The Case Book of Emily Lawrence

by KB Inglee

  Just as she was about to turn her back on the last family and leave the Mall, a boy, still in short pants, plowed into her skirts.

  “’Scuse me, ma’am,” he said, tipping his cap politely and turning to run away.

  “Just a minute, young man,” she said, glaring. He turned back to her with wide eyes.

  “Do you have a Christmas tree?” she asked.

  He stared at her. “No, ma’am. Santa Claus will bring it in the night. It will be there in the parlor on Christmas morning, first thing. Don’t you know that?”

  She smiled. “What sorts of things hang on it?” she asked.

  “Candles and strings of berries and popcorn, dried apples that Mother uses for pie after Christmas, glass balls, candy in little paper cones, and always on the very top a golden star. It is the most beautiful thing in the whole world.”

  The fear in his wide eyes had turned to delight and expectation.

  “Don’t you have a Christmas tree?” he asked.

  “No, I’ve never had one.”

  “Everybody has a Christmas tree. What do your children do without a Christmas tree?”

  “We have no children, and when my husband and I were little, only a few people had trees.”

  “You ought to ask Santa Claus to bring you a tree, too. It would make you very happy.”

  “Perhaps I will. Thank you for the advice,” said Emily, digging in her purse and handing the boy a penny. “Now watch where you are going, young man.”

  He ran down the path to show his penny to his friend. Both boys turned to their mothers. The friend pointed to his mother’s purse, and then to the candy store across the street. With a quick, friendly nod to Emily, the two mothers crossed the street and entered the store with their sons.

  * * * *

  When Emily returned to the office, Parker was just coming in. “My man is at the office until 6:30. I will pick him up there and follow him home. He keeps regular hours and never goes out unexpectedly.”

  “Never mind,” said Charles. “I think we have learned what we can by following them. We will have to try something else.”

  Seward came in a few minutes later.

  Emily poured coffee and set out the last of Mrs. Myers’s cookies, sent fresh that morning. They sat around the work table and gossiped for a few minutes before Emily had an idea. “What about the wives? Has anyone followed them? Are they cousins? Do they shop at the same stores?”

  “I couldn’t find any connection there,” said Seward, leafing through the papers he had added to the pile on the table. “Different maiden names. One is from Virginia, the other from Maryland. Mrs. Prothero shops, when she shops at all, at the cheaper stores around her home, while Mrs. Bird shops along H Street and Pennsylvania Avenue. None of the servants could tell me anything indicating the two women had ever met.”

  “Mr. Parker, how old are the Prothero children?” asked Emily.

  “Three girls, little things, two boys, one still in short pants, one around twelve or thirteen. His pa walked him to school this morning. He doesn’t usually.”

  Emily added a line from the Prothero house to the school, and then from the school to his office, but the red lines of Mr. Prothero’s paths through Washington came no closer to the blue lines that represented Mr. Bird’s wanderings. The papers could not have been left at any location by one man to be picked up later by the other.

  Seward continued to shuffle through the papers on the work table until he found the one that gave the exact ages of all six children. He handed it to Emily, who glanced from the paper to the wall map and back.

  Myers came in and slammed the door in frustration. Emily, dropping the paper on her desk, poured him a cup of coffee, and pointed to the few remaining cookies.

  “Mr. Bird left his office about three and went up Sixteenth Street to the offices of Dixie Mining and Engineering. He carried a large envelope with what looked like a government seal on one corner. Looks as if more papers got passed, but how?”

  “Mr. Lawrence,” said Emily, still studying the lines on the map, “I want to talk to Mrs. Briggs in your office for a few minutes, and then I want the afternoon off. Tomorrow morning I will follow Mr. Bird in place of Mr. Myers. If what I have in mind doesn’t work, we can come up with another plan in the afternoon.”

  “You aren’t going to do anything foolish or dangerous, are you?” asked Charles.

  “Foolish, maybe, but certainly not dangerous. If I am right, you may take me to lunch. If I am wrong, nothing much will be lost but a morning, and I will bring cake tomorrow.”

  Parker and Myers smiled at her. The three men knew well enough that Emily was neither foolish nor silly. From time to time she had been known to shoulder the blame for some of the more outrageous failures, rather than have one of the men look foolish. And some seemingly silly ideas had produced unexpectedly good results.

  * * * *

  Emily waited a block south of the Bird home at eight the next morning. She was holding a small round mirror concealed by her handkerchief. By holding the handkerchief near her face she could watch what was happening behind her without having to turn around. She had not been there for more than ten minutes when Master Bird came down the front steps with a green cloth book bag slung over his shoulder. She walked briskly down the street in front of him, keeping her distance by listening to the sound of his footsteps on the quiet street. Once they reached the corner, the foot traffic was heavier, and she had to use her mirror to make sure he was still behind her. At length she stopped to look into the window of the toy store across the street from the Jefferson Peale School, an unimposing brick edifice that prepared the sons of the rich for Harvard and Yale.

  Putting a toy store across the street from a school for well-to-do young men was either very wise or very foolish, depending on your point of view.

  Master Bird had been joined by a friend and paused, waiting for other young men before crossing the street to the school. No one was yet hurrying, so Emily thought she would have a few minutes before the bell.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen, would you be kind enough to answer some questions for me?”

  The boys frowned at her, but were too polite to turn away.

  “Do either of you have Christmas trees at home?”

  “Yes.” They spoke almost in unison.

  “Where do you get the trees?” she asked.

  Master Bird answered first. “We cut ours down on Grandfather’s farm in Maryland. We go out together the Saturday before Christmas.”

  “Father and I buy ours from the vendor on a vacant lot on Eighth Street,” said the other boy.

  “When you get them home, how do you put them up? Nail them to the floor?”

  Both boys snickered at Emily’s colossal ignorance, but helpfully suggested that she consider buying an iron stand.

  “I think they have some in there,” said Master Bird, inclining his head toward the toy store.

  “You have to give the trees water or all the needles fall off,” added the other boy.

  “And the candles? How do you keep from burning the house down?”

  “You keep a bucket of water by the tree,” said one.

  “And light the candles only for a short time when everyone is in the room,” added the other.

  “You’ve never had a Christmas tree?” asked Master Bird, his eyes wide.

  Emily shook her head sadly. “What do you put on it?”

  “Anything you like, but you must have a big stuffed Santa Claus at the top,” said Master Bird.

  “No, an angel with genuine hair and soft feather wings,” corrected his more poetic friend.

  “Thank you for your help. I hope I haven’t made you late for school. Are you both in the same class?”

  They nodded.

  “What is your favorite subject?” asked Emily.

  �
�I like mathematics. Someday I shall be a scientist,” said Master Bird.

  “I prefer literature,” said his friend. “Mr. Boulden says I could be a writer like Edgar Allan Poe. I like to write scary stories.”

  “Well, thank you for your help, young men. I think I shall buy a tree stand and some candle holders as soon as the store opens.”

  The bell rang and the boys hurried across the street and up the steps.

  Emily waited until a second bell sounded and then followed them into the building.

  “Good morning. I am Mrs. Charles Lawrence.” Emily handed her card to the headmaster. “I am investigating a rather sensitive government matter, and I would like to know if Master Prothero attends this school.”

  The headmaster looked blankly at her for some time and said at length, “Perhaps if Mr. Lawrence were to come…”

  “Ah,” said Emily, picking up a book that lay face down on his desk. “I am in no hurry. I see you are reading Bronson Alcott. This book is some thirty years old. I admire his position on the education of women and others long considered un-educable. My own feeling is that Mr. Alcott was quite right about methods of teaching as well. A mix of students must make one’s education both deeper and broader. My own school accepted only girls, though it did emphasize science heavily. In fact, some of the parents would come to listen to Professor Agassiz’s morning lectures. I have been told that there are now other books coming out in support of his position. Have you read any of those?”

  Emily was prepared to babble on for as long as it took for the headmaster to answer her questions just to get her out of his office.

  “Yes, Mrs. Lawrence,” he said with a sigh, “he is a student here.”

  “Good. What grade is he in? Who is his teacher? Is he a good student?”

  “He is in Mr. Boulden’s class, sixth grade. We have only good students here. I would dispute you on the worth of Mr. Alcott’s ideas, and you being here simply proves the rule. Good day, Mrs. Lawrence.”

  The toy store was open when Emily left the school.

  “Do you have a Christmas tree stand and some ornaments?” she asked the elderly proprietor.

  “We have two stands. What did you have in mind?”

  Both stands were heavy and Emily didn’t want to carry them to the office. “Can you have this one delivered to this address this afternoon?”

  “Certainly, Mrs. Lawrence,” he said. He glanced at her card on which she had written her home address. He showed her candles with holders, some blown glass swans with feather tails, and a glass nativity set so beautiful it nearly brought tears to her eyes.

  “And a star. I must have a star for the top.”

  By the time she left the store, she has spent a good deal more than she had planned.

  * * * *

  “It’s the children,” she said that afternoon after everyone had gathered around the table in the workroom. “Mr. Myers, does Mr. Prothero’s oldest son carry a book bag?”

  “Yes, one of those green cloth ones. It’s usually pretty full. He must study a lot.”

  “Did any of you know that Mr. Prothero’s oldest son goes to the same school as the Bird boy? They are in the same class.”

  “Are you suggesting that Prothero gives the package to his son, who gives it to Bird’s son, who then passes it on to his father?” asked Myers.

  “It is the only connection we have found so far,” said Emily. “It’s just an idea; you still have to prove it. If you can you do so by Monday, you will have only half a day’s work on Christmas Eve.”

  * * * *

  On Monday morning, December 24th, Charles was gathering up the gifts that he and Emily had so carefully chosen for all the agents’ children when Emily came into the dining room and stopped him.

  “Charles, what is Christmas to us? We go to church in the morning and come home to have dinner together. What if this year we ask Burt to come round with his cab, and we called on everyone at their homes to deliver the presents? If you could put on a bit of weight and grow a beard, you would be the image of Nast’s Santa Claus, and I am sure the children already think you are.”

  He beamed his approval of her plan. “What a wonderful idea! Although maybe not the Santa Claus part. I will talk to Burt this morning.”

  “Never mind, Charles. If the men found anything over the weekend, you’ll have the report to deliver, I’ll arrange for the cab.”

  Myers was already at the office making coffee when they arrived.

  “Glad you’re here, Mrs. Lawrence. My coffee isn’t as good as yours.” He handed Emily the spoon he was using to measure the brown particles into the pot.

  By eight the others had arrived, each carrying a festive dish for a lavish luncheon. Charles called the meeting to order two hours early.

  “Well, gentlemen, what are we working on?” He leaned back, balancing his chair on the two back legs.

  Myers could hardly contain his enthusiasm. “I met Mr. Boulden, the boy’s teacher, on Saturday morning. He says that the Prothero boy and the Bird boy are not friends, but that on occasion they put their heads together in a most conspiratorial way. When Mr. Boulden questioned them, he was told that they were busy with grown-up things.”

  Emily nodded.

  Myers continued. “I showed him Mrs. Lawrence’s sketch of the other boy, Bird’s friend. His name is Gerald Herbert. Boulden told me where he lived and I went to interview him. He said that Master Bird told him that he was acting as a spy, and that someday he would tell him the story and he could write it up and become famous. I asked if he had ever seen any envelopes like the one that Mr. Bird carried into his office. He said he had seen young Prothero hand one to the Bird boy on several occasions.” Myers paused and glanced at the map with the red and blue pins and yarn on it before going on.

  “That seemed conclusive enough for our purposes. It is the only connection we have found between the two men, and it involves government envelopes. I didn’t want to make the boy suspicious, so I talked to him about his writing and gave him some plots he might find useful. He showed me one of his stories. It is a bit florid, but it shows some promise.”

  “Sounds like a good lead,” said Charles, letting his chair fall back on all four legs and dropping his hands to the table. “Write it up so I can deliver it this morning and then we can close the office and go home. If Marley wants anything more than a report, it can wait until Wednesday.”

  Everyone scurried to his desk to make sure the reports were in order and the last details added.

  After the reports were written and sent off by messenger, best wishes shared, and the last crumb of holiday food vanished into Parker’s mouth, the office door was locked before the town clocks struck noon and the company made its way home for the celebration in the bosom of their families.

  * * * *

  On Christmas morning, Emily shifted about on their usual pew at All Souls. She had never been comfortable in this church, which had been Charles’s choice. Because she was a working wife, she was snubbed by both the wives and the working spinsters of the congregation. Nor did she like this morning’s lengthy service that kept her away from the happy secret she and Mrs. Briggs had prepared for Charles at home.

  When, after an eternity, the last hymn was sung and best wishes were passed to acquaintances, and at last they were standing at the corner of Fourteenth and L Streets, they were accosted by Myers, decidedly out of breath.

  “Mr. Lawrence, you must come at once. Mr. Prothero is preparing to flee. The police are on their way. Mr. Marley decided this was a good day to find both families at home and presented his case against Prothero.”

  “But Mr. Myers,” pleaded Emily, “it’s Christmas Day. What a dreadful time to confront them, in front of their families and all. And dinner will be ready soon. Oh, Charles, must you go?” Emily tugged at her husband’s sleeve.

  “Mr. My
ers came away from his family for this. How can I do less? It is not as if we have children waiting for us.”

  Emily recoiled as though she had been slapped, dropped his sleeve, and stepped back. With a scowl, Charles hesitated, then turned. A step behind Charles, Myers smiled and winked. Emily managed a weak smile in return. She had asked Myers to provide a distraction, true, but to invade the homes of two family men on Christmas morning, even if they were criminals, was more than she had requested. What kind of a man would make such a decision? Marley could have easily chosen a less poignant time.

  After a dismal walk across the Mall, thinking of the two families so disrupted, she opened the door to her own home, and the sounds and smells of Christmas overcame her melancholy.

  Mrs. Briggs met her at the door. “How long do you think we have?” she asked, handing Emily a glass of hot cider.

  “Two hours at the most. Charles will find a way to come home as soon as he can, and the police will want to get home as well.”

  The cider lightened Emily’s mood as it warmed her body.

  “You, ready, Mrs. L.?” asked Parker, coming into the dining room and reaching for his own glass of warmth. “We’ve got the tree up, and it only needs your touch with the ornaments. Everyone else will be along in an hour or so.”

  The trimmed tree stood behind the closed parlor doors. Wives arrived with the children only minutes before Myers and Charles came up the front steps. Emily balanced on the stepladder putting the star on the top of the tree as Charles opened the front door and called to her.

  “I brought Myers back with me for a quick beer before he goes home to his family,” said Charles.

  “Just a minute, Charles,” she called to him as Parker hid the ladder and held out a taper to Emily so she could light the candles.

  “Er, Mr. Lawrence,” said Myers, loudly. He never told her what excuse he used to keep Charles from entering the parlor prematurely.

  When everything was ready, Parker slid open the doors between the parlor and the dining room where the families waited, while Emily let Charles and Myers in from the hall.