the next two days? She could go back to Washington, or she could stay to see the sights of Camden, if there were any.
She was dressing for bed when she heard a scuffle in the hall outside her room. As she turned, a piece of paper skittered under her door. By the time she picked up the paper and opened the door, the hall was empty.
The writing on the paper looked as if the penman had used a nearly empty bottle of ink. The lines were sketchy and the note seemed incomplete. The paper was fine quality with an engraved letter head. The initials CLM intertwined, surmounting a New York address.
Papa, I am in Camden. The next few words were illegible. Then: He says I must write to you to show that I am alive. L.
* * * *
Mr. Dawkins was nowhere to be seen at breakfast, though he had promised to meet her. Maybe he had taken an early ferry, or had gone by train. He had not told her his destination.
The early spring morning was cool but clear and Emily walked down to the river. Sunday morning traffic was light. Maybe she would meet Walt Whitman on the street and he would autograph her book. That would show Charles, since Whitman was his favorite poet.
Philadelphia was a shining city across the river, bathed in the low morning sun. “Why couldn’t we stay there?” she asked the absent Charles. “At least there are sights to see.”
She walked along Ferry Avenue, glancing between the buildings to
the river. She stopped to watch a group of men gathered by the water’s edge. A uniformed policeman separated himself from the group and came up to her. “You got no business here, ma’am. This is police business.”
Another man in the group was bent over a form on the ground. He lifted an object and Emily gasped.
“I know that hat.”
“Do you, indeed?” The policeman seemed skeptical.
“Yes, it belongs to a woman who was on the ferry with me yesterday.”
“Hey, Jack. This woman knows the stiff.”
A second man detached himself from the group and came over to her.
“I am Detective Sergeant Gerald Louden of the Camden police.” He held out his hand. “That will be all, Murphy,” he said, dismissing the other man. “I apologize for his manners, ma’am.”
Emily nodded.
“I am Mrs. Charles Lawrence.” She explained who she was and why she was in Camden. Then she told him what she had seen on the ferry. She described both people.
“You are unusually observant.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Did you hear what they were arguing about?”
She recounted the snatches she had heard.
“Where are you staying and how long do you plan to be here?” he asked. “We may want to contact you later.”
She and Charles seldom gave the police more information than they asked for. It was always better to give it some thought first. She would write a report for him later. Because he hadn’t asked her, she omitted that she had overheard their names. Nor had she mentioned the scuffle and the piece of paper that slipped under her door.
* * * *
The desk clerk motioned her over as she stepped through the front door of the hotel. “Mrs. Lawrence, there is a telegram for you.”
From Charles? She took a seat in one of the comfortable lobby chairs to read it.
Camden off stop home next week stop detain Dawkins
“You ninny, Dawkins left early,” she told the yellow sheet in lieu of its absent writer.