“I wonder why we’re waiting in such a large room?” I mused aloud, thinking only Derrick could hear me. I was wrong.
“Harry can become agitated meeting people in small surroundings,” the orderly replied. “Makes him feel penned in. He does better in open spaces, but it isn’t time for him to go outside, and we don’t like to vary his routine too much. It’s enough that he’s being brought down here to see you two.”
I detected disapproval and exchanged a glance with Derrick, who waggled an eyebrow. I shrugged off the orderly’s censure, which after all showed he cared about the patient’s well-being.
“I remember them,” came a voice from the corridor. Harry Ainsley practically ran toward us, and Derrick and I came to our feet. Instinct urged me to back away from him, to seek cover and take Derrick with me. What if Harry became violent again, as when he’d tried to swing at Derrick?
My fears proved unnecessary. His attendant, the same man we’d met previously, caught Harry by the back of his arm and coaxed him to slow down, which he did. But his smile beamed as he approached us, and he took me aback by shaking both Derrick’s hand and my own.
“Hello. Come all this way to see me?”
Did he know we’d come from Newport? The tolerant smiles on the two hospital workers’ faces suggested this was merely something Harry asked anyone who came to visit him. I decided to play along.
“We did, Mr. Ainsley. How are you today?”
He gestured for us to resume our seats and chose one for himself, dragging it closer to ours before he sat and leaned toward us. “Been busy preparing for the big fight. Almost ready.” He made a fist and bent his elbow to display the muscle beneath the sleeve of his robe.
“I can see that you are, Mr. Ainsley.”
“What’s your name?” He gestured at Derrick. “And yours. I remember your faces. Not your names.”
We introduced ourselves, and Harry shook our hands again. Despite his predicament, which earned him my utmost compassion, his affability made me smile. “Coming to the fight?”
“Of course we are,” Derrick assured him.
“And you’ll root for me, not him?”
“We’d root for no other, Mr. Ainsley,” I said. “But speaking of him, who is he? What is his name?”
Harry pulled back in his chair. “Don’t want to talk about him.”
“Oh, nor do I.” I smiled to reassure him. “I’d only like to know who we’re rooting against.”
“He says I don’t stand a chance.”
“He would say that, you realize.” Derrick leaned toward Harry and patted his knee. “You’re the champion, after all, and he’s desperately trying to gain some advantage over you.”
“It won’t work,” I added.
“No . . . it won’t work.” Harry appeared to contemplate that, and his smile returned, although less certain than it had been.
“So then . . .” Derrick paused until Harry met his gaze. “Your opponent’s name?”
“Eagle.”
“Yes, but his real name,” I prodded, then wished I hadn’t when Harry’s countenance fell and he hopped up from his chair. His attendant darted closer to him, all his attention riveted on his patient. Even the orderly had come to attention, ready to assist should it become necessary.
“It’s all right, Harry, never mind,” the attendant said. He placed his hands on Harry’s shoulders and gave him a gentle, good-natured shake. “There’s a good man. How about tapping on the piano keys a bit?”
Harry turned to view the instrument in the corner, and eagerly crossed the room to it. I expected nothing more than the pounding of keys, but a delicate, haunting melody reached my ears. As Harry began singing in a confident tenor, I recognized the song: “Red Is the Rose,” a traditional Irish ballad that spoke of love and heartbreak. Despite the piano’s dubious tuning, Harry played softly and sweetly, his fingers taking their time over the notes, and when he reached the chorus, his singing brought tears to sting my eyes.
The attendant noticed my emotional response. “I don’t know where he learned to play,” he said. “He came here knowing how, and that’s a favorite song of his. Strange thing, he can do that, but doesn’t fully understand where he is or what happened to him.”
“The poor man,” I murmured, my heart going out to him once more. Then I turned back to the attendant. “Tell us, does Harry ever have visitors? A woman, perhaps?”
“A woman?” The attendant laughed softly. “Miss, you’re the only woman who’s come to see Harry since I’ve worked here. But no, as for visitors of any sort, never. As I remember telling you last time.” He raised an eyebrow to drive home the point.
I persisted nonetheless. “And you have no idea who his family was?”
He shrugged. “Maybe he came out of an orphanage.” His expression changed, became quizzical. “Why all these questions about Harry?”
Derrick and I regarded each other. I nodded, and he said, “There was a murder in Newport recently. We believe Harry is somehow connected to the murderer.”
“Harry? That’s impossible. I told you last time, he’s been here about three years now, and before that the McLean Asylum in Massachusetts.”
“We know he’s not directly involved,” Derrick said, “but the man who was killed was named Isaiah Baldwin, and a ticket to a boxing match from nine years ago was found on the property where he died. The Black Hawk was named as one of the fighters. That was Harry, wasn’t it? He was to come up against a man using the moniker Bald Eagle. We believe Isaiah Baldwin might have been this Bald Eagle, and might be the man who knocked the sense out of poor Harry nine years ago.”
The attendant let out a low whistle. “You don’t say.”
“We do.” I’d turned my attention back to Harry as he continued playing. Now I shifted my focus back to the attendant. “A second man was murdered yesterday, and it was because of him that the ticket was found. We think he guessed who the murderer was, and that the admission ticket was a clue into that person’s identity.”
Suddenly the piano went silent. Harry stood and retraced his steps. Stopping in front of us, he said, “The Eagle isn’t gonna win. I’m the champion.”
The attendant clapped Harry’s shoulder. “You surely are, Harry. You know, Harry, it’s almost time to go outside. Would you like that?” Harry nodded eagerly. “Then why don’t you go look out the window and make sure it isn’t raining.”
Like a child, Harry scurried to the window. I regarded the attendant with a suspicious frown. “What was that about? One doesn’t have to go to the window to see that it’s a beautifully sunny day.”
“I wanted Harry distracted for a moment. Because . . .” The man shuffled his feet and rubbed at the back of his neck. “I wasn’t going to say anything, until you brought up those murders. That changes things a bit, doesn’t it? Although, I don’t see how Harry can have anything to do with any of that, mind you.”
“Yes?” I held out my hand as if he could drop the answers into it.
Derrick took a more direct approach. “If there’s something you have to tell us, out with it.”
The attendant angled a look at Harry, who stood with his back to us as he surveyed the weather outside, and then slid another glance at the orderly beside the open door. He stepped closer to us, and said in a whisper, “Actually, Harry does have an occasional visitor. Just one, and just once a year. It’s always in the spring. A young man. Rich sort, you know, well dressed, fancy boots, fine way of talking.”
“And he came again this past spring?” I asked, wanting to be sure I understood him correctly.
The attendant nodded. “Spent about half an hour this last time. Nothing much happened. Harry stayed calm. Didn’t seem to know the fellow. But this last time, when the young man left, he slipped me ten whole dollars and asked me not to mention that he was ever here, should anyone come asking.”
“Didn’t that strike you as strange, not to mention suspicious?” Derrick’s voice carried an edge of anger.
> The man shrugged. “Surely. But a whole sawbuck, and no harm came to Harry. He wasn’t upset by the visit.”
“What did this person look like?”
Another shrug. “I don’t know. Young. Slender as young men are before they fill out. Dark hair.”
A slender young man with dark hair, who hailed from the wealthy set. While that could describe an untold number of individuals, one in particular stood out in my mind, as it apparently did in Derrick’s, too.
“What about his name?” Derrick made the query with such quiet force, it almost sounded like a threat. The attendant hesitated, undoubtedly thinking of those ten dollars he’d accepted to keep quiet. As Harry turned away from the window and started back toward us, Derrick murmured, “Do you wish to keep your position here?”
“King,” the man said. “His name is Philip King.”
Chapter 18
Once back in Newport, Derrick and I went directly to the police station and gave our full report to Jesse.
He scrubbed a hand across his face. “Why on earth would he go there? Is he trying to hammer the nails into his own coffin?”
“I suppose he might have met him the same way we did,” I said, “accidently while inquiring after his uncle. And maybe he’s gone back to visit Harry periodically out of pity. It might not have anything to do with Isaiah Baldwin.”
Derrick made a dubious face. Jesse grumbled audibly and pushed out of his desk chair. “I suppose I’ll have to go ask him, won’t I? Not that I’ll necessarily get anything approaching the truth out of him.”
I stood up from my seat as well. “Do you want me to go with you?”
“No, I’ll handle it, but I’ll let you know what he says.”
We all left the police station together, and Derrick accompanied me to Gull Manor, where Nanny insisted he stay to dinner. Before leaving the Butler Hospital earlier, we had asked Harry about Philip King, but he could tell us nothing. He’d become agitated and once more retreated to the piano. Now, the subject of Harry’s musical talents arose around my kitchen table as we pondered how he could remember some things and not others.
“Music settles in one’s soul,” Nanny said with a sage nod. We all agreed.
“Odd, though, that he chose that song,” Katie mused aloud as she set the pork roast at the center of the table, then turned back to the stove for the potatoes and cabbage. Patch, lying beneath the table, lifted his head from his paws and worked his nose at the tempting aromas.
“Why is that, Katie?” Derrick stood to help her with the heavy serving bowl. The window curtains stirred, catching the temperate breezes rolling in off the ocean.
As always when company addressed her directly, Katie blushed to the roots of her hair. Four years after coming to my household, she still wasn’t comfortable with being treated like family. But she replied, “ ‘Red Is the Rose’ is an Irish ballad, sir.”
I tilted my head in puzzlement. “Why is that odd?”
“Ainsley’s not an Irish name,” she clarified. “It’s Scottish.”
I shrugged. “As far as I know, Harry was born in this country. He certainly sounds like an American. Likely he heard the song in a pub and took a fancy to it.”
“I’m sure that’s it, Miss Emma.” Her look of perplexity lingering, Katie took her seat at the table and we all began helping ourselves to Nanny’s simple but satisfying fare.
Derrick made sounds of appreciation, and said, “Getting back to Philip King. At the police station, Emma suggested he’d originally met Harry while visiting his uncle William.”
“More than likely. What else could it be?” Nanny passed the bowl of cabbage and potatoes to Derrick, who accepted a second helping with a happy nod.
“But now that I think about it, I don’t know that any of the Kings ever visited their uncle William,” he said. “Especially the younger Kings.”
“Another example of a patient being abandoned by his family?” I couldn’t help murmuring. It still dismayed me that Harry Ainsley had been locked away and forgotten. And William King, too.
“I don’t think it’s a coincidence, Philip visiting Harry,” Derrick observed. “Did he meet him accidentally, or did he learn of Harry from Baldwin because of their mutual interest in boxing? That’s the question.”
Before I could respond, a pounding on my front door echoed through the house. Patch, lurking about our feet hoping for falling crumbs, thumped against my knees as he jumped up. Katie stood to go, but some instinct or premonition, I wasn’t sure which, sent me to my feet. “I’ll go, Katie. You finish your supper.”
Patch ran ahead of me. The pounding persisted, becoming even louder and more urgent. Patch barked in reply until I shushed him. At the same time, I heard footsteps behind me and felt the presence of the others at my back. Then a voice called out, “Miss Cross? Please, I need to see you.”
I turned around and made eye contact with Derrick. “That sounds like Olivia Riley. Something must have happened at Kingscote.” I hurried my steps until I reached the front door.
“Oh, Miss Cross,” Olivia Riley said the moment I swung the door open. She wore her black maid’s dress but had shed her pinafore and starched white cap. Her hair had fallen from its pins and her face was so flushed I could only surmise she had run practically all the way from Kingscote. “It’s my daughter. It’s Fiona. Another wire came from my aunt. It’s an emergency. Fiona’s taken a turn for the worse. Her fever’s up, and there’s no money for another visit from the doctor. You said . . .”
“Come in, Miss Riley.” I reached out to grasp her shoulder and drew her across the threshold. From there I led her into the parlor. The others—Nanny, Katie, and Derrick—followed us in. Patch’s nails clicked eagerly on the hardwood floor until he reached the area rug. I sat Miss Riley down on the sofa and settled in beside her. Patch took up position on the floor at her other side, gazing up at her with concern-filled eyes. To help calm her, I took her hand firmly in my own. “Yes, I told you to come to me for help, and help you shall have.” I glanced first at the clock on my mantel, and then at Derrick. “It’s not yet six o’clock. The Western Union office should still be open.”
He nodded. “I’ll go immediately and wire funds.”
“There, you see?” Miss Riley had fallen to tears, and I leaned my face close to hers to gain her attention. “We’ll wire the funds for the doctor. You need only tell us your aunt’s name. Do you think she waited at the Western Union office for a reply?”
“I don’t know. I suppose she must have. Or . . . what if she didn’t? With Fiona ill, she might have asked a neighbor to send the telegram. I don’t know what to do. You see . . . I haven’t got the money.”
“If your aunt isn’t there, we’ll request a message be brought to her residence,” Derrick said. “The amount waiting for her will be indicated, so she can show it to the doctor. That should be enough to assure him of payment.” He readied himself to leave while Miss Riley wrote down her aunt’s name and the street she lived on. She folded the paper and handed it to Derrick, who slipped it into his coat pocket. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
While I continued to soothe Miss Riley, Katie ran back to the kitchen to make tea, and Nanny kept up a steady stream of conversation about how resilient children are and how quickly such fevers can come and go. She sounded cheerful and encouraging, but I knew that underneath that façade, she was worried about Miss Riley’s child. True, some children proved impervious to fevers and recovered quickly, but many others died. And it seemed little Fiona had been suffering for some time now. How long could her little body hold out, especially if her nutrition hadn’t been the best?
Slowly, Miss Riley rallied enough to stop the flow of her tears. Katie returned with tea for the three of us, and then excused herself to see to the supper dishes. Miss Riley sipped from her cup steadily, barely waiting for it to cool. She seemed to gain strength from it. “I’m so sorry to appear on your doorstep like this, Miss Cross,” she said in a rush. “I didn’t know wha
t else to do. Wages aren’t paid out for another fortnight and—”
“You did right in coming to me.”
“I’ll pay you back, I swear. Or, that nice Mr. . . . er . . .”
“Andrews. And don’t worry about that just now. We’ll figure it all out once your daughter is well.” Silently, I prayed little Fiona would be well again, that Miss Riley wouldn’t know the immeasurable grief of losing a child.
“Despite how she came into the world, she’s everything to me, Miss Cross.”
“Of course she is.”
“If anything happens to her . . .”
“You mustn’t think like that,” Nanny gently admonished. I nodded in agreement but couldn’t bring myself to offer false promises that perhaps couldn’t be kept. For now, I merely wished to keep Miss Riley’s spirits up.
“What if the office closes before Mr. Andrews gets there?”
I smiled. “Then he’ll find the manager—go to his home, if need be—and ask him to reopen the office and send the wire.”
“He’d do it, too,” Nanny put in. “Our Mr. Andrews is a resourceful gentleman.”
“You’re all being so kind to me, and to my Fiona Rose. I can’t thank you enough.”
“There’s no need to thank us,” I said. “Hearing that Fiona has recovered will be thanks enough.”
“Fiona Rose.” Nanny drew out the names in an appreciative voice. “What a lovely and poetic name.”
Miss Riley’s lips curled in a shaky gesture approaching a smile. “Thank you. She’s Fiona because I’ve always fancied the name, and Rose for my mother, who died not long after we came here from Ireland.”
“I’m sorry.” I patted her hand.
“And your father?” Nanny spoke softly. “Did he come to America with you?”
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