The Case Book of Emily Lawrence

by KB Inglee

As she crumpled the message and stuffed it into her pocket, Detective Louden stepped through the front doors. So he had found out that the victim was staying at the hotel, something else she had not told him.

  “Mrs. Lawrence, I’d like to speak with you when I am done here.”

  “I will be down in a minute,” she told him and headed for the stairs.

  In her room she took out the crumpled telegram and the note that had been slipped under her door.

  Taking her new fountain pen and a clean sheet of paper she wrote down what she knew. Scraps of conversation from the ferry, the names of the participants, their attitude toward each other, and her conversation with Dawkins about fountain pens.

  When she returned to the lobby, Louden was questioning the young woman’s erstwhile companion. Emily waited patiently just out of ear shot.

  “Mr. Maitland, do you own a fountain pen?” asked Emily as the man stood up to leave. Though he looked distressed, it was not the look of bereaved father.

  “A what? No. Too expensive.”

  As she took her turn in the seat Maitland had vacated, she handed Louden the note that had slipped under her door.

  He took his time reading it. “What makes you think there is any connection between this and the murder?”

  “So it was murder. I supposed it had to be since it is unlikely that she has simply slipped on the edge of the river. Her last name isn’t Maitland, is it? The two of them are registered here as father and daughter. But I suspect her name is Charlotte Marshall.” She tapped the return address on the letter in his hand.

  “This is what I think happened,” Emily went on. “Miss Marshall and Mr. Maitland were traveling north to New York. You heard Mr. Maitland admit that a fountain pen was too expensive. But he was wearing an expensive coat on the ferry. I think he is not what he appears to be. I think rather than her father, he was her bodyguard.”

  Louden shifted in his seat. Was he uncomfortable with her assured manner and her knowledge of the case? She should be answering his questions, not trying to solve the case for him.

  Again he asked, “What makes you think this note is connected to the murder?”

  “Mr. Maitland and Miss Marshall were in the two rooms next to mine. Mr. Dawkins and I left the dining room about seven in the evening and I returned to my room. I don’t know where Dawkins went.”

  Louden looked at her as though she were speaking Greek, so she went on. “Miss Marshall disliked Mr. Maitland. That was clear from every interaction I saw between them. She was either angry with him or tried to ignore him completely.

  “Last evening I heard a scuffle in the hall outside my room and this note slipped under the door. It is signed L. Perhaps for Lottie, a diminutive for Charlotte. It will be easy enough to check the handwriting to prove the note was written by Miss Marshall. Look at the writing itself. See how the lines are broken as though the ink wasn’t feeding properly? That comes from writing with a fountain pen that isn’t yours.”

  Again Louden looked puzzled.

  “Read the note. Is it not a ransom note?”

  “It could be, but why deliver it to you?”

  “I think it was dropped in the scuffle and it slipped under my door by accident.”

  “So we have a ransom note written with a fountain pen that didn’t belong to the writer, a family that isn’t a family. That would point to Maitland as the killer. Who else would have known them in Camden?”

  Emily drew the crumpled telegram from Charles out of her purse and handed it to him. “My husband is in New York. He was supposed to join me here but Mr. Dawkins came in his stead, much to my disappointment.”

  She waited until Louden had read the telegram several times.

  “I don’t see…”

  “No, of course you don’t,” said Emily. “Let me explain. I believe that Charlotte Marshall was the daughter of Mr. Marshall, the man Mr. Lawrence is working for in New York. She had some information that was supposed to close that case. I don’t know exactly what since I don’t know much about the case. The reason the crime happened in Camden is that this is the place where the murderer crossed paths with his victim. His intention was simply to hold her for ransom, or to keep her from testifying in court. Something went wrong and he murdered her. To add to his troubles, her body was found quickly, and the ransom note was missing and could not be replaced since the author was dead.”

  “You know so much about this; do you know who the killer is?”

  Emily tried to hide her triumph, but the scowl on Louden’s face told her she failed.

  “When Mr. Lawrence asks me to detain Dawkins he is telling me he thinks Dawkins is dangerous and I am to take care, but to keep him in Camden. Dawkins had a fountain pen. He failed to meet me for breakfast as he had intended. Then the telegram from Mr. Lawrence asks me to ‘detain’ him. It is a code word that means arrest him if you have to, but be careful. I’m sure Dawkins left Camden after he murdered Charlotte Marshall, and now he has had several hours head start. It might be difficult to track him down.”

  Emily stood up and started for the stairs. “Good luck, Detective Louden. Let me know if I can be of any further help.”

  Washington City, April 23, 1887

  Dearest Anna,

  I am looking forward for summer in Cambridge and Vermont. Only two more months.

  Our new agent, Fredrick Seward, a young colored man whose father was a plumber and his grandfather a slave, is working out very well. He is dark complected but very good looking none-the-less. He is bright and has had two years of college.

  When I went to interview one of the contraband in Arlington (You have read Miss Alcott’s story “My Contraband” haven’t you? It’s about the nurse and an escaped slave boy?) all I got were polite “yes, ma’am” and “no ma’am. Don’t know nuthin’ about that.”

  After a bit of discussion Charles and I went to Howard College and asked the dean to recommend someone. His desk was in front of a bookcase and one of the most prominent volumes was Father’s work on education, the one that got him into such trouble with Professor Agassiz. The dean gave us several names, and we finally chose a young man who was finding it difficult to support his mother and siblings and keep up his grades. We all liked him. It was as though he had been honed to work with us right from the start.

  The first job we gave him was to drive me along with a suspect and his wife in a rented Landau and listen to the conversation when I got out. He has the ability to become almost completely invisible to those around him. He can talk to servants at the back door; he can listen in on conversations practically anywhere; he can talk to contraband and other colored people without arousing suspicion. Fredrick Seward is the kind of man you could have to your house for dinner, and Myers has done just that.

  I feel as though Lawrence Research is versatile enough to take on any case. Our success rate has been good this year and our reputation serves us well.

  Who would have thought that the twenty year old with the little gun in the velvet bag on her lap would become ME?

  All three of us—you with your poetry, Susan with her nursing, and I—have made something of our lives. I am so proud of us all.

  I hope Father and Mother are as well.

  Love, Emily

  NOVEL ENCOUNTER

  Washington City, spring 1887

  John Harris shifted uneasily in the big leather client’s chair, then leaned toward Charles and cried out, “But Mr. Lawrence, she is going to kill me!”

  “How can you be so sure of that, Mr. Harris?” asked Charles, resting his elbows on his desk.

  “She has already tried several times. At first I thought they were accidents, or she just wasn’t paying attention. Once she put ipecac in my coffee and made me sick. Then she dropped an open straight razor in my shoe. Fortunately, I looked for my razor before I put my shoes on. Most recently, she greeted me at
the front door when I came home from work, just as she had done every evening for the last nine years. This time she had concealed a small paring knife in the folds of her skirt, and sliced the back of my hand before I had time to react.”

  Mr. Harris slipped off one of his expensive leather gloves and offered the back of his left hand to Charles. Emily, in her chair by the side of the desk, did not have a clear view of the scar.

  “I see,” said Charles.

  “I pushed her away, and she fell against the newel post. Knocked herself unconscious. I called the doctor right away and he had her committed to a private institution.”

  “You didn’t call the police?” Charles asked.

  “No.”

  Emily listened intently. The usual punishment for a woman who committed crimes, from petty theft to murder, was to be locked away in a madhouse for an undetermined length of time, perhaps the rest of her life.

  “Why are you concerned now, if she is safely locked away?” asked Charles.

  “Two days ago, she put on a visitor’s coat over her Mother Hubbard and walked out of the institution. Since then, several unsettling things have happened. James, our eldest son, woke in the night and said he smelled Vivian’s toilet water. That might have been just a wishful memory, but the next day, Cook stepped out to pick up some fresh vegetables for dinner and when she came back, Vivian’s apron and a shawl were gone from the kitchen. Also, a few trinkets were missing from her bedroom, as well as some money. This morning, my pipe and slippers were set out for me, the way she always did. None of the servants had done it. We searched the house, but she wasn’t there.”

  “Any idea why she might want to kill you?”

  “None. She was happy and well cared for. Wanted for nothing. She was always warm and loving.”

  Emily usually sat silent through these interviews, listening, looking for the reactions of the client, and taking notes, while Charles asked the questions. But now she asked, “How many children do you have, Mr. Harris, and how old are they?”

  “Four boys, the oldest nearly seven, the youngest only a few months old.”

  “Had she been unwell?”

  “No. She was delighted with the new little one. Though, now that you mention it, she had taken to reading novels in the last year or so. Never did that before.”

  “Oh,” sympathized Emily, never one to pass up a good novel, “that can be dangerous for a sensitive young woman.” She didn’t attempt to hide her sarcasm.

  Charles glanced at her sharply and picked up the questioning again. “Where would she go? Would she stay with friends? Family? Perhaps in a hotel?”

  “Her mother and father live here in Washington. Her sister lives in Virginia, in Falls Church. No one has seen Vivian.”

  “Are the police looking for her?” asked Emily. “If she was committed to an institution, she cannot legally leave it until she is officially released.”

  “Captain Hobbs suggested I come here for help. Gave me your card.” Mr. Harris flipped a business card onto Charles’s desk.

  “If she’s in Washington,” said Charles, “we’ll find her. If she’s trying to kill you, I suggest you take some precautions. Can you be away from your home for a time? Somewhere that we could still reach you?”

  Mr. Harris nodded, wrote an address on the back of his card, and handed it to Emily.

  “I suggest you spend as much time as you can in places women don’t frequent. Vary your schedule. Change your regular route to and from work. And supply us with a likeness of her at once.”

  When Mr. Harris had gone, leaving a small wad of bills as a retainer, Charles turned to Emily. “What do you think?”

  She moved to the more comfortable chair and picked up the card. Each Lawrence Research business card bore the name of one of the agents in the lower right hand corner. This one was hers.

  “Hobbs sent him to me,” Emily exclaimed, handing the card to Charles.

  “Fine, then you can find Mrs. Harris for us.”

  Emily made a wry face. “She’s a madwoman. How am I supposed to find a madwoman in Washington?”

  Charles chuckled. “In all years we’ve been married, and business partners as well, haven’t you ever wanted to kill me? Maybe just once? And I don’t believe you’re mad.”

  Emily huffed. “Many more times than once. I haven’t, because being with you at its worst is more desirable than being locked away in an asylum. If I intended to kill you, I would be a good deal more successful than she’s been.”

  “None of these attacks seem particularly lethal,” admitted Charles. “Even the knife, though it could have done serious damage if she hit the right spot, left only a scar on his hand.”

  They sat silently for a moment.

  “And where would you go if you wanted to get away from me?” he asked.

  “I’d go home to my parents, or to one of my sisters. All of Mrs. Harris’s relatives are here, so she wouldn’t have my advantage of being hundreds of miles away. My second choice would be to one of the working-women’s boarding houses. My third choice would be Murder Row.”

  Charles guffawed. “Maybe you could get away with hiding among ladies of the night, but I don’t think Mrs. Harris shares that particular skill. That leaves family and boarding houses. You’d better take yourself off to visit her family. I’ll set Parker and Myers on to the other tasks while you’re out.”

  “Do you think she is really a danger to him?”

  “Probably. Take a pistol with you.”

  Emily always took a firearm when she left the office on business. Though she had never had to use it, the weight in her purse or pocket reminded her that being a detective was serious business.

  She learned nothing new from Mrs. Harris’s parents. She had been an upstanding young woman, who had married appropriately and happily, as far as they knew.

  “I can’t understand it,” complained her mother. “Her husband loved her as much as any husband does, and he gave her everything she wanted.”

  “There is no history of madness in our family,” exclaimed her father, when Emily put the question directly to him.

  “Poor John, left alone with four children,” said Vivian’s mother, ignoring any distress her own daughter might be suffering, “and the poor children, left motherless.” When they spoke of their daughter, their faces hardened.

  * * * *

  The train to Falls Church was slow and dirty, but the countryside was pleasant. Mrs. French, Mrs. Harris’s sister, was more forthcoming than her parents had been.

  “Vivian seemed to weather the marriage well enough until this last child. She was ill the whole time. At first she came here often and stayed for a day or two when it got too hard for her. Sanctuary, she said. I don’t suppose John is worse than any other husband. There were no money problems, but he just didn’t pay her much attention. Her duty was clear in his mind, bear children and run a home. She did both admirably. Now John thinks reading novels caused her to change, but she has always read novels; she simply stopped trying to hide it.”

  “When did she come here last?” asked Emily.

  “About six months before the baby was born. I went to stay with Vivian for two weeks after her confinement. She cried all the time. When I left she implored me to stay, but I couldn’t. I have a family of my own. She told me later she managed to persuade her neighbor, Mrs. Marsh, to look in on her every day.”

  Emily made a note of the name.

  Then Mrs. French exclaimed, “Oh, Mrs. Lawrence, I just remembered something! Last time she came, she brought a trunk and asked if we could store it in the shed. She said there wasn’t room in the city. As far as I know, no one has touched it. Would you like to look?”

  “Very much.”

  Mrs. French took Emily to one of several outbuildings behind the farmhouse. It was dark inside, even in the bright afternoon sunlight. Mrs
. French lit the lantern hanging by the door, and held it aloft over the trunk. The lock had been pried open.

  “Who could have opened it? The children didn’t know it was here, and both my husband and I promised we wouldn’t touch it. I don’t think he was even interested. I certainly didn’t do this.”

  Emily knelt beside the trunk and lifted the lid. Inside were some women’s clothes, plain and dark. They were well worn, but clean and carefully folded. Emily held up a dress.

  “Would this fit Mrs. Harris?” she asked.

  Mrs. French nodded.

  Under the coat and shoes they found papers and books, two novels by Julia Statten, and some letters written in a bold hand.

  “That’s not her handwriting. I don’t recognize it,” volunteered Mrs. French without having been asked.

  Emily glanced at the papers, which consisted of tender love letters addressed to a Sally Danforth.

  “I don’t know any Sally Danforth. Why would my sister have her love letters?”

  Emily picked up one of the novels, opened it at random, and read, “‘Sally Danforth took her seat by the window.’”

  “Sally Danforth is a character in a book?” asked Mrs. French.

  Emily explained. “Sally Danforth is a plucky working girl who triumphs over adversity in a series of novels by Julia Statten. I read one and, well, it wasn’t to my taste. I would say that your sister has an alter ego. Courageous and unmarried. Do you mind if I take the letters? We need to find out who this man is.”

  * * * *

  The next morning at the daily staff meeting, Emily told the other members that they might be looking, not for Vivian Harris, but for Sally Danforth.

  “Mr. Myers, you work on the letters. See if you can find out who wrote them,” said Charles, as he assigned tasks.

  “I think it’s clear that she has been to Falls Church since she left the asylum. She might reside there as Miss Danforth,” suggested Emily.

  “Parker, go to Falls Church and see what you can dig up. Take her photograph, and don’t mention her name.”

  Parker, very much more at home in the city than in the farm country outside the District, scowled at Charles, but assented readily enough.