A Golden Grave

by Erin Lindsey

  “Sergeant Chapman,” Thomas said, rising. “This is a surprise.”

  The detective eyed us grimly. “I know what you’re thinking. My being here could tip off Byrnes. But I didn’t have much choice.”

  Thomas and I exchanged a look of foreboding.

  “You might wanna sit,” the detective said. “I’m afraid I got some bad news.”

  CHAPTER 27

  BAD NEWS—STEAM ENGINES AND SLAUGHTERHOUSES—THE STRAW

  “It’s your friend,” said Sergeant Chapman. “We found her unconscious last night.”

  I gripped the arm of the sofa until my knuckles went white. “Clara?”

  “The one you call the Bloodhound.”

  I heaved a very un-Christian sigh of relief.

  “They locked her up around two-thirty this morning. Took her for a drunk, seeing how she smelled like a gin mill.”

  “To be fair,” Mr. Burrows said, “Annie Harris is most definitely a drunk.”

  “That may be,” said Thomas, “but she’s never passed out on the job before.”

  “And drunks don’t usually have their hearts galloping in their chests,” Chapman said. “Not like this. I took her pulse, and it feels like someone’s tapping out a telegram in there.”

  “Foster.” I sighed. “He must have got the drop on her.”

  “Where was she picked up?” Thomas asked.

  “Greenwich, just north of Canal. Still had my card on her, which is why the boys from the Eighth wired me. Figured her for an informant.”

  “Poor Annie,” I murmured. “Will she be all right?”

  “I had a doctor take a look. Wasn’t much he could do for her. Said she was suffering from…” Chapman consulted his ledger, holding it out at arm’s length and squinting. “Tacky … tacka…”

  “Tachycardia. The same as what he did to me.”

  “Though apparently more severe,” Thomas said. “And yet he didn’t kill her, just as he didn’t kill you.”

  “How chivalrous,” Edith observed sourly.

  Thomas hummed a thoughtful note. “It’s possible that Foster hesitates to kill women, but I wonder if that’s the reason. Perhaps it’s because he doesn’t see Miss Harris or Miss Gallagher as belonging to…” He trailed off awkwardly.

  “The wrong class,” I finished for him. “It’s all right, everyone here knows it.”

  “Everyone here, maybe,” Edith said, “but how did Foster know?”

  “He overheard Ava Hendriks talking about it.” Dryly, I added, “I believe her exact words were ‘That girl is as working class as they come.’”

  Mr. Burrows tsked, and Thomas looked at me sharply, a flash of color touching his cheeks. “I’m very sorry she was so uncivil,” he said, every syllable crisp with anger.

  A strange thought occurred to me then. “If she hadn’t been, Foster would never have known I was working class. I might just owe Ava Hendriks my life.” I couldn’t help laughing at that.

  “So you think he held back because Miss Gallagher and the Bloodhound is both working class?” Chapman asked.

  “Whatever his reasons,” I said, “he’s obviously changed his mind.” When the sergeant gave me a quizzical look, I filled him in on the doings in Five Points yesterday. “Foster let me go the first time, and I made him regret it. Apparently he’s looking to fix his mistake.”

  “Meanwhile,” Thomas said, “taking Miss Harris out of play is a severe blow to our investigation.”

  “Yeah, about that,” Chapman said. “I think maybe she can still help us. Indirectly, like.”

  “Oh?” Thomas cocked his head.

  “I was thinking about what Miss Gallagher explained the other night. About…” He looked at Mr. Burrows. Then his glance shifted to Edith, and he fell silent.

  Mr. Burrows understood straightaway. “I appreciate your discretion, Sergeant, but you needn’t worry. Miss Islington and I have known each other since we were children. She’s familiar with my luck.”

  “Good. Hold that thought.” Chapman ducked out of the parlor, returning a moment later with a dusty, gin-soaked bit of clothing. “This here’s her jacket. I thought maybe you could do … whatever it is you do, and tell us where she’s been.”

  Mr. Burrows made a face. “Why can’t it ever be a lady’s tippet? Or an apron from Delmonico’s?” He took the jacket, hefting it between thumb and forefinger as though he were dangling a dead rat by its tail. “Good Lord, has this ever been washed? I sense a hundred different things.”

  “Perhaps we ought to make a list,” Thomas suggested.

  Chapman drew out his ledger and a pencil. “Ready.”

  “Where to begin? An almost infinite assortment of alcoholic fumes, sawdust, and lamp oil. I recognize the particular blend of One-Eyed Johnny’s, but you’ll forgive me if I can’t place the others. This jacket has spent more than one night sleeping rough recently, at least once in the Gashouse District. And I taste the Hudson River, which is always a delight.” Pausing, he gave Thomas a rueful look. “Honestly, we could be about this for a week.”

  “Can you isolate the more recent elements?”

  “How?”

  “You tell me. Perhaps they taste more strongly. Or rest closer to the surface, as opposed to being ground into the fabric. Perhaps some of them degrade over time, like food spoiling. Draw on your experience. Think it through.”

  Mr. Burrows closed his eyes, concentrating. “Chemical fumes. Several different kinds, but I only recognize a few. Turpentine. A variety of paints and varnishes. Glue. They’re shallow, as you said. They haven’t penetrated the fabric deeply.”

  Thomas leaned forward. “Go on.”

  “A butcher. No, wait … A slaughterhouse?”

  “Magnificent, Jonathan.” Thomas was actually grinning now. He’d been after his best friend for ages to cultivate his talents; watching Mr. Burrows push himself seemed to delight him. As for me, I was fighting down a wave of nausea at the idea of “tasting” a slaughterhouse. Or, for that matter, the Hudson River.

  I wasn’t the only one. “You got an iron stomach, Burrows,” Chapman said. “If it were me, I’d shoot the cat.”

  “You’re not helping, Sergeant.” Mr. Burrows furrowed his brow, digging deeper. “Tannin. A leatherer?”

  “A tannery,” I guessed. “You often find those near slaughterhouses.”

  “Yes, of course, a tannery. And if I’m not mistaken, a soap factory, which I’ll warrant is the only soap ever to have touched this jacket.” He opened his eyes. “That’s all I can be sure of, I’m afraid. That, and the smoke of a steam engine, but I don’t suppose that narrows things down much.”

  Thomas sprang to his feet. “On the contrary, it’s extremely helpful. Do you have a map of the city?”

  Mr. Burrows fetched one, and they spread it out on the table between us.

  “So,” Thomas said, “the Bloodhound was picked up on Greenwich, near Canal. Your pencil, Sergeant, if I may? Now, assuming our conspirators didn’t go to too much trouble divesting themselves of Miss Harris, we can narrow our search to roughly this area.” He drew a circle encompassing the Fifth and Eighth Wards, from the river to Sixth Avenue and from Chambers to West Houston.

  “That’s an awful big search area, Wiltshire.” Chapman tapped a meaty finger on the map. “You got three railroad lines through here, and a dozen slaughterhouses at least.”

  “Precisely. Slaughtering and meat packing are overwhelmingly concentrated here.” Thomas drew a circle.

  Chapman grunted. “I see. And the chemical factories is mostly around here.” Taking the pencil back, he drew another circle, slightly overlapping Thomas’s.

  “The Hudson River Railroad and the Sixth and Ninth Avenue els run through.” Thomas traced a trio of lines.

  “And—may I?” I reached for the pencil. “The Pearl Soap factory is here.” I drew an X. “You can see it from the el.”

  Thomas gazed at the map approvingly. “There, you see, Sergeant? We’ve narrowed it down quite a lot already.”r />
  “It’s a start, but working out what neighborhood to look in ain’t exactly the same as tracking the man down.”

  “Agreed. There, we can only hope that our next interview will bear fruit. Speaking of which…” Thomas took out his watch. “Clara ought to have been here by now. Do you suppose she’s having difficulty convincing Joseph?”

  “She’ll be here,” I said. “We just have to be patient.”

  Happily, we didn’t have to be patient much longer. The doorbell sounded, and a moment later the butler appeared. “Apologies for the interruption,” Bertram said, “but there is a young colored couple asking to see you, sir. They’re at the front door.” He arched an eyebrow significantly.

  Mr. Burrows looked suitably taken aback. “What do you mean, at the front door?”

  “Quite.”

  “You just left them on the street? Why the deuce didn’t you show them in?”

  The butler paled. “Well, I … that is…”

  “Don’t stand there stammering, man! Get to it!”

  With a mortified bow, the butler retreated. He and Mrs. Sellers would get along brilliantly, I thought.

  Thomas cast a quick glance about the room. “My, this is a rather intimidating cast, isn’t it? Perhaps we ought to—”

  Before he could finish, Clara and Joseph appeared at the parlor door, wearing their Sunday best. I’d been hearing about Joseph for years, but I’d never met him, and I couldn’t help staring. He was a little older than I thought, maybe thirty, and stood well over six feet, making Clara’s petite frame seem even more birdlike alongside. He didn’t look too happy to be there, and I didn’t blame him, especially with the five of us facing him like some kind of jury.

  “Mr. Burrows,” Clara said, and I could hear the tension in her voice.

  “Good morning, Clara. And this must be Joseph.” Mr. Burrows stuck out a hand, and Joseph shook it warily. “I apologize for Bertram. He’s very good at what he does, but he can be quite ridiculous.”

  “Didn’t realize there’d be so many of us,” Clara said, with an awkward glance at her fiancé.

  “That’s my fault, I’m afraid,” said Edith. “I had the poor manners to drop in unannounced.”

  “Same here,” said Chapman. “And I’m guessing you wasn’t expecting a copper, so if you all need me to be scarce…”

  “It’s all right,” Joseph said. “I got nothing to say that a copper can’t hear. Truth is, I’m not sure how I can help you all.”

  Thomas introduced himself, and they shook hands. “This must have seemed a very odd request. We’re grateful to you and Miss Freeman for indulging us.”

  I could have kissed him. It was guileless, of course; Thomas had no way of knowing how my referring to her as just plain Clara had touched a nerve. To him, it was simply appropriate under the circumstances, since Clara wasn’t here as his employee. But I knew how much she’d appreciate it, especially in front of Joseph.

  “Shall I make the introductions? Mr. Davis, isn’t it?” Thomas did the rounds, finishing up with me.

  “It’s so lovely to finally meet you,” I said. “I’m sorry it has to be under these circumstances.”

  He seemed to relax a little. “Clara said you all are trying to solve a murder?”

  “Several, actually. And to prevent even more.” I explained the gist of it, figuring Clara could fill in the details later.

  “And you think them union types got something to do with it?” Joseph looked doubtful, and I couldn’t blame him.

  “Not exactly,” said Thomas. “Say rather that they might be a link in the chain.”

  “We’re grasping at straws,” I admitted with an apologetic smile. “But at this point, we don’t have much choice.”

  “Never underestimate the power of a straw,” Thomas said. “It broke the camel’s back, after all, and it can break the back of a case just as easily.”

  “I can vouch for that,” Sergeant Chapman put in. “Sometimes the littlest detail is the one makes it all come clear.”

  Joseph still didn’t look convinced, but he said, “I’ll do my best.”

  “That’s all we can ask,” Thomas said, gesturing for us to sit. “Now, what can you tell us about the Knights of Labor and their offshoots?”

  Joseph shrugged. “Not much. I never joined any of ’em.”

  “But you encountered them frequently at the ironworks, did you not?”

  “I guess. They hang around outside at lunchtime or after the whistle blows. Handing out pamphlets, that sorta thing. Sometimes they make speeches. Bosses chase ’em off whenever they get the chance, but they always come back. Sort of a cat ’n’ mouse thing.”

  “They tried to recruit you?” I asked.

  “Every now and then. They make it a point with the colored boys.”

  Clara had mentioned that, too. “When you say they—do you mean the Knights specifically, or were there others?”

  “Knights was the only ones approached me special, but there’s other groups come around. Competitors, I guess you could call ’em.”

  Competitors or splinter groups? Aloud, I asked, “I don’t suppose you happen to know where any of these competitors hold their meetings?”

  “Nothing specific. Community halls, mostly. Churches. Some of ’em meet in some real strange places, though, ’specially if they’re trying to keep the coppers off the scent. Gets to where you can make a fair guess as to how extreme they are by the sorta place they use as their meeting hall. If it’s a rum shop, say, or a shuttered-up something or other, you know you got some real cranks on your hands.”

  Chapman was scribbling away in his ledger, but I could tell from his expression he didn’t think we were getting anywhere. On the face of it, I was inclined to agree.

  Thomas, though, looked thoughtful. He leaned back in his chair, fingertips pressed together, eyes narrowed. “These cranks. They were part of the reason you never joined, Miss Freeman tells us. You didn’t want to be associated with fanatics.”

  “That’s right. Fighting for an eight-hour workday is one thing. Fair wage, fair enough. But you start talking ’bout throwing off the yoke and hanging rich folks from lampposts, and that’s where I get off the train.” He shook his head. “Going on about how we ain’t free. Seems to me these boys got no idea what it means to not be free, or what it’s like to see a man hanging from a lamppost.”

  Chapman glanced up from his ledger and grunted, and the two of them shared a look of understanding.

  “Were there many who talked like that?” I asked.

  “Not too many, I guess, but they was loud. Got people’s backs up. Plenty of us worried they was gonna get us all fired.”

  “Clara mentioned that yesterday,” I said. “That after Haymarket, when the Knights started arguing among themselves, it affected relationships at the factory.”

  He nodded. “We had some real dusters in the yard.”

  “Dusters.” Thomas cocked his head. “Do you mean fistfights?”

  “More like brawls. Everybody jumping in, coming to blows.”

  “Goodness,” I said. “That sounds like a very lively workplace.”

  “Don’t it just.” Joseph smiled wryly. “Even when things stayed civil, they made quite a ruckus. Waving their pamphlets, shouting slogans. Eat the rich. Workers Unite. Forward to Freedom.”

  “Eat the rich?” Mr. Burrows rolled his eyes. “Who comes up with these ridiculous slogans?”

  “Jean-Jacques Rousseau,” Edith said idly. “Workers Unite is paraphrased Marx, and Forward to Freedom is the slogan of The Industrial Reformer.”

  Mr. Burrows glanced over at her. “The what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She made an indifferent gesture. “Some penny paper put out by the labor men. I saw it on a streetcar once.”

  I cut Joseph a discreet glance, but if he was offended by their casual dismissal of the labor papers, he gave no sign.

  “They all got names like that,” Clara said. “The Industrial Reformer, The Radical
Worker, The Workingman’s Times. Joseph used to bring ’em around now and then.”

  Chapman’s pencil stopped abruptly. Frowning, he flipped back through his ledger. “How ’bout The Journeyman’s Journal?”

  “I guess maybe that sounds familiar,” Joseph said. “Why?”

  “Guess which paper our friend Jack Foster used to work at, back when he was a printer’s apprentice?”

  “Hmm,” said Thomas. “That makes sense. A paper like that is a prime place to become radicalized.”

  “The Journeyman’s Journal.” The name sounded familiar to me, too. “Didn’t it close shop a few months ago?”

  “That’s right,” Chapman said. “I was thinking to question some of Foster’s former associates, but when I tried to look it up, the boys down at City Hall told me the paper didn’t exist no more.”

  “Not since last spring,” Edith said, “when the editor was thrown in jail.”

  Last spring, I thought, when the Haymarket bombing happened, and all those splinter groups started going their own way. They’d have been looking for new homes …

  “Not his first stint either,” Edith went on, “according to The Sun. He’s been arrested a number of times for inciting violence, most recently in—”

  “The streetcar riots,” Thomas murmured. “I remember now. William Bright. There was a cartoon of him in Harper’s, brandishing a flag and a speaking trumpet.”

  Chapman scowled. “Well, ain’t that just grand. Nobody saw fit to mention that when I was asking around.”

  “Yes, the record-keeping of the New York City Police Department is a source of perpetual frustration to many of us,” Thomas said dryly. “In any case, now that we’ve made the connection, do you think we might question Bright?”

  “Don’t see why not. If we head down there now—”

  “Wait.”

  All eyes turned to me.

  “What Mr. Davis said a minute ago, about the cranks meeting in rum shops and shuttered-up something or others. What about shuttered-up newspaper offices? The timing would be right, wouldn’t it?”