The Case Book of Emily Lawrence

by KB Inglee

  Long years of training forced her hand into her pocket where she always carried her little derringer, but the Merwin Hulbert wasn’t there. It was in the pocket of the dress she had worn to the station. No matter. She wouldn’t need it.

  She ran toward the commotion. The sound of a single shot echoed. Then, with hardly a pause, a second. Her heart pounded. Gunshots in the snow on the Mall? More men running. Uniformed policemen this time.

  As she approached the little mob of men someone touched her arm, and she turned to face Seward. She looked up into his face, stern and hard.

  Seward enfolded her in his arms. Emily gasped. What would people think, a man of his complexion, embracing a woman of hers in public?

  “What?” she whispered to him.

  “Stay with me. Let the police deal with it.”

  “What?” she whispered again. But she knew what it was.

  She wanted with all her being to pull away and see for herself, but instead she laid her head on his chest and started to sob.

  Seward handed her off to Hobbs who confirmed her worst fears. “It’s Charles,” he said. Was he weeping, or was it just the snow on his face?

  “Please, let me go to him.”

  Hobbs held her tight against his side and led her to where two forms lay on the snow-covered grass. Pye was one.

  Charles lay a few feet away, one arm flung out toward Pye, his other hand held by someone she didn’t know. The man shook his head. There was blood, but Emily couldn’t tell where it came from. Why were they here?

  She pulled away from Hobbs and dropped to her knees next to her husband, her friend, her business partner, her whole life.

  The man who had been holding Charles’s hand looked at her and whispered, “I’m sorry.” Then he stood up and moved away, as though to give her some privacy.

  Somewhere hovering behind her was a being she recognized as herself. She was sundered, the woman on her knees holding the hand of her beloved, and the detective standing behind her, coldly assessing the situation.

  It was Parker who lifted her from the ground. “Let’s get you home, Missus. The others can finish here. Then we will find out what happened.” She shook her head. They were taking care of her when it was her job to care for them.

  She sighed deeply and let him lead her off the way she had come.

  * * * *

  In spite of the bad weather, people began to arrive at the house. The agents had accompanied her, but within the hour their wives were there as well.

  Mrs. Myers and Mrs. Seward took over the kitchen and managed to feed everyone.

  Emily was never sure who was in the house. Neighbors, policemen, Mrs. Jackson and her now-grown children, clients. Emily didn’t try to keep them all straight. Mrs. Parker found a notebook somewhere and was using it as a guest book. “You will want to see this later, not now,” she told Emily.

  Late in the afternoon the minister came. “We will talk tomorrow about the service. Today I only want to see how you are and if you need anything.”

  Emily sat through the afternoon and early evening watching everything as though through the wrong end of a telescope. This had nothing to do with her. She must play the grieving widow for these people, but she was actually the detective who needed to get back to work. She needed to find out what went wrong.

  * * * *

  Emily had longed to be alone. Now at last everyone had gone home. She made the rounds of the house as she did every night before bed, turning out the lamps, making sure doors and windows were secure. The routine was soothing.

  She knew the night would be impossible. She was alone, and would be forever. She sat at the kitchen table where the last lamp in the house still burned. As she gathered her courage to go up the stairs, she saw the manila envelope that contained the steamer tickets. She should give them to Myers.

  This was no time to start planning the rest of her life. She picked up the envelope and the lamp and climbed the stairs.

  London, January 15, 1892

  Dear Anna,

  I was at a dinner party a few evenings ago, seated next to one of our Cambridge friends. Neither Mr. James nor I knew anyone else at the table. Expatriates had invited him since they love his novels, and me, well, who knows why? My experience was decidedly better than yours when you dined with the family those many years ago. I remember vividly your complaint about the dinner being a stage for the James men to show off, and none of the women at the table could get a word in edgewise. During dinner, Mr. James was kind and listened attentively to everything I had to say.

  He questioned me about my current circumstances and asked why I was in Europe on my own. Somehow he knew about Lawrence Research. Because of his brother William’s connection with Charles, the whole family knew about his death. He told me in no uncertain terms that two years was long enough for anyone to mourn a husband. I needed now to return to my roots.

  There are people in Cambridge, he said, who still care about me. It was time for me to go home. He even mentioned that Mrs. Stevens was still taking boarders.

  I have thought it over and I am inclined to believe he is right, and I have written to Mrs. Stevens. If she cannot offer me a room, I’m sure she will refer me to another establishment. It will seem strange to be living next door to the house we grew up in, especially now that Mother and Father are no longer there.

  I have written to Myers and Seward to let them know I will be returning but have no interest in taking over the agency again. I understand it flourishes in their capable hands. I will stop in Washington to complete the paperwork to transfer ownership to them, then come back to Cambridge and settle into a gracious, if somewhat impecunious, retirement.

  No, no, I am not destitute. I have a small income from the agency which I hope they will see fit to continue. There is money from the sale of the Washington house and a few other things. This should be enough to keep me in room and board and books for the near future. No party dresses, though.

  I hope this finds you and your family well. Has Timothy made you a grandparent yet?

  Love,

  Emily

  A HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS

  Cambridge, Massachusetts, December 1892

  Mrs. Stevens set the pasteboard box that contained the crèche on the dining room sideboard. Professor Stevens had carried it back from Italy when Emily was a child. At the time, she had envied the Stevens holiday display when her own family had none.

  Christmas was for families. Of the four other boarders living in the Villa, only Professor Cox had any family in Cambridge.

  Emily had not been able to interest herself in the festive proceedings, though she handled each of the twenty or so figures, trying to associate each with a happy time in her childhood. Lovely as they were, they remained lifeless olive-wood figures in her hands.

  The maids, Hanna and Mary, busied themselves with the placement of the figures and the freshly pressed red ribbon and bits of evergreen that Mrs. Stevens provided to liven up the display. Hanna touched each figure with an odd reverence but never spoke a word. Emily had known Hanna from the summers she and Charles spent in Cambridge with her parents. Emily could not remember Hanna speaking more than a word or two at a time.

  Mary seemed delighted with the chore and took great care setting each figure in the perfect place to catch the light from the north-facing window.

  What were Mary’s origins? Emily watched the girl. Perhaps, when she had a chance, she would find out what she could. If nothing else, it would give her something to do.

  Once the figures were in place, Emily excused herself and went up to her rooms.

  It was cold in her sitting room, yet she didn’t have the will to lay a fire. Wrapping herself in the throw she kept folded on the love seat, she picked up her novel and her knitting. She had only four days to finish her gifts, and she hadn’t even begun the knit lace collar and cuf
fs for the maids.

  The tap at her door was so gentle Emily almost missed it.

  Without invitation, Mary opened the door. “Mrs. Emily, it’s cold up here. Mrs. Stevens said I should see if you needed anything. Do you want me to light a fire?”

  Mary had decided she was Emily’s private maid the minute Emily arrived in March. In doing so she had picked up several improprieties. She always called her Mrs. Emily, not Mrs. Lawrence. She used the silver salver for presenting visiting cards, but handed her the cards of anyone who might have business with Emily.

  “Come in, Mary. Yes, if you would,” called Emily, stuffing the knitting out of sight under the blanket.

  Mary handed Emily the single letter that had come in the morning post, and knelt on the hearth with the coal scuttle by her side.

  Dropping the letter into her lap, Emily asked, “Mary, do you have any family?”

  “No, ma’am. Mrs. Stevens come to the Orphan’s Home couple of years ago and picked me out. I been here ever since. My Pa died just before I was born, and Ma couldn’t keep us all. She’s dead, too. I got brothers and sisters, probably right here in Cambridge, but I don’t know who they are.”

  Mary set a match to the fire and continued.

  “Living here is like being part of a family, though. Hanna… well, she teaches me things. Mrs. Stevens is kind. Sometimes the work is hard, but you and Mrs. Stevens work along with us, so it’s not like…”

  Mary shrugged and poked the fire. Emily watched her for a few minutes and then opened the letter.

  “Mrs. Underwood wishes to call on me this afternoon. Frankly, I had hoped I would never see that woman again. Can you help me straighten up in here?” Emily glanced at the paper spilling off her desk, the pile of newspapers on the table, and the box of unfinished Christmas presents she had hidden under a shawl.

  “Yes, Mrs. Emily. I gotta start cleaning the cupboards in the kitchen, but I can come up here for a while just before lunch. Is that all right?”

  “Ummm. Mrs. Underwood will be here at three. I’ll work on it myself this morning. Join me when you are able.”

  * * * *

  The woman who entered Emily’s sitting room on the third floor of the Villa was hardly the same pathetic, dough-faced woman Emily had met in May. Just shy of her twentieth birthday, this woman was straight and tall and self-assured. Her clothes, though inexpensive and a bit worn, were well cared for. The colors were somber but not the black of deep mourning, and she carried them well. Her hair, which had been limp and stringy and of indeterminate color, was now sleek, auburn, and well but simply done up.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Lawrence, it was good of you to see me on such short notice,” she said, pulling off her black cotton gloves and shaking Emily’s hand.

  Emily beckoned her to one of the rosewood chairs, and then seated herself at the desk.

  “How is your son?” Emily could not bear to call the infant by the name that had been his father’s. “He would be just seven months old now.”

  Emily kept a special place in her heart for the unintended victims of crime: the wife watching her husband ascend the gallows, as well as the widow and children of his victims. Mrs. Underwood had been one of those unlucky people. But Emily was not particularly proud of her involvement in the first case she had taken on by herself. Mrs. Underwood served to remind her of her shortcomings. A good detective was not taken in by a blackmailer, however charming, and however lonely the detective was.

  “He grows like a weed. He is a great comfort to me.”

  Emily smiled brightly. “You seem to have blossomed since I last saw you.”

  “It has taken time.” Mrs. Underwood paused thoughtfully. “I have been receiving financial support and comfort from several men I never met. I believe you are responsible for that.”

  “I merely suggested they help. I had done them a service, and I took no pay. I gave each of them your name and told them of your situation.”

  In the past spring, Mrs. Underwood had found herself a young widow with child and no means of support. Emily had visited each of her husband’s victims and told them of Mrs. Underwood’s plight, knowing full well that most would not be interested in helping the wife of their tormentor. Apparently a few were kind enough to do so.

  “One of those men sold the house on Franklin Street for me, so I had enough money to live on. Another paid for Dr. Gray to attend me during my delivery, and several others have done me kindnesses from time to time. As long as I was in those rooms, I had a weekly food delivery; a box of baby clothes was left at my door. Then something very mysterious happened. Every Thursday, someone would come to my door, leave a small treat, and rush off before I could see who it was. One day I caught a glimpse of him. He is tall, fair, with a mustache and sideburns. Maybe as old as twenty-five or thirty. Very neat and tidy. I would like you to find him. I want to know who he is.”

  “A secret admirer? I could find him for you, but I can’t introduce you. What if he wants to remain anonymous? I promised those men that I wouldn’t bother them again, and I intend to keep that promise. The man you describe doesn’t resemble any of them, so perhaps there is no relation, or perhaps he is a son.”

  “If you bring me his name and his address, I’ll be content.”

  Emily smiled. So Caroline Underwood finally knew what she wanted and could state it with confidence. “What sort of gifts does he bring?”

  “The week after Thanksgiving he left a head of lettuce. Can you imagine? Lettuce in November? Often it is a toy for Isaiah, or some tasty tidbit that’s beyond the budget of two widows living alone and bringing up a child. Some chocolates, some fine tea. Once a lovely lace shawl with a note saying it was for Mother.”

  “These packages appeared both at your Oxford Street rooms and your mother’s house?”

  “Yes. The week I moved, a box of salted nuts was left on my mother’s front steps. It was at Russell Street I saw him. The front walk is very long, and I was at an upstairs window. By the time I got to the door he was gone.”

  “All right, I’ll find his name and address for you.” Emily did not mention a fee.

  When Caroline Underwood smiled, it was as though the sun came out. She was lovely and slim, graceful and self-assured. She would marry again soon.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Lawrence, you have been more than kind to me. I can’t imagine why. Did my husband do you any harm?”

  “No. I met him quite by accident. It was only later that I discovered his connection with the men he called his clients.”

  Caroline Underwood lowered her gaze, and her fingers twined in the fringe of her reticule. “Were you attracted to him? I have come to understand that many women were.”

  “No,” lied Emily. “He bought me a cup of coffee once, and I reminded him that he was a married man.” Yet her arm had tingled when his fingers brushed it as though by accident.

  * * * *

  After dinner, Emily settled herself at the desk in Mrs. Stevens’s sitting room and opened the current ledger to the first page. January 1890. The first items listed each month were payments for the household staff. Everyone was paid in cash, and they were listed, not by name but by job: cook, first and second maid, and handyman. Each month had been the same. Emily sighed, put the ledger back on the shelf and picked up the mending. Mrs. Stevens came in as Emily was sewing buttons on one of the gentlemen’s best shirts.

  Emily looked up. “What is Mary’s family name? I’ve lived here since March, and I have never heard her last name. I see she’s listed in the ledger as ‘second maid’ with no other information. Hanna, I know, is Hanna Blodget.”

  Mrs. Stevens thought for a moment. “Callahan. Yes, Callahan.”

  “What else do you know about her? Does she have family in Cambridge?”

  “I don’t know much about her background. Anything I know, you would know as well. She’s intelligent, work
s hard, and seems to have adopted you as her pet project.”

  “Maybe it’s time I reciprocated.”

  “Not, I hope, by finding her a job that pays what she’s worth!”

  Emily laughed. “No chance of that. But if she’s been here for two years, why hasn’t she moved on for a better paying job? Surely she is adequately trained.”

  “That’s what I expected. We’ve had a string of girls through here who went on to better positions. Taking on raw girls is the only way I can get the help I need at a price I can afford. Hanna deserves teacher’s pay for all the girls she has trained.”

  On the bottom shelf of the book case were a series of document cases with marbled finishes. Mrs. Stevens handed Emily the one marked 1887-1891.

  “Everything I know about Mary is in here.”

  Mary’s file contained a letter releasing her from the home into Mrs. Stevens’s care, and a birth certificate.

  Emily smiled and held up the birth certificate. “I suppose any potential employer would want to know that the person she was about to hire had actually been born.”

  “I guess they just gave me all the documentation in her file. Not much, is there?” Mrs. Stevens picked up her knitting. “Why this sudden interest in Mary? You’ve been here nine months and never showed such interest before.”

  “I think it came about when I saw her handle the crèche figures with such care. When she came up to lay my fire, I asked if she had family in Cambridge. She thought so but didn’t know who they were. Maybe I could find them for her.”

  Mrs. Stevens frowned, thought a moment, and said, “Let me talk to Hanna about this. She knows Mary better than either of us. She’ll know what Mary really wants. She may very well prefer things the way they are now.”

  “That seems like a good idea. I wouldn’t want to do anything that would make her unhappy.”

  * * * *

  Much to Emily’s surprise, Thursday morning was cool and sunny. Since she would have to lurk about on Russell Street all day, she had expected rain. She hoped that the young man would come early so she could get on with other things, like finishing knitting the gifts that she had only two more days to complete.