Dear Miss Kopp

by Amy Stewart

  Mrs. Wilmington, of course, is the very picture of health—isn’t that always the case with these German spies?—and she swears that no poison of any kind was ever unbottled in the house. (Then again, she swears that she’s innocent, so why would I believe a word she says?) She sits in a jail cell in Paterson, isolated from the other inmates, although by the time this report reaches you, she will have been transferred to your custody.

  I have more questions than I have ink and paper with which to ask them, but the nurse just walked by with some soup on a tray for Fleurette. I’ll go in and try to coax her to take some.

  Awaiting your orders.

  Yours very truly,

  Constance A. Kopp

  Bielaski to Constance

  October 24, 1918

  Dear Miss Kopp,

  “Awaiting your orders,” she says, while her sister clings to life. Your orders are to stay at Fleurette’s bedside until she’s ready to walk out under her own power.

  Our men in New York have sifted through all the evidence taken from the Wilmingtons’ apartment. We found no trace of anthrax or glanders save inside the vials themselves, which raises the hope that Mr. Wilmington and Fleurette are not poisoned but merely ill.

  You were right to take her old family cookbook. It yielded a roster of her collaborators in New York. She’d written a list of numbers faintly, in pencil, deep in the gutter of a single page near the back of the book. This time the code corresponded to letters on the page, not words. (For instance, 2.3.4.5 would refer to the second page, third line, fourth word, fifth letter.) Because you’d also snatched up the red-bound edition of Dr. Chase’s, we were able to read the code and make arrests.

  Of the four men named, two matched the descriptions Miss Bradshaw had given of the messengers spotted at the train station and the hotel. The other two had been picked up during that raid at the St. Regis restaurant that started it all. The police had released them, but we found them again easily enough, as the St. Regis had already re-opened its disreputable house in the basement. None of them possessed vials of anthrax or glanders. Unlike Mrs. Wilmington, they are apparently intelligent enough to keep it out of their homes.

  Someone’s making it in a laboratory, but we don’t know who, and they won’t say.

  We gather that the men were engaged in a plot to destroy livestock, both the horses we send over to France and those still needed here at home on farms. We believe they further hoped to cripple our meat and dairy supply by going after cows, goats, sheep, and the like. If they were successful, they planned to spread disease to humans, particularly around Army camps.

  It appears they were experimenting on carriage horses and intended to move out to dairies and farms around the camps next. We’ve found three stables in New York that have had unexplained deaths among their horses. It continues to astonish me that no one reports those incidents, in spite of notice after notice in the paper, hand-bills posted around stables, and even posters in the street, entreating everyone to report suspicious doings.

  As for the men we arrested, we hope to persuade one of them to come over to our side and lead us to whoever gives the orders. So far they resist persuasion. It is nonetheless a victory to have them in our custody. It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t noticed the wife, worked out the book cipher, seized the cookbook, and so on.

  Now we await Fleurette’s recovery, and Mr. Wilmington’s. As I understand it, he’s too weak to answer questions. Get in as soon as the doctors will allow and find out what he knows.

  Yours very truly,

  A. Bruce Bielaski

  Constance to Bielaski

  October 26, 1918

  Dear Mr. Bielaski,

  You will have heard from the doctors directly by now, but Fleurette is believed to have been spared the worst. They suspect not anthrax or glanders but quite a severe streptococcal infection turning to scarlet fever in Fleurette’s case, and pneumonia in Mr. Wilmington’s case.

  Fleurette suffers from the worst ulcerated throat I’ve ever seen. When the doctors tried to lance an ulcer and swab away the pus for a laboratory sample, she kicked and fought as they pried open her mouth. She would’ve screamed if she could make any sound at all—but right now she can’t. She finally surrendered, and sobbed the whole while. It was horrible to watch.

  Because she can’t speak, I’ve tried to persuade her to write notes to me—but she won’t. She merely nods in agreement or shakes her head in refusal when I ask a question. Beyond that she hasn’t a word to say.

  She still suffers from a fever, chills, and aches. Her appetite is gone entirely and it’s impossible to get anything down that throat. She subsists on a sip now and again of thin broth. Our brother’s wife, Bessie, has never met an invalid she couldn’t tempt—but even Bessie’s puddings, compotes, and stews go untouched.

  The doctors tell me that until the fever breaks, the throat won’t start to heal.

  Of Mr. Wilmington I can say no more than you already know: he was in a far worse state than Fleurette when we found him, and he remains so. If he happens to rally and it appears we can get any kind of statement from him, I’ll run right over, even if he’s only capable of nods and hand signals. The poor man is allowed no visitors owing to the criminal investigation. I do look in on him from time to time, but he doesn’t know I’m there.

  As for whether he suspected anything of Mrs. Wilmington—it’s entirely possible that he never had any idea. The two of them seemed to lead very separate lives, in a way that is not particularly unusual among married couples. He had his business to run six days a week, and she had charge of the apartment and their domestic affairs. From the little time I spent inside their home, I could see that his study was the center of his life: there was a tray-stand for his supper, a day-bed, and a rack for magazines. I could easily imagine him retreating to that room every evening and saying hardly a word to his wife, nor she to him. It might never have occurred to him to wonder where she went or what she did with her time.

  It’s maddening to sit in the hospital and wait, but you’re right—I can’t take another assignment until I see Fleurette on her feet and bound for home.

  Yours very truly,

  Constance A. Kopp

  Constance to Norma

  October 28, 1918

  Dear Norma,

  When you left, you made me promise that I wouldn’t spare you any news, no matter how worrisome. I confess that for the last week, I have kept something from you—but it’s all right now.

  Just as we were wrapping up what turned out to be a rather dramatic case, Fleurette became seriously ill. For a few terrible days, I feared she’d been poisoned. The doctors are now certain that she wasn’t. It appears that both she and the man of the house (the house in which our investigation had been taking place) were stricken with a violent streptococcal infection. In the man’s case, it turned into pneumonia. In Fleurette, it turned to scarlet fever.

  When she came home from her tour a month ago, she was nursing a sore throat. She might’ve been more ill than she let on, making her susceptible to any infection that came along. Regardless, you are to be assured that she’s getting better. She remains in the hospital but is to be released in a few days if she continues to recover.

  I’m afraid the infection ravaged her throat. She hasn’t spoken a word in days. The doctors assure me that she’ll be able to talk again. They encourage her to stay quiet for now and let it heal. She has no interest in corresponding by note but will nod yes or no when I put a question to her directly.

  Whether she will be able to sing again is anyone’s guess.

  Please know that she’s under the very best of care. She will most likely convalesce with Bessie and Francis, where she can be made much more comfortable.

  In case you’re wondering, I am looking after the bird. It has learned to say “Fleurette,” or something quite close to it, and by saying her name seems to ask about her every day.

  My assignment is nearly concluded. The man of the house
is too ill to give his testimony and, in fact, the doctors aren’t sure he’ll survive. The case can draw to a close with or without him, but I’m waiting every day at the hospital to interview him if he happens to rally. I’ll take another assignment as soon as Fleurette is well.

  The news from the Somme is devastating, but surely this is the very end of the fighting.

  Yours,

  Constance

  Bielaski to Constance

  October 30, 1918

  Dear Miss Kopp,

  We had a British agent go personally to inform Mr. Wilmington’s family in London of his death. The agent was instructed to say nothing of Mrs. Wilmington’s activities. The family was told only that he died of pneumonia in the hospital, that American authorities have discovered that his widow is German-born, and that the United States government must confirm certain details of her story before deciding whether she will be allowed to remain here.

  Every relation gives the same account: Mr. Wilmington knew that his wife was German and that she moved to London at the age of fourteen. They recall that she was eager to leave when the war began. In fact, the move to America was undertaken mostly at her insistence. At the time, everyone assumed that she wanted to remain above suspicion and sever all ties with the Kaiser. Now we know the truth. She intended to work against us, to impede our progress in joining in the war, and to weaken our position once we did. I don’t believe Mr. Wilmington suspected any of that.

  I’m in receipt of your report on the questioning of Sam Archer, the other men at the print shop, and Mr. Wilmington’s associates. Their statements can’t entirely clear his good name, but they will certainly go into the record.

  I visited Mrs. Wilmington in jail and told her myself of her husband’s death. She did cry a little and make a fuss, but that could be play-acting. She insisted once again that he had no hand in her treachery nor any idea that she was working for the Germans. It seems that he was her ticket to America and her cover story. That’s some kind of marriage.

  Another assignment is yours when you’re ready for it. I have a simple enough case for Miss Bradshaw, but I want her reporting to you. She’s back on a secretary’s desk at the War Department until your sister is home and you can turn your attention back to Bureau business.

  Talk of an armistice sounds serious this time. Our work continues regardless. Write when you’re ready.

  Yours very truly,

  A. Bruce Bielaski

  November 11, 1918

  Armistice Day

  Constance to Norma

  November 13, 1918

  Dear Norma,

  I’ve imagined a hundred versions of this letter and written it over and over in my mind. But now that it comes time to put words to paper, I can’t think what to say except that we wait, eagerly and impatiently, to greet your ship and to see you set foot on American soil again.

  The news here is so garbled, as you can imagine—three extras a day and everyone clamoring over each other to spread rumors and speculation—but as I understand it, our soldiers will be needed for some time to keep the peace and make sure the Germans withdraw according to schedule. As long as there are soldiers in Europe, there will be nurses and canteen workers—but what about messenger pigeon operators? Might they send you—and your birds—home soon?

  I can’t promise that we’ll have the farm habitable in time for Christmas, but Francis and I are going over tomorrow to see what needs to be done. I’m keeping my room at the boarding-house until we have everything settled. I might need to keep it regardless—I don’t know how I’d get back and forth to any sort of job from the countryside. How did I ever manage it before? It seems a hundred years ago.

  There are parades and parties and every kind of celebration here. Fleurette is out of the hospital and recuperating, but we’re doing everything in our power to keep her indoors. Her doctors are starting to see cases of Spanish influenza at the hospital, and they advise me to keep her off the streets to avoid any chance of infection.

  Tell us your plans, and Aggie’s, when you have them. We feel that she’s one of ours now, and we would welcome her here!

  Yours,

  Constance

  Norma to Constance

  November 25, 1918

  Dear Constance,

  The war has concluded but you’d never know it here. The hospitals remain full, the engineering schools are still holding classes (the Army intends to finish some of its bigger rail and communications projects before we leave), and our pigeon outpost is being gradually turned over to the French—only very gradually, as they’ve lost interest in all matters military-related and want only to rest and eat and tell their stories. French life is resuming its old pace, in other words, while our Army wonders what to do with itself.

  I’m to travel to Paris next week to make a final report on our pigeon school and the possibility for its continued operation in peace-time. I suppose they might decide to send me home from there. I’ll cable as soon as I know.

  As ever,

  Norma

  Aggie to Norma

  November 27, 1918

  Dear Norma,

  That was some trick you pulled, leaving for Paris without telling me. I know you don’t like a long farewell, and there will be too many of them around here when we finally wind things down, but you’re not finished with me!

  I’m writing with an urgent message for you: If they offer to send you home, don’t go! I want you to stay in Europe with me.

  I’ve taken a two-year post in Belgium with the Red Cross. You’d be surprised at how many of us are going. It seems that most of the nurses here have become accustomed to the frenzied war-time life, and can’t bear the idea of returning home to sit in their mothers’ parlors.

  I can’t imagine going home either, even though—or perhaps because—there’s no one waiting for me there. What am I to do, work a shift at some county hospital and return home to a furnished room at night? What kind of life is that?

  If this war has shown me one thing, it’s that the world is far bigger and grander, and more filled with tragedy and chaos and love, than I ever knew it was. There’s more adventure to be had, out here, than I could ever hope for back in the same well-trod paths I took at home. There’s more of a need, too. America can survive on its own. Europe is battered beyond recognition. The war doesn’t truly end until these nations are back on their feet.

  Don’t you feel as I do, Norma? Admit it: Wouldn’t you rather have another year here than anything else in the world? Of course we wished desperately for the fighting to end, but now that it has, who wants to go back to the way things were before? I don’t, and I suspect you don’t, either.

  Here’s what I’m working up to tell you: They are desperate for interpreters! I have a position absolutely promised to you if you’ll take it. The committee was just here yesterday, holding interviews, and when I told them that I knew an American woman who understood our way of doing things, and spoke both French and German perfectly, they could hardly believe it.

  I know it has nothing to do with pigeons, and might bore you at times, but, Norma, I simply can’t imagine going without you.

  Think of the countries we could visit, and the places and people we would see! There’s useful work ahead for us, and who knows, perhaps another cake shop to investigate.

  I hate to lure you away from your sisters, but when will you have another chance? Come with me, and if it doesn’t suit you, go home any time.

  I leave for Paris in a week. Wait there for me, won’t you?

  Au plaisir de te revoir—

  Aggie

  Norma to Aggie

  November 30, 1918

  Dear Aggie,

  You oughtn’t to go running off to Belgium without any idea of what you’re getting into. The reports here in Paris are that it’s a mess and will be for some time. The German occupation will be slow to unwind, the numbers of refugees are overwhelming, and nobody knows what they’ll find at the prison camps.

  It is
n’t a nice quiet village with a wall around it. We think we’ve been in the war, but we’ve been living in the countryside. We never saw the bombing that Paris did, and we never suffered through the rationing they did. Country folk have a way of getting by, but this city saw real deprivation. Everyone here is skin and bones. You’ve seen suffering and misery at the hospital, of course, but Belgium will be another story entirely.

  You’re right that I’m expected at home. Everyone is—including you. It isn’t true that no one is waiting for you. We would be waiting for you—the Kopps—all of us.

  Nonetheless, if you’re set on going to Belgium, I can’t possibly allow you to go alone. Your French is terrible and you don’t have a word of German. I’ll speak to the Red Cross committee if you insist on following through with this scheme, and we can hear for ourselves what they have in mind for us.

  Yesterday a man on the street said that the war is not over until everyone can go home. If that’s true, the war will not end in Belgium for many months to come, perhaps years. I suppose you think that you’d be shirking your duty to go home now.

  Of course, my sisters expect me back. They can’t manage the farmhouse without me—neither of them know a thing about running a household—but they could shift for themselves a while longer while you and I go and have a look at Belgium.