by Ron Carter
“Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return. I commend the soul of this good man to the care and keep of the Almighty. I love you, Daddy. We shall meet again, with Mother, and Marcus, and the family. Until then, rest in the peace of the Lord Jesus.”
She raised her face to the beauty of a rare New York June morning. A blue jay scolded lustily in the great oak that stood at the head of the plot. A robin scurried through the grass and stopped, head tipped to catch the vibrations of something beneath her feet. White seagulls with yellow bills and black eyes soared overhead. The quiet hum of bees doing their annual work among the blossoms on the trees and the myriad of flower beds on the rolling green hills of the estate reached her, and she turned to look at the reds and golds of tulips and rosebuds unfolding. With the sights and sounds of eternal life all around her, Mary felt a presence, and she smiled. I know, Daddy. It’s beautiful. You’ll be at peace here, with Mother. Until we meet again, I thank you with all my heart.
She nodded to the grave diggers, who came to the sides of the heavy casket, looped the ropes over their shoulders to remove the planks, then slowly lowered the casket into its final resting place in the womb of Mother Earth. They drew the ropes from the grave, coiled them, and waited for the signal from Mary. She walked to each of them to press a gold coin in their hand. As they silently bowed their thanks, Mary stepped to the head of the grave and waited for them to cast the first shovel of fresh earth onto the casket.
Without a word Mary turned and walked back down the brick path to the front of the mansion and on to the waiting carriage. The driver held the door while she mounted the steps, closed it when she was settled, climbed back into the box, and clucked the horse to a trot. Mary did not look back.
The outskirts of the city of New York passed by the carriage window as the steady clacking of the horseshoes moved them ever further away from the great estates on the northern fringe, toward the center of the city with its rows of square, painted houses mixed with small shops and family businesses. The driver reined the horse east on Vesey Street, then south again on Broadway, to pull the buggy to a stop in front of a low brick building, located two blocks from the huge Fort George battery on the southern tip of Manhattan Island, with its cannon aimed south, covering New York harbor. Wall Street was two blocks further east. The sign above the door into the old, weathered building read LONDON–NEW YORK BANK, LTD.
When the driver opened her door to assist her to the ground, Mary again gave him two coins. “I will be a short time here, and then I must go to the docks on Catherine Street. I have passage on a small boat up the Raritan River and then by wagon on to Morristown in New Jersey. Would you wait?”
“Beg pardon, ma’am. Did you say Morristown? Where General Washington has the Continental army?”
“Yes. I have people there I must see.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The driver dropped the coins into an old leather purse, snapped it shut, and climbed back to his box. Mary walked to the bank door and entered. She blinked to adjust to the lack of light in the plain, sparse room, then walked to the nearest desk. A balding man with a heavy double chin marked his place on a ledger with a finger, raised his eyes to her, and asked, “Is there something I can do for you?”
“I’m Mary Flint. Two days ago I arranged with the manager to withdraw some money from my account here. I would like to do so now.”
The man swallowed, placed a ruler in the ledger to hold his place, then leaned back in his chair. He licked his lips, then cleared his throat, while his eyes avoided her. A chill ran through Mary as she waited.
“Uh, ma’am, you will have to talk with the manager. His office is there, in the corner.” He pointed. “You can just—”
Mary cut him off, her voice soft, low. “I know where his office is. What’s wrong? Is something wrong?”
“That’s for him to say, ma’am.”
“Would you please get him?”
“Uh . . . knock on his door, ma’am. He’ll want to talk in his office.”
The dark premonition grew in Mary, and her breathing constricted. She turned and quickly strode to the corner of the room where there was a door with fading sign over it that said CHARLES PARTRIDGE, MGR. She knocked firmly and listened to the sound of muffled footsteps behind the door before it opened. Partridge, average height, elderly, thick gray hair, and lipless, dressed in an ancient gray suit with black tie, dropped his chin to stare over the bifocals perched on his nose. He recognized Mary instantly, pursed his mouth while he studied her for a moment, then stepped back.
“Come in, Mrs. Flint.” His voice was high, tired, scratchy. He walked to his side of a square, plain desk and sat down on a chair upholstered with cracking leather. He motioned Mary to sit opposite him on a wooden chair. She remained standing.
“I have come to withdraw the money I arranged for two days ago. Eight hundred pounds.”
The sparse man leaned forward, forearms on the desk, fingers interlaced, and for a time peered upward at her before he broke the strained silence. “I’m afraid there is a problem.”
Mary stiffened. “What problem?”
“This bank has been served with an order from the British army to impound all moneys that have come from the estate of Otis Purcell. Apparently he was a colonel in the British army who—”
Mary cut him off. “I know about Dr. Purcell.”
“Let me finish. Apparently he was a colonel in the British army who died unexpectedly. He was a widower at the time, childless, thought to be without kin. With his body was a handwritten document that said he was giving all of his estate to you. I’m told the document found its way to you. You presented it to the British authorities, and they honored it.” He stopped for a moment, then continued. “At the time, his assets were mostly in an account in this bank. With no wife or children, he had invested his money wisely, and when they added in his pension, the account was just over thirty-two thousand pounds. The British army let you transfer it to an account you opened, and you have been drawing against it since, maybe six hundred pounds, total.”
He paused and leaned back while Mary stood stock-still, white-faced, silently waiting.
He cleared his throat. “The impound order I got yesterday says someone named Alfonso Eddington from Liverpool claims to be a distant cousin, and the only living blood kin of Otis Purcell. He filed his claim in court there and got an order to hold the money here until his claim is heard.”
Shaking her head, Mary said, “Why wasn’t I notified?”
“He says he couldn’t find you.”
“I was in a hospital for months, with pneumonia. May I see the order?”
Partridge opened the center drawer of his desk and handed two documents to her. “The one with the blue seal is the official court document. The other is a copy for you.”
Mary scanned it, handed the original back, and folded the copy for her purse.
“I don’t understand. The paper Dr. Purcell left was legal. On what basis does Mr. Eddington claim it is not valid?”
“Two things, so far as I can tell. First, he claims the document you have is a forgery. He says the handwriting and the signature aren’t genuine, and to prove it he compares it to other documents known to have been written by the deceased.” He raised his eyebrows. “Apparently there’s a wide difference between the handwriting on his will, when compared to other things he wrote.”
“Of course there is,” Mary exclaimed. “He was dying. It is surprising he could write at all. The general who discovered the body signed an affidavit stating the circumstances and giving his firm opinion that the document and the signature were genuine.”
“I know all that. But the claim of a blood relative as against that of a rather beautiful young woman raises enough question that it must be heard.”
“Heard where?”
Partridge swallowed. “Here, in New York, if you can get the court in Liverpool to send it.”
“He didn’t have to make his claim here?”
He shook h
is head. “England has not been in a hurry to recognize the United States as a foreign country. In many ways they still think of us as their colonies. With the relative living over there, that’s where the case sits until you get legal counsel to obtain an order sending it here, where it should be.”
“You said this relative made two claims. What is the second one?”
Partridge wiped at his mouth for a moment, searching for words. “Otis Purcell was aging, and was alone for years after the death of his wife.” He hesitated and pursed his mouth before he went on. “Lonely men who are feeling their own mortality sometimes seek the company of . . . uh . . . younger women. And they make, shall we say, arrangements for the pleasure of their company.” He dropped his eyes and did not look at Mary for a few seconds.
Mary gasped and recoiled backwards one step. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she stared at Partridge in stunned disbelief. For five seconds they faced each other before Partridge raised his eyes to stare over his bifocals at Mary, and Mary stared back. She began to tremble, dropped her hand, and exclaimed, “He accuses me of being Dr. Purcell’s consort for money?”
Partridge slowly nodded his head, but remained silent.
Shaking with outrage, Mary stood silent until she could bring her wild anger under control and trust herself to speak. She squared her shoulders, raised her chin, and said, “I did not know a man could sink so low, to get money. He accuses me falsely, and he also accuses Dr. Purcell of such filth.” A look of sadness crossed her face. “Dr. Purcell was one of the kindliest and truest gentlemen I have ever known. What this man is doing is a sin in the sight of the Almighty.”
For a time neither Partridge nor Mary moved in the silence. Then Mary drew a weary breath to speak. “What should I do?”
Partridge shrugged. “Hire a barrister.”
“Here?”
“Unless you travel to Liverpool.”
“And what do I do in Liverpool, with all the witnesses here, scattered by the war?”
Partridge shook his head. “I don’t know. Perhaps a barrister would. Do you know any barristers?”
Mary’s forehead creased in thought. “My father used one. Lawrence Weatherby.”
Partridge nodded. “Over on Wall Street? I know of him. Go see him.”
Mary paused a moment to consider. “I will. Thank you.” She turned to leave, and Partridge called to her.
“Tell Mr. Weatherby to contact me.”
“I will.”
With her brain struggling to emerge from the numbing shock of finding herself penniless, and the unthinkable outrage of having been accused of being the hired mistress of Dr. Otis Purcell, the carriage ride east to Wall Street and then north two blocks was but a blur. The carriage rocked to a halt before a two-storied brown brick building, with YARBRO INVESTMENTS neatly lettered on the ground floor window. On the door were the words, WEATHERBY AND ASSOC., BARRISTERS, SECOND FLOOR.
The driver assisted Mary from the coach, and she again placed two coins in his hand.
“Should I wait, ma’am?”
She reflected for a moment. “No. I don’t know when I will be finished.”
He tipped his hat. “As you wish, ma’am.” He climbed back into the driver’s box, and the carriage rolled away, the horseshoes clacking on the cobblestones.
A sick, hollow feeling welled up inside her as she watched the carriage disappear in the midmorning traffic. She stood on the brick sidewalk and carefully counted the money remaining in her purse—thirteen pounds, twelve pence. For a moment she stared into the faces of those walking past. They hurried on, preoccupied with their own affairs, their own troubles, paying her no attention, not knowing or caring that she was standing there in the shambles of a life suddenly stripped of everything. As if in a dream, she walked to the door of the building and pushed inside, then climbed the stairs to the second floor and through the door of the Weatherby office.
“Is there something I can do for you?”
Mary blinked, then turned to a plump, middle-aged woman with a round, pleasant face, seated at a desk to the right of the door. It took Mary a moment to order her thoughts.
“Yes, my name is Mary Broadhead Flint. Rufus Broadhead was my father. I believe he had business with Mr. Lawrence Weatherby while he was alive.”
“Yes, I remember Mr. Broadhead.”
“Is it possible for me to see Mr. Weatherby?”
“Does it have to do with your father’s business?”
“No. My own.”
“May I tell Mr. Weatherby the purpose of your visit?”
Mary pulled her thoughts together. “Thirty-two thousand English pounds.”
“I see. Mr. Weatherby has a client with him. They should finish within the hour. Would you care to wait?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Mary sat on a chair against the wall, purse clutched in her lap, staring unseeing at the three doors on the far side of the room that opened into offices, while she battled to control the blind panic that had seized her at the realization that she was alone, penniless, in a city divided by war and a world gone insane.
She started at the sound of a door opening, and watched as a portly man with a high-topped beaver hat, a polished walking stick, immaculate suit, and a huge gold chain stretching across his paunch, emerged. The man who walked him to the door was tall, thin, sallow-skinned, hawk-nosed, with a face pitted by smallpox. His hair was thinning, and he walked slightly hunched forward.
The two men stopped at the office door, and the thin man reached for the handle. “I’ll finish the first draft by Friday. Come back Monday, eleven o’clock.” He turned to the woman at the desk. “Ellen, schedule Waldo back on Monday, eleven o’clock.” The woman turned three pages in an open ledger, wrote with a quill, nodded, and smiled.
“Till then.” Waldo nodded, tipped his hat to Ellen, and walked out onto the landing, where Mary heard him begin to descend the stairs. The thin man hooked a thumb in his vest pocket and turned back toward the room from whence he had come. Ellen rose to follow him, and the door closed behind them. A moment later Ellen emerged and motioned to Mary.
“Mrs. Flint, Mr. Weatherby will see you now.”
The room was unpretentious. Square, fairly large, one wall was lined with bookshelves holding books of every description. A worktable stood in one corner with a dozen books laid out, helter-skelter, some open, others not. A faded painting of a four-masted ship in full sail hung on one wall, with windows looking out onto Wall Street on the other. Lawrence Weatherby cast a shrewd eye on Mary as she entered.
“I’m Lawrence Weatherby,” he said. “I understand you’re Mary Flint. Rufus Broadhead was your father.”
“Yes, I’m Mary Flint. I want to thank you for seeing me without an appointment.”
Weatherby shrugged. “I knew your father. Please have a seat. What can I help you with?”
For ten minutes the story tumbled out of Mary, while the thin-faced Weatherby watched her like a hawk. He heard every word, but more than that, he caught the expressions and the changes that flitted across her face, the timbre and intensity of her voice, the movement of her hands as they worked with her purse, the twitch at the corners of her mouth as she refused to break into tears. Finally she stopped, raised her eyes to his, and waited.
“That’s quite a story. Remarkable. I take it you need help in contesting the claim of this man in Liverpool. Alfonso Eddington? Was that it?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll need to ask you a few questions.”
“Ask.”
He leaned forward, intense, focused. “You worked long hours with Dr. Purcell, over an extended period. Was there ever anything improper between the two of you?”
Her answer was firm, immediate. “Never!”
“Did he ever give you any indication he intended giving his estate to you?”
“Never.”
“Where were you when he died?”
“In the big freight room on the Catherine Street docks where they took
all the patients when the Flint mansion burned. The British had been using the mansion for a hospital. I was on the third floor, with pneumonia. The smoke nearly killed both of us when Dr. Purcell came to get me. He saved my life.”
“What was the name of the general who found his body?”
“General Hollins. Jarom Hollins.”
“You talked with Hollins?”
“Yes. Later. He told me how he had found Dr. Purcell, and he gave me the paper written by the doctor. He also gave me an affidavit Hollins had made and signed that day.”
“Do you still have it?”
“Yes. Both documents.”
“Where?”
“Packed in my luggage on Catherine Street. I’m leaving on a boat later today.” She told him of her plans to get to Morristown.
“Can you get those documents back here before you go?”
“Yes.”
Weatherby reached for his pipe, packed it, then struck spark to tinder and lit it. His cheeks hollowed as he drew on it, eyes narrowed in thought, while a cloud of smoke rose to the ceiling and dissipated. He turned back to Mary.
“How long were you in the hospital with pneumonia and smoke asphyxiation after the fire?”
“Thirteen weeks. Until the middle of April.”
“Did Purcell ever express anything akin to affection for you?”
“He saw me as a daughter. And I saw him much like a father. Nothing more.”
Weatherby drew on his pipe, then laid it on a round pipe holder on his desk and stood. He thrust his hands into his pockets and began to slowly pace, speaking while his mind worked.
“I’ll have to tell you this as clearly as I can. This is precisely the wrong time for all this to pop up. Purcell was British. Eddington is British. We’re at war with the British. In the middle of all this, we find you, the American woman accused by the British man of using her womanly charms and a forged document to swindle him out of thirty-two thousand English pounds that he swears ought to be his as the only blood kin of the deceased Purcell.”
