The Case Book of Emily Lawrence

by KB Inglee

  Emily handed Seward a list of Julia Statten’s works. “See if you can find copies of these books in the library or a used book shop,” she requested. “I cannot justify buying new copies of such poorly written books.”

  Emily settled herself at her desk with one of Danforth books she had brought from home, and reluctantly opened it. She skimmed it, looking for similarities between Sally Danforth and the wayward Mrs. Harris.

  She read faster as she became used to the structure of long descriptive passages, interspersed with short sections of violence or torrid lovemaking. Each book left Sally about to fall into the arms of her true love, but when the next book started, that man was nowhere to be found, and she repeated the process with the next man. Emily found it thoroughly distasteful.

  She sat up when she came to the scene in which Sally defended herself from a drunken factory worker with the paring knife she had slipped between the folds of her skirt.

  Before she closed the book, Seward had returned with a stack of library books and set them on her desk. She groaned and picked one up.

  It contained a scene in which Sally dropped an open straight razor into the shoe of the villain, to slow him down so she could make her escape.

  By the end of the day, Emily had been through four of the books.

  Myers saved her from having to open the last. “The letters were mailed from the same post office where Miss Danforth has maintained a box for the last several years.

  “My contact was amused by the fact that the same pretty woman mailed the letters and then returned to pick them up.” Myers set the photograph of Mrs. Harris on the table and tapped it with his index finger.

  “She’s been mailing and receiving one or two letters a week at that address. She has used a series of men’s names. Percy Lowe was the most recent.”

  “Percy Lowe is the hero of the book with the razor in the shoe,” Emily said, picking up one of the novels. “She truly is a madwoman.”

  “Looks like it,” Myers said. “Wily, too. She’s not going to be easy to find.”

  “Smart and crazy,” added Parker, coming into the office. “I didn’t find nothin’. Showed the sketch you made of the photograph all around, and all anyone knew was it resembled Mrs. French’s sister. I went to any place a woman might find a room. I can start on the boarding houses in the city tomorrow.”

  Charles nodded. Emily picked up the fifth novel with renewed interest. It was nearly five o’clock when she found the scene in which Sally defends herself against some outrage, using the first weapon at hand. She never inflicts lasting damage, and salvages what little virtue she has left, usually on page 254.

  In this, the last book of the series, the climax came only ten pages from the end, and took a decidedly deadlier turn.

  “What’s playing at the opera tonight?” asked Emily with some alarm.

  “Paper’s here,” said Charles, bringing it to her desk and flipping through the pages. “Here it is: Die Fledermaus. The curtain goes up at half past seven.”

  The urgency in Emily’s voice brought everyone to her desk. She handed the book to Myers, who skimmed the page quickly, and then passed it to the Charles.

  A few quick instructions from Charles and they were all out the door.

  * * * *

  It was dusk as Charles and Emily stepped out of the closed carriage driven by Seward. Emily was wearing the evening gown she had long ago redesigned with pockets to accommodate a small pistol, a note book and pencil, some burglar picks, and a few other odds and ends.

  The first theatergoers were arriving. Ladies dressed far more elegantly than Emily greeted each other and small knots of people grew into a crowd. Parker appeared wearing an evening suit Charles had found for him. It almost fit. Several paces in front of him, Mr. Harris walked toward a lamppost. When he reached it he lit a cigar, trying to appear nonchalant, but he chewed nervously on the end.

  The sidewalk in front of the theater was quite congested when a woman in a frowsy red and yellow evening dress stepped out of the tangle of people behind Mr. Harris. Emily touched Charles’s arm. He nodded and pushed her gently.

  Emily nudged her way along until she stood several paces behind the woman. Myers met her, took her arm, and they moved closer.

  By the time they were in place directly behind Mrs. Harris, Parker, tugging at his collar, stepped up beside Mr. Harris. Charles stood a few steps away.

  “Sir,” the woman said to Mr. Harris, in a tone that demanded attention.

  Mr. Harris turned. “Vivian!”

  “No, there is nothing left to say between us. You have done me wrong, and I am here for my revenge.”

  People turned as the woman who was both Sally Danforth and Mrs. Harris pulled a derringer out of her purse. The onlookers gasped and stepped back. Mr. Parker, without seeming to move, pointed his own gun toward the sky with the hammer cocked. Mr. Harris stood frozen to the spot as the last page of Mrs. Statten’s dreadful novel played out in front of the frightened and enthralled crowd.

  “Vivian, what are you doing here?” Mr. Harris stammered.

  “Percy, you cannot leave me for that woman,” she cried.

  “I… Percy? Who… Come home with me. We’ll call the doctor.”

  Emily took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds to calm her racing heart. She stepped up and grabbed Mrs. Harris’s wrist with both hands. Using all her strength and weight she forced her arm, and the gun, down. Mrs. Harris, in her surprise, squeezed the trigger. The shot hit the pavement and ricocheted, passing through the hem of Emily’s skirt and into the bushes. The derringer clattered harmlessly to the pavement.

  Emily glimpsed Mr. Harris on the ground with Parker on top of him. Myers circled Vivian Harris’s waist with his strong arms and bundled her into the carriage Seward had pulled to the curb.

  Charles, who had not moved throughout all the commotion, went to Mr. Harris and helped him up. “Are you all right?”

  Mr. Harris dusted off his coat and nodded.

  Emily gathered her skirts and joined the struggling woman, still held tightly by Myers, in the carriage. Before the town clocks struck the half hour, Mrs. Harris was delivered into the hands of the doctor who waited for them on the steps of the old brick horror she had walked out of a few days earlier.

  “She will spend the rest of her life here,” said Emily, climbing back into the carriage.

  “Better than prison for murder, or attempted murder,” Myers reminded her.

  When Emily, Myers, and Seward returned to the office, Charles and Parker were toasting their success with beer from the saloon across the street. Her heart heavy, Emily sat at her desk and opened the evening purse Mrs. Harris had abandoned in the carriage. There was nothing inside except for a packet of letters tied with a purple ribbon.

  “Mrs. Harris certainly had a taste for color,” Emily remarked. The men were too busy with their beer to pay her much attention. “These letters are addressed to Sally Danforth at her post box.” Emily took the case file out of her desk and laid out the papers beside the stack of letters.

  As Charles started his third beer, Emily rose from her seat with a frown.

  “Gentlemen, we have done Mrs. Harris a grave wrong.” She set the letters on the table in front of Myers next to the note from Mr. Harris requesting the original interview. “These letters are in Mr. Harris’s hand. He knew what she was doing all along.”

  Myers read a few of the letters. “He was playing a game with her to make her happy and to bring some spice to a marriage gone stale.”

  “Why would he do that and then hire us to find her?” asked Parker.

  “Because he needed witnesses,” said Emily. “Charles, you looked into their private life and questioned the servants, didn’t you? Did you find any indication that Mrs. Harris had done any of the things her husband accused her of?”

  Quite sober no
w, Charles looked directly at Emily, setting his beer down with a thump. “No, there was no corroborating evidence. We took his word for it. But Mrs. Marsh, a handsome widow who lived next door, came frequently to the house,” Charles paused. He met Emily’s gaze across the table. “More frequently since Mrs. Harris was committed. A man can’t divorce a perfectly good wife to marry again. However, a wife in an institution with doctors attesting to her madness is another matter.”

  Emily nodded. She gathered up the letters and retied the purple ribbon. “Especially if the husband’s story is backed up with an official report from a reputable detective agency. Seward, bring the carriage.”

  Washington City, November 1888

  Dear Anna,

  Once more the holiday season is upon us. I must admit the celebration of Christmas perplexes me somewhat. My memory of Christmas as a child is that we had endless dinner guests, generally Father’s students who lived too far away to go home for the single day off. Now Harvard closes for an entire week. Stores close early, and in Washington, nothing at all happens. It is as if everyone is napping in preparation for the frantic activity of January.

  Do you have a Christmas tree for your family? I am much more at home with the simple Christmases of our childhood, but Charles has been pestering me to have a tree for some time.

  Charles has decided Christmas is for children and has become “uncle” to the children of the agents. I think the children view me as a stern Mrs. Uncle, best left alone while they climb all over Charles. I don’t know why they react to me so. I am fond enough of them, but at this time of year, it tugs at my heart that I have been unable to provide him with a bustling family. Do you think I love the work at the agency more than I miss having a family?

  Our house is well suited to an extravagant celebration. We have a parlor with pocket doors that could be opened to display the tree in all its glory, with lit candles. I am actually beginning to think I should surprise him this year. All I have to do is figure out how to get the contraption into the house without his knowing.

  I have sent on gifts for the nieces and nephews, and some totally useless doodads for you and Susan.

  Let me know what you think about a surprise tree, and have the best of all possible holiday seasons.

  Much love,

  Emily Scrooge

  CHRISTMAS IS FOR CHILDREN

  Washington City, December 1888

  Charles pulled his hat over his forehead, jammed his hands into his pockets and stuck out his bottom lip. “I want a Christmas tree this year.”

  Emily became motherly whenever her husband played the little boy. Her first thought was simply to say “no.”

  “Why?” she asked instead. Neither of them had ever had a Christmas tree, though these days most people did.

  “They are so pretty and the children would love it,” Charles replied.

  “What children might those be?” she asked, turning away from him to watch a group of sparrows rustling in the dry leaves. The gracefully curving path of the National Mall opened out into North B Street. She stifled a sigh. In eleven years of marriage she had not managed to bear him a child.

  “If we had a tree, we could have all the children over on Christmas afternoon. We could give them their treats under the tree, instead of sending little packages home with their fathers on Christmas Eve. We could have cake and ice cream.”

  “Oh,” said Emily in her knowing-parent voice, the same voice her mother had used when she thought her daughters should see the error of their ways without having to be reminded. She took his arm again and caressed it. They started up Fifteenth Street toward the office in silence. Emily instantly regretted her attitude and slipped her hand into his as silent apology for her petulance. Was she simply covering her own guilt and inadequacy by denying him something he wanted so much?

  When Mrs. Myers had borne her first child, shortly after Jacob Myers had come to work for Lawrence Research, Charles was delighted. Since then he had become “Uncle Charles” to the Myers children, Parker’s boys, Seward’s first born, and even Mrs. Briggs’s three grandchildren. Charles recognized Christmas and each birthday with some trinket, and was known to slip bags of candy into each father’s pocket for no good reason at all. He knew all the children’s names and ages, though he occasionally forgot the names of their mothers.

  Charles unlocked the door to Lawrence Research. Emily put on the kettle for coffee while he opened the curtains and unlocked the file cabinets. Their latest client had left at closing time yesterday, and Emily, steadfast to the rule that they did not talk about cases at home unless it was absolutely necessary, had not asked about the case. The man had been tall and gaunt. He looked to be a mid-level government bureaucrat from the cut of his clothes and hair. Curious as she was, Charles made her wait until the other agents arrived so he had to tell the story only once.

  “What are we working on?” asked Charles, opening the meeting with his usual question.

  “I finished Mr. Richardson’s case late yesterday,” said Myers, sliding a copy of the report across the table to Charles.

  “I am at a standstill,” said Seward. “The people I need to interview are out of town until after the New Year.”

  Parker shrugged. “I’m free.”

  “Good. We have a new client. Mr. Marley is from the Geological Survey, and he believes one of his underlings, Hieronymus Prothero, is leaking information to a Mr. Bird at Dixie Mining. He thinks he knows how the information leaves the building and only wants us to prove it.”

  Charles handed Emily some papers which she distributed to the agents, while Charles continued. “Our job will be to find the link between the two men. Here are the home addresses, work addresses, and some family information. Parker and Myers, you follow Prothero and Bird. Note everywhere they go, each address, and the times. Seward, you can question the households. Then go to city hall and look up any information available on the two men. Do they attend the same church? Do they belong to clubs in common? Do they walk in the same parks? They are unlikely to have any social contact, since they’re from quite different levels of society and live in different neighborhoods. Put together as much information as you can in two days, and then Mrs. Lawrence will sift through it and see if she can find commonalties.”

  “How does Mr. Marley know who the parties are?” asked Myers.

  Charles tapped the file on the table in front of him. “He brought me these.” The first item was a manila envelope with a government stamp on the corner. “Prothero was seen removing an envelope like this from the office. Marley included two letters from a farmer in Pennsylvania requesting information on The Dixie Mining Company, which bought the mineral rights from the farmer. Marley thinks the letters suggest that Prothero passed information to one Mr. Bird at Dixie. Both men live in North West.”

  Charles slid the file to the center of the table for the agents.

  “Go forth and be fruitful, gentlemen,” Charles said as he closed the meeting.

  * * * *

  Over the next two days the results poured in. Mr. Prothero attended Calvary Baptist Church and went to a men’s group there on Thursday evenings. He spent most of his time at the office and the rest at home with his wife and five children. Home was in a neighborhood of better standing than most men holding a comparable position could afford. He also paid handsomely for the privilege of having his son well educated.

  Mr. Bird, the presumed receiver of the stolen information, attended St. John’s in Lafayette Square, and went out each night to a different organization. He had a single child, a boy of fourteen. The family lived much as one would expect a mining engineer of his ability and connections to live.

  Emily posted a large map of Washington on the wall that divided Charles’s office from the work room. She took a ball of red yarn and another of blue out of her desk along with a box of blue and red pins. “Mr. Prothero is blue and Mr. Bird is r
ed,” she said marking their homes, offices, and churches with the appropriate color pins. Later, the agents would add more pins and connect the points with yarn showing the travels of each man through the city.

  * * * *

  Wednesday was unusually warm and sunny. Parker and Myers were still out trailing after their quarry, and Seward was seeing if the servants could add anything to the stack of information that was already sitting in a heap on the work room table. Nowhere did the red and blue lines on the map cross or even come within blocks of each other. These men might as well live in totally different cities, and Lawrence Research had found no connection between them.

  “Mrs. Lawrence,” called Charles from his desk in the next room. “You must be thoroughly tired of sifting through papers. You need to be outside in the sunshine.” As he handed her the envelope his fingers brushed her hand. “Would you be kind enough to deliver this envelope to Mr. Williams? It would be easier than calling a messenger.”

  Emily smiled. As if she needed any justification to leave the office. Mr. Williams, their lawyer, had moved from the rooms above Lawrence Research to a more posh office. Emily suspected that there was no reason at all to rush off with the correspondence.

  Emily crossed the Mall, which had come to life with children and their mothers or nurses all enjoying the unusually fine weather. Coming upon a group of three children playing with their mothers, she blinked away a sudden rush of tears.

  In the first years of her marriage, she had longed for children. She had talked to them and their parents in the parks, and watched the young ones at play for hours. She had often held the youngest of her landlady’s brood and taught them all to read and do simple arithmetic. Now there would be no Lawrence children, and she avoided the young ones whenever possible. When she saw a father enjoying his child she hoped the stab of pain beneath her ribs would soon fade into indifference. The process would be easier if her two sisters did not write to her, constantly extolling the joys of their offspring and with each letter implying her failure.