Silent Witnesses

by Annelie Wendeberg

  At some point, Uriel squeezed through the crowd, bent down to kiss Klara's head, and spoke in my ear, 'It's only Warren and me today.'

  'Where is he?' I asked.

  Uriel turned and stood on tiptoe to point out Warren, who was leaning against a far wall, with a dark expression half hidden by the great number of fashionable hats worn by half the audience who populated the floor.

  'What's with him?' I asked.

  Uriel leant closer, batting his eyes at Klara and grinning mischievously. She bashed her palm against his nose and giggled. Uriel snatched her hand, produced a soft growl and pretended to bite off her fingers. Her squeak was cut short by my own hand over her mouth. 'Ssst, little one. Let us listen to the music and ignore the evil uncle.'

  Uriel snorted, then whispered, 'Don't worry about Warren. He's always like that.'

  'Grumpy?'

  'He just wants to be left alone most of the time.'

  'You mean the same man who lets us crowd his house?'

  'Well, it's—' Uriel began.

  'That's nothing compared to the comings and goings at home. Besides… Father has got to him,' Hattie interrupted.

  'Oh? So, he'll soon be off again?' Uriel asked.

  With a sharp shushing, a woman wielded her umbrella at Uriel, staring him down.

  'He's to get married. Father's put his foot down.'

  The orchestra began to play a new piece, and our conversation was drowned out by drums and trombones.

  * * *

  The four of us took Hattie's carriage to Warren's lodgings. Klara bounced on my lap, squeaking with delight. Warren was still sporting two black eyes that were beginning to fade to a greenish yellow. Disinterested in our conversation, he stared out the window, the light of passing street lamps brushing his face.

  'I enquired about Constable Lyons,' Uriel said to me. 'Didn't learn much, though. Only that the Inspector is supposedly a career man, who drives himself and everyone under him pretty hard. He’s worked himself all the way up from the gutters.'

  'The gutters?'

  'He grew up in an Irish gang. That's the rumour. I'm not sure if it's true.'

  'If it is, he'll have much better access to informants than any other inspector. Or…might he be corrupt, do you think?'

  Uriel lifted his shoulders. 'I don't know. But I can imagine that a man like McCurley has all eyes on him. If he tried something shady, it'd be hard for him to hide it.'

  We arrived at Beacon Hill, transferred our hats and umbrellas to the butler who handed them to one of the maids. With military precision, he instructed the two young women how everything was to be properly brushed off and hung.

  'Will you be wanting your supper in the dining room, Sir?'

  'Yes, Owens, thank you.'

  'Very good, Sir.' The butler lowered his chin a fraction, and left.

  'You don't like him?' Warren asked me, as he held the door.

  'Who do you mean?'

  'Owens.'

  I must have looked puzzled, because he added, 'My butler.'

  'No, I'm just…not very comfortable being waited on.'

  'You don't have servants?'

  'I have…employees.'

  'Where is the difference?'

  'No one wants to be a servant. Servants are invisible, and have no rights. They can be dismissed without good reason, and without a reference. Does your need for social justice not extend to servants, Warren?'

  'That doesn't answer my question. What, in your opinion, is the difference between a servant and an employee?' Warren came to a halt between door and dinner table, creating an obstacle for the others, who had to carefully manoeuvre around us. Klara impatiently tugged at my hand.

  'None, perhaps. I should have been more specific: I employ family.'

  He frowned, said, 'Hum,' and walked away to load a plate with beans and thin slices of cold beef.

  We all sat and ate. Klara stuffed herself with meat, and nothing else, until her face glistened with gravy and stretched with yawns. Words didn't flow easily that night, not until the wine was uncorked and the first sips taken.

  Uriel refilled our glasses, clinked his against mine, and said, 'Are you getting any closer to catching the murderer?'

  Hattie chocked on her beans. Warren clapped her between the shoulder blades.

  'Many murderers are never caught. I would guess about half will never be apprehended, perhaps a bit less? I'm not a detective.' I shrugged, hoping the topic was closed.

  But Uriel only scooted to the edge of his seat, and said, 'You must know something. A piece of evidence, a trail you are following. Anything? Come now, at least distract Warren from his…misery. I'm sorry, my friend,' he added with a glance at Warren.

  Warren wiped his mouth with a napkin, and turned to me with an expectant look.

  'Oh, well. In that case, let me see… There's a suspect, but I'm guessing the evidence that links him to the case is weak. He was arrested at the scene and might have been merely a bystander. But then I'm not privy to the Inspector's information. There were no witnesses to the crime, as far as I know, but there's a body that speaks volumes. She was with child, was throttled, and didn't fight back. A toxicologist is analysing samples of blood and organs to see if she'd been drugged. It's possible she knew her killer and couldn't believe that he or she meant to murder her. I'm greatly surprised that neither the papers nor the police have mentioned Mrs Hyde's husband. I'll have to find his address, and speak to him. And I'm so far unsuccessful in trying to find a flower grower who sells yellow roses in May. It's of interest because she had the fresh petal of a yellow rose in her hand when she died. But the flower could have been imported, so…that piece of evidence might be altogether useless. Finally, none of my patients, neighbours or acquaintances had knowledge of a man who grows them in Boston, which means, it must have come from farther away. Probably south of here.'

  Klara slipped from my lap and walked up to one of the bookshelves. Hastily, I followed and wiped her greasy hands before she could touch anything.

  'You should have asked the aristocracy,' Warren said with a sideways glance at Klara, who had begun to draw out one book after another, and place them on the floor.

  'Mr Stone is not a commercial grower,' Hattie said.

  'He tells everyone his roses are only a hobby. But don't believe a word of it, sister. Not only is he highly particular about who he sells to, but his prices are steep. To put it mildly.'

  'Does he grow yellow roses?' I asked.

  'You can get every colour from him, as far as I know.' Warren shrugged, and picked up a pad of paper and some small pieces of charcoal from a box on the bookshelf that Klara was raiding.

  'And how do you know? If I may ask?'

  'The benefit of having a mother who repeatedly tries to force a bachelor's ball on me,' he said, and began scratching charcoal across paper.

  'Bloody dammit, but I'm a bucket! I should have asked Georgie.' I slapped my forehead and Klara squeaked in delight.

  'Who's Georgie?' Uriel asked.

  'A newsboy. He probably knows where the victim lived.'

  'And the…bucket? Dare I even ask?'

  'A bucket is… Well, it means empty vessel.' I tapped my temple.

  Uriel snorted. 'You are doing pretty well for a fledgling detective, Liz.'

  I opened my mouth to point out that this wasn't my first time solving a crime, but then shut it and nodded.

  Uriel turned to Warren, and tapped his knuckles on the table. 'Get it out of your system, brother.'

  Warren looked up. 'And what precisely am I supposed to get out?'

  'You could rail at us now, and…you know, feel better.'

  Warren sighed. 'I appreciate your offer, but screaming won't solve my problem.'

  'So your father gets what he wants. Again.'

  Warren froze. A muscle feathered in his jaw. 'It appears so.' He shuffled his papers to a pile, and left the room. A few moments later, piano music wafted from a room down the corridor.

  Uriel loo
ked at Hattie. 'I think he's going to leave in a day or two. Don't you?'

  She dropped her gaze. 'Not this time.'

  'Where's Klara?' I asked. 'She was sitting right here only a minute ago.'

  'She followed Warren. She's fine.' Uriel held the wine bottle over my glass. Upon my nod, he refilled it. 'Do you need me to do some more detecting for you?'

  'Have you done any detecting yet?' I asked with a grin. 'Can you find out who Petey's attorney is? If he even has one yet. Petey is the tramp the police arrested.'

  'Was the bill of indictment accepted?'

  'I…don't know.'

  'Hum… I'll try to find someone who's close to this, and might be willing to share information with you. But I can't make promises.'

  None of us touched on Warren's looming wedding for the remainder of the evening. When the clock chimed eight, I rose and followed the music to see if I needed to relieve him of Klara's presence. The door to the room was half open. He sat hunched at a piano, long fingers trailing across keys. By his feet, Klara lay on a pile of pillows. She didn't move.

  'Hello, Klara,' I said softly.

  Warren threw me an irritated glance.

  I walked up to my daughter and found that she was fast asleep, a fist pressed to her mouth, a woollen blanket tangled around her legs.

  Dumbfounded, I sat back on my haunches. 'She's sleeping.'

  Warren kept playing.

  Was that Chopin? I looked up and asked him.

  He shook his head.

  I noticed that he played without music sheets. 'It's beautiful.'

  'Don't speak now,' he murmured. And after a moment, 'Please.' Eyes shut, head tilted, he stroked the keys with utter focus.

  And that was when I understood. 'You composed this.' Still, he wouldn't reply or react in any way. 'It is perfect.'

  He slowed his play. 'Have you ever felt…utterly and completely cornered?

  Cold washed over me. 'Yes.'

  There was a flicker in his eyes. It quickly vanished. 'And what did you do, if I may ask? Did you run? Did you allow yourself to be trapped?'

  'I do not wish to talk about it.'

  He dipped his head, as though in agreement, but then he said, 'So you are trapped.'

  I saw it for what it was — a challenge. And it made anger roil up my throat. 'I allowed myself to be trapped for one reason only.'

  He kept his gaze on me as he changed the tune to something slower, sadder.

  'I waited for the right moment,' I continued. 'And then I made sure I would never find myself in that situation again.'

  A faint smile played around his lips. 'Something makes me doubt your’s would be the right tactic to solve my little problem.'

  'Why not.' It slipped out of my mouth, although I wasn't interested at all. In fact, I wanted him to stop talking. I didn't want him to share information, only to ask me to share mine.

  'I have caused enough damage.'

  'Says who?'

  'My parents.'

  Ah. So that's what this was about. 'Do you love her? Does she love you?'

  He twitched a shoulder. 'I have seen her once. We exchanged pleasantries.'

  I let him play another piece, and yet another, before I answered, 'So you wish to limit the damage you might be causing. But a loveless marriage could be…toxic.’

  'I doubt others see it that way.'

  'Do you not see it that way? Or your bride? What about your children?'

  Abruptly, he stopped. The silence startled Klara and she woke with a soft cry. I picked her up and she nestled her face against the crook of my neck.

  He glanced at her, and then at me. Narrowed his eyes. 'Are you happy?'

  Startled by his directness, I blurted, 'I need to bring my daughter home.' With a huff, I pushed myself up from the floor, Klara in my arms, her fingers curled tightly around a lock of my hair.

  Warren accompanied us back to the sitting room. When I made to sort the books back onto the shelves, he stopped me with a wave of his hand. 'Don't worry about it. I'll do it later.'

  I nodded my thanks, and asked Hattie for Mr Stone's address. She took Klara while I picked up a pen and one of the papers Warren had used earlier.

  My breath froze in my lungs. There were Uriel's and Klara's portraits on one page, and on the other, my own. The likeness was stunning. Perfect. I felt the blood drain from my face. I couldn't slip the drawing into my pocket without the others noticing. And I shouldn't, because Warren could draw me as often as he liked. I had to put a stop to it at once.

  Turning to him, I ripped Klara's and my portrait to tiny bits.

  Warren gaped. 'You destroyed them!'

  'I find it utterly unsuitable of a man to keep my likeness and that of my daughter in his breast pocket,' I said coldly.

  'You are…mad.' He bobbed his head once, then shook it and looked at Hattie. 'And this …this…harpy is your friend?'

  Uriel choked down a nervous laugh. Briefly, I wondered if he were more shocked by my behaviour, or by Warren's.

  Hattie stood, jammed a fist in her hip, pointed the other hand at Warren, and spat, 'Don't be a dolt, Warren! It is inappropriate to draw or photograph a lady without her consent!'

  Warren blinked, genuinely confused. 'It is?' He looked first at me, then at the shreds of paper.

  Klara chose the moment to start whining.

  'It's time for bed,' I said and picked her up. My farewell was brief, making Hattie's forehead crinkle with concern.

  Sometimes, I wished I could tell them the truth: No one, not even a friend, could be allowed to have a picture of me. I was too afraid of it reaching Moran and his cronies, no matter how unlikely that was.

  The Second Victim

  6

  One sunny morning, Georgie showed up on my doorstep and proudly handed me a small piece of paper. 'The bloke's address. Er…Mr Stone's address, I mean.'

  I didn't tell him that I knew it already. Instead, I asked if he knew where Henrietta Hyde had lived. He looked at me as if I were the only person unaware of Mrs Hyde's every secret.

  'Number 3 Newman Street,' he said, pocketing his nickel. 'Be needin' anything else?'

  'Not today.' I slipped the note into my pocket, and watched Georgie dash off. He nearly ran over Mr Cratchitt, who was delivering the morning mail.

  'Good day, Dr Arlington!'

  'Good day, Mr Cratchitt. How is your wife?'

  'Round like a dumpling.' He flashed a toothy grin. 'I have a letter for you.'

  'She has only two weeks left. I’d better keep my shoes on when I go to bed.'

  He shook his head, and adjusted the shoulder strap of his bag. 'I bet she's too fast for you. Last time it only took ten minutes. I didn't even manage to leave the bedroom.'

  'I could give you a lesson or two in midwifery.'

  He threw up his hands. 'Hell, no! She's a beast when the pains are on her. I'm sure she'd kill me outright if I tried to help.' As he threw back his head and laughed, the sun bounced off his spectacles.

  'Well, in that case, I send her my best wishes.'

  He winked, walked back to his bicycle, and began pushing it down the road. A small bell fastened to the handlebar clinked softly as he went.

  I leant back against the doorframe, and thought of Petey. Number 3 Newman Street. Damn. The tramp had been seen at the railway ogling Mrs Hyde's corpse, and only hours earlier, he'd sat on a rock a mere hundred yards from her home. Perhaps it was time to admit that I was wrong, and Inspector McCurley's instincts weren't all that bad.

  I shut my eyes and listened to our blackbird singing its heart out of its chest. Klara had declared the birds ours after she discovered a nest with two blue eggs in the ivy by the annex.

  The air was balmy, with scents of—

  Shocked, I realised that summer was nearly there, and by the end of it, Klara would turn three.

  I ground my teeth and opened the letter.

  * * *

  Dear Liz,

  I learned a few things about your Inspector McCur
ley, and I don't like the half of it.

  McCurley is the youngest inspector at the detective squad (he's only 30), and among shady individuals and newspapermen he's called Quinn "the Pit Bull" McCurley. Rumour has it that he got the nickname when he broke away from his gang. That ended in a bloody battle, in which he bit the gang leader (I laughed so hard at this), and earned himself a knife wound to the face. But I doubt there is more than a speck of truth in all this nonsense.

  When McCurley was working as a patrolman, he solved the murder of Congressman Ned Leroy, and was immediately promoted to detective. Need I tell you that this is unheard of?! Only three years later, he caught the leader of the Great Silk Robbery Gang (they stole $10,000 worth of mulberry silk bolts), and that promptly earned him a position at the Bureau of Criminal Investigation.

  Newspapermen loved McCurley up until last winter, when McCurley's wife died under suspicious circumstances. The widely-accepted version of what occurred is, that when McCurley left to talk to an informant in the dead of night, his wife placed their infant daughter on the bedroom floor, opened the window and jumped down three stories. There were no witnesses. McCurley found the two of them about an hour later. His wife and daughter were transferred to City Hospital. The child nearly perished of hypothermia, and her mother died the following day from her injuries.

  The unofficial story is that McCurley was at home when it happened — this because he refused to name the informant. And there are whispers that he pushed his wife.

  Since that night, the mood in the detective squad has shifted. The Chief Inspector has hinted at retiring McCurley. But doing it so soon after this personal tragedy and without a trace of proof would shine a bad light on the squad. Still, it seems McCurley has only months left at Headquarters. Unless he solves his next great case.

  Don't you think the timing of Mrs Hyde's spectacular death is rather strange?

  I hope you'll take my advice. Now I'm almost laughing again, because I know that you are not one to take good advice. Make an exception just this once, will you?