The Case Book of Emily Lawrence

by KB Inglee

  “Oh, my,” breathed Charles as he stared at the glowing tree. His gaze moved to Emily. “Oh, my,” he said again. “You planned it all, didn’t you? Including the raid at Prothero’s home this morning.”

  Emily smiled. “I have a great criminal mind,” she said as he folded her into his arms. “Mr. Marley helped some, without knowing it,” she added.

  “Uncle Charles, what are those?” asked Parker’s oldest, pointing to an assortment of brightly wrapped packages under the tree.

  “Well, George, they seem to be gifts. Do you think there might be something for you there?”

  The afternoon sped by, with gifts for everyone followed by a fine dinner.

  Emily made a valiant effort to play the kindly aunt and speak to each child in turn until, apparently at Charles’s instigation, young Miss Seward, age two-and-a-half, tugged at her skirts and said, “Aunty Emily, pick me up so I can see the star.”

  Aunty Emily, suddenly proud of her new title, did just that.

  It was dark outside by the time everyone left. Charles and Emily sat at the kitchen table amidst dirty dishes and the remnants of the feast.

  “My love, I saw the expression on your face when you opened the door and saw us all staring at the tree,” said Charles, his voice gentle. “I would do anything to make you less sad. I gave you a book for Christmas, and you have given me everything. I wish I could give you happiness.”

  Emily swallowed the lump in her throat. “I am quite happy, Charles, although I do miss having a family. Do you think I will ever learn to live without children?”

  He took her hand and caressed it lovingly.

  “I don’t expect so. We all have our disappointments in life. But your talents shine in a different sphere. Whatever made you think the connection between Prothero and Bird was their two boys?”

  “Because, Charles, I have begun to appreciate children.”

  September 25, 1889

  Dear Anna and Susan,

  Back to work after another summer in the north. There is something compelling about the autumn in Washington. We are all back and refreshed and the city takes on an autumnal glow from the energy everyone exhibits.

  This summer in Cambridge felt more like a chore than the usual joyful vacation. It is sad to see the Cottage empty now that Father is under the care of Mrs. Stevens in the Villa. Now we are faced with the chore of selling it.

  Funny that we have always referred to the two houses as the Cottage and the Villa. I suppose the choice of styles lay with the wives, not with the Professors Lothrop and Stevens. I think Mother always loved the Cottage. I don’t know about the first Mrs. Stevens, if she saw the Italianate building as a reminder of her home in Italy. You may remember her, but I was very young when she died.

  Sorry, I am rambling. Maybe so I don’t have to deal with the subject of this letter. The sale of our old home. Charles is willing to go to Cambridge if you think it is necessary. He still has many friends there who could help with the sale. I’m sure there is a current professor who would find it just right for his family. Is it possible that the school would be of any help, given that we three live so far away?

  Though I hate to set the words in writing, I fear Father will not live through the winter, even under the superb care he is receiving now. Oh, sisters, what are we to do?

  A brighter subject, at least for me, is the recent reading I have done that may be most helpful in solving a crime. A French criminalist has discovered that the scratches on spent bullets are due to the ridges inside the gun barrel, not the object that is hit. I know this is of no interest to either of you, but I find it fascinating. Fortunately our new microscope is more powerful than our old one.

  Let me know your thoughts about the house.

  Love, Emily

  THE MAGIC BULLET

  Washington City, District of Columbia, October, 1889

  “Nobody move. This is a robbery. We will shoot if we have to.”

  Emily Lawrence spun round to face the man who had shouted the order.

  The lobby of First North West Bank was crowded. Frightened clients moved away from the tellers, holding their hands in sight. Emily stepped behind the big man who was ahead of her in the line, pulling her cape over her hands to hide the reticule that held the derringer and the weekly Lawrence Research deposit. Stupid of her, for a single shot would not take out two robbers in the best of conditions. Next time she would carry something with more fire power.

  The second robber squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, and beckoned with his pistol: a short man attempting to increase his authority.

  “You, there!” The rifleman leveled his weapon at the portly man standing beside Emily. “Take this bag and get the money from the tellers.” He tossed a bag at Emily’s feet. “Be quick.”

  There was fear in the man’s eyes as he picked up the bag, but he remained silent and calm. The barrel of rifle followed him as he went from teller to teller holding the bag for them to fill.

  When it was full, he handed it to the robber, and made a grab for the rifle barrel with his left hand. The sudden sound of a shot startled everyone. The shooter vanished in a haze of smoke, and the room smelled of black powder.

  The fabric of the man’s coat flapped as the bullet went through the cloth and grazed the flesh at his hip. The Chinese vase in the corner of the room shattered and fresh flowers and water spilled over the floor.

  The man dropped.

  Emily sank to her knees beside him. His breathing was ragged and the left side of his coat slowly grew bloody. She pulled the handkerchief out of his breast pocket and pressed it hard to the wound. When she looked up, both robbers and the bag were gone.

  * * * *

  Back at the office, Emily stared at her shaking hands. Would her report be legible? She had learned years ago to keep a clear head when she needed to, but she had never been able to control her reaction once she was safe. Lemuel Parker set a steaming cup of strong coffee and a muffin in front of her. As she gathered her thoughts for her report, she asked, “Who uses black powder these days?”

  Charles glared her into silence, as only an employer or a husband could. “Finish your report, then we can talk about it.”

  Being a detective trumped being a husband, at least at first. Later, he would hold her in the safety of his arms. She nodded and went to work. It wouldn’t do to have a report tainted by afterthoughts.

  She began with a description of the bank and the reason she had been there. Then she closed her eyes and brought both robbers to mind.

  The man with the rifle was the taller of the two. The lower half of his face was covered by a red bandana. His eyes were brown and he had almost no eyebrows. He wore old clothing that would have been appropriate on a day laborer. His coat was frayed and his shoes scuffed. The rifle he held looked old, like a relic of The War. There must be hundreds like it in the city.

  The other robber, clearly the boss, had remained silent the whole time. His bushy brown eyebrows shaded his eyes so that Emily had not seen the color. Shorter than the man with the rifle, he had nonetheless made his leadership clear. He wore an indigo bandana and was dressed in a newer version of his partner’s clothes. She hadn’t seen his weapon clearly enough to identify it.

  Emily put down her pen as a young policeman came into the room and asked for her. She handed him her written statement, which he stuffed in a pocket unread. She sighed and waited for his questions.

  “Why were you in the bank?”

  “I was depositing checks for Lawrence Research.”

  “Were you with the man who was shot?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “No.”

  “Did you recognize either of the robbers?”

  “No.”

  “How about their voices?”

  “The one who spoke had a gruff voice, b
ut I had the feeling it was put on, not his real voice. The other never spoke.”

  She answered questions for half an hour or so and finally said, “You have my statement. I wrote everything down as soon as I got back to the office. You may find it useful.”

  “I’m sure,” he said in a tone that told her he didn’t think so for a moment.

  Emily had a strong urge to empty her coffee cup over the young man’s head. She glanced up to see Seward’s dark eyes boring into hers. He had recognized her anger before she was aware of it. These men knew her better than she knew herself. She sighed again and slumped back into her chair.

  After the policeman left, Charles handed her a newspaper article about a similar robbery at the Adams Bank four days earlier. The description of the robbers fit, and a single shot had been fired into a wooden molding. The paper had dubbed them “The Black Powder Bandits.”

  * * * *

  “Take a look at this,” said Charles, moving away from the microscope.

  Emily bent over the eye piece. Two metal cylinders, slightly deformed and scratched, lay on the stage. They had to be evidence from the bank robberies. Charles had lined them up, and the marks on each of the cylinders were identical.

  “Where did you get them?” she asked.

  “Captain Hobbs handed them over when I told him about that article in the French journal. Our lab is better equipped than anything the police have. He asked us to take a look.”

  Emily had found the information in Archives de l’anthropologie criminelle. A French scientist had discovered that the marks on spent bullets were consistent with the weapon from which was fired, not the object it hit. She had read it carefully, but had translated only bits of it for Charles. She was pleased that he had paid any attention at all, but miffed that he was taking the credit for finding it.

  Emily turned the projectiles a quarter turn. The scratches continued to line up perfectly.

  “Hobbs will be along in a couple of hours to see if we found anything. Have we?”

  “Get me something else to look at. That chunk of lead you keep in your desk drawer as a souvenir will be fine,” Emily requested.

  A quick glance through the microscope told her that Charles’s souvenir came from a different weapon. The piece was smaller, but more importantly, the lines on it were very different.

  “If the article is correct, then the bullets from the robberies probably come from the same weapon, the rifle,” said Emily.

  “Are you certain enough to say so in court?” asked Charles.

  “Of course not. I’ve looked at three gray lumps, and read an article in French. Get me more things to compare.”

  As the Lawrence Research agents came in and took their coffee to their desks, Emily asked if they, like Charles, had kept any spent bullets. They all had. Sometimes there was no accounting for the things men collected.

  She ended up with a saucer full of bits of metal which she took to the lab table and began peering at through the microscope. She sorted them using this new method.

  “These three saucers each contain ones that have the same marks.” She set three shallow bowls on her desk, followed by a cup. “The cup contains the ones that don’t match any of the others. Gentlemen, can you tell which came from your desk?” Emily couldn’t remember who had donated which of the projectiles.

  Parker, Myers, and Seward each took a saucer and then divided up the pieces in the cup.

  “How did you do that, Mrs. Lawrence? You can tell some of them apart by the size, but we all use the same caliber.” Parker knew nothing about the Frenchman’s discovery.

  “I was looking only at the lines incised of each. Similar lines come from the rifling lines inside the barrels.”

  Emily wasn’t sure Parker had ever looked down a microscope before, so she showed him what to look for.

  Parkers face lit up. “I see.” Of all the agents, Parker enjoyed new ideas more than any of his better-educated colleagues.

  * * * *

  Captain Hobbs arrived early in the afternoon. Emily felt more at ease with their old friend than with the young policeman who had questioned her the day before.

  She asked him, “Is the man who was shot…”

  “He’ll be fine in time. It was foolish to go after the robbers instead of just giving them the money.”

  Charles led Hobbs to the lab table and sat him in front of the microscope. Emily showed Hobbs what she had shown Parker.

  “Two of these are from the robberies, one is mine, and one belongs to Charles. What do you see?”

  “Based on what you told me, I’d say this one is yours, since there are few marks on it and your derringer is smooth bore.”

  Hobbs laid two bits of lead on the desk. “These two match, so they must be from the bank jobs. That means this one is yours.” He placed the last piece on the desk in front of Charles.

  Charles tossed him a fifth spent bullet he removed from his watch pocket.

  “Ah, I see. This one appears to match yours.”

  “But we haven’t proved a thing,” said Emily. “The robbers were distinctive enough for anyone to tell they were same people at each bank. What good is it proving the bullets are all the same?”

  “Ha! Now all we have to do is find the rifle and we will know who committed the robberies,” said Charles.

  “A snap,” said Emily with a chuckle.

  Hobbs gave them a wry look, pocketed the evidence and left.

  * * * *

  The following Wednesday the Eagle Bank was held up. A warning shot had been fired into a wooden desk, leaving a cloud of black powder. Clearly the Black Powder Bandits were back at work. That afternoon Hobbs brought the evidence from all three robberies to be checked.

  “This time,” Hobbs said, “I want to watch what you do. I want to know that it is a scientific process, not some kind of sleight-of-hand.”

  Emily held out her hand to the agents who filled it with the lead from their desks, while Charles set Hobbs up at the microscope.

  Hobbs sorted the bullets the same way Emily had.

  “The rifling of the barrels is done by hand,” said Charles, pointing out the obvious, “so the marks from different guns will always be different.”

  “Unfortunately for the scientists among us,” said Emily, “the ones from the robberies are all the same, whether they were taken from walls, desks, or pillars. It would be helpful if we had one that ended up in human flesh.”

  “We still don’t have the rifle.” Hobbs’s shoulders slumped.

  “But when we get it, we can prove it was used in all the robberies,” said Charles, beaming.

  * * * *

  Parker took Emily’s hand to help her out of the cab at Stuben’s farm. Years earlier, Charles had arranged with Mr. Stuben to allow the agents to use the section between two corn fields as a firing range. Since Lawrence Research had been coming here, others had taken up the practice, and the Stuben farm made a good second income.

  “Someone’s out there, Missus,” said Mr. Stuben as he came to meet them. “You want to wait ’til they’re done?”

  “Might as well, it is a pleasant enough day to hang around on a farm,” said Emily, heading for the chicken yard with a handful of feed for her favorite hen.

  Emily saw a puff of smoke rise above the corn and then heard the shot.

  “Do many of the people who shoot here use black powder?” she asked.

  “A fair number. Many of them don’t like the new smokeless powder, even with newer weapons.”

  “Mr. Stuben, I know you retrieve the lead and sell it, but would you mind if I took some of the spent bullets for an experiment I am doing? I will return them to you when we are done.”

  Stuben raised an eyebrow. Parker came to her rescue.

  “She’s got this most amazing idea, all very scientific, with microscopes and
everything. We’ll bring ’em all back next time we come with some extra thrown in, to boot.”

  “Well, I suppose so. I guess I can’t begrudge the people who set me up in business in the first place.”

  Then came a second report with no puff of smoke.

  Half an hour later, two men strode out of the corn field. The taller one carried a pistol, the shorter man an old Winchester. They were bore no resemblance to the Black Powder Bandits, and the weapons were not the ones the robbers had used.

  Still, it would have been a coincidence if the robbers had been shooting at the same informal location that Lawrence Research used.

  “Who are they?” Emily asked Mr. Stuben.

  “Neighbors. Been practicing here since they discovered I let you do it. I’ve actually got quite a clientele now. As the city grows it is getting harder and harder to find places to shoot. I earn more from that plot of land than I would if I planted on it.”

  “Let’s see what we can find,” said Emily, leading Parker into the corn alley.

  The paper targets were pinned to bales of straw that leaned against a board wedged into the ground. Several yards behind the boards an earthen berm kept the lead pellets out of the fields and protected anyone who might be walking behind the target range.

  “Here,” Emily said, pointing to the single target that was pierced by multiple shots. Parker tipped the bale over and indicated a newly formed hole in the backboard. The bullet had gone through the straw and the wood and was somewhere on the ground behind the set up. “It shouldn’t be too hard to find. Stuben picks up the lead every day.”

  Between them they found seventeen spent rounds.

  For half an hour they added their own lead to Stuben’s collection with Parker’s Navy Special, Emily’s Merwin Hulbert derringer, and the office .45 that Emily carried when she needed it. They took their finds and headed for the farmhouse.

  “If yer interested in spent ammo, you might try the Bailey farm about a mile north. I was doing so well at this that some of my neighbors picked up the business. There’s three of us now.”

  Parker handed him the fee for the day of shooting and a crisp one dollar bill from his own pocket. Emily felt the warm glow of satisfaction as they headed for the office.