The Black Midnight

by Kathleen Y'Barbo

  “Until someone is swinging from a rope for this crime or otherwise similarly dispatched, then it is unsolved. And newspaper articles frightening the general public will not solve this.” Swain fixed his eyes on Annie. “Can you assure us the Pinkertons will?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Isaiah watching her again. She had to tread carefully in any response she might give, especially in front of a reporter. “We offer only the assurance that we will do our best.”

  “Against a killer that a certain segment of the population is convinced practices voodoo in order to make himself invisible?” The reporter seemed poised to reach for his paper and pencil. “What say you about that?”

  “Again,” she told him as she focused on the soup course now being served, “I cannot comment on an ongoing investigation except to say that we will do our best.”

  He shook his head. “That’s no answer. It’s a political statement. What are you really doing to catch this man, because I’ve seen nothing but incompetence. I am a better detective than these clowns are.”

  Annie’s eyes narrowed. She regulated her response, casting away the words she wanted to say. “At this moment I am listening to a newspaper reporter with absolutely no training in police or detective work call into question an investigation that is still ongoing. You, sir, are part of the problem, not the solution, if you continue to deride the good people of law enforcement in such a way. And if you have a suspect you’ve determined should be investigated, do enlighten me or one of the hardworking people who are actively doing something about this menace.”

  She fixed him with a look that dared him to speak further. To Blake’s credit, he did not.

  “Bravo, Miss Walters,” Swain said before dissolving into great guffaws of laughter once again.

  Using the diversionary skills she’d learned from her mother at the many social gatherings she hosted at the castle, Annie was able to ignore both the reporter and the politician for the remainder of the meal. Finally, the evening came to an end, and Annie said her goodbyes to her hosts, then gathered her coat and headed for the door. Unfortunately, Cameron Blake trailed her out into the foyer.

  He made a great show of looking around before addressing Annie. “Have you come alone, Miss Walters? I would be honored to see you safely back to your lodgings.”

  “There is no need.”

  She moved past him to shrug into her cloak, then stepped out into the cool evening air. Stars dusted the sky overhead. It was a lovely night, and he was an awful man.

  Unfortunately, the persistent reporter followed her. Annie gave him a look that generally stopped most fools in their tracks.

  Apparently Cameron Blake was not most fools.

  “The killer could very well be out here watching us,” he said. “Though, as neither of us fits the profile of his preferred victims, I suppose there is less danger to us than to others.”

  Several less than polite responses occurred. “Thank you for that insight. I see you are intent on proving yourself as good a detective as you claimed at dinner. I fail to be impressed, but you have my permission to continue trying. Good night, Mr. Blake,” she said instead.

  Still he persisted, tagging a step behind as Annie walked down toward the street to arrange transport back to the hotel. Just as she was about to let him know exactly how she felt about his behavior, Isaiah stepped between them.

  “Our carriage is over here, Miss Walters.” He took her arm and led her away, then leaned in close. “Or would you prefer to give your admirer a little more time?”

  She laughed. “That was no admirer. Cameron Blake is a reporter digging for a story. Can you feature that his flimsy excuse for following me was that he thought I might need escorting back to my hotel? I am a Pinkerton detective, for goodness’ sakes.”

  “And a good one,” he said, nodding to the carriage. “After you.”

  “Thank you.” Annie climbed into the carriage and settled her skirts around her. “I hope the conversation at your end of the table was more interesting than mine. Blake and Swain locked horns about whether the Midnight Assassin had been caught, though neither of them offered much in the way of an argument for his side. I might have snapped at the reporter, though I tried to be fair, and I certainly did not say the first thing I was thinking. That would have made headlines for certain.”

  Isaiah looked back at the house and then frowned. “Excuse me a minute. I see a young lady who might need a ride home. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not.” Annie followed the direction of his gaze and spied the young woman who had been seated beside Isaiah at dinner. She did indeed appear overwhelmed. “Yes, do go and see if she might wish to allow us to take her home. She looks like a lost puppy.”

  Isaiah bolted off and returned a moment later with the woman in tow. “Annie Walters, may I introduce Eula Phillips?”

  The dark-haired woman was a great beauty with coffee-brown eyes and a flawless complexion. Her gown, a pale confection in the latest style, glimmered in the moonlight.

  Though she wore the latest fashion and was likely considered a prize for whomever might call her his bride, Annie detected a hint of sadness in her smile. This woman was not well loved, nor was she content.

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Phillips,” Annie said.

  “Mrs. Phillips,” she gently corrected. “Normally I would not attend an event like this without my husband, but he was unable to attend tonight.”

  “I stand corrected,” Annie said.

  Isaiah helped Mrs. Phillips into the carriage. “Thank you for your kind offer,” she told him as she took the seat across from Annie and then turned to look down at the detective. “Are you sure I am not imposing?”

  “Mrs. Phillips, it would only be an imposition if I had not been the one to invite you.” Isaiah climbed in to take the spot beside Annie, and the carriage lurched forward.

  They rode in silence for the short distance it took to arrive at the home of the Phillips family on West Hickory Street. A cursory glance as the carriage stopped and Isaiah jumped out told Annie that Mr. and Mrs. Phillips were quite well-to-do.

  “The home belongs to my husband’s parents,” she said as if she’d read Annie’s thoughts. “We live in a wing with our son.”

  “It’s lovely,” Annie told her. “I’m sure you’re quite happy there.”

  “Quite,” Mrs. Phillips said, though her smile did not reach her eyes.

  Isaiah helped the young woman down and watched until she slipped inside. Then he climbed back into the carriage, and they were off again.

  “She seems like a very sad creature,” Annie said as the carriage slowed to make a turn. “There’s something almost hopeless about her. And she’s so young.”

  “Do you think so? She didn’t seem that way when she and Temple’s wife were talking about their babies.”

  “Perhaps that’s it, then. She loves her little one to the exclusion of anyone and anything else,” Annie said. “It might also explain why her husband chose not to accompany her.”

  Her companion chuckled. “Always analyzing, aren’t you?”

  Annie lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “It’s a habit I can’t seem to shake. Not sure I ought to though. I think it makes me a better Pinkerton to know who I am up against. If I can decide what propels him or her, then I am at an advantage.”

  “Such as why a man kills innocent women in the dead of night, and where he might have learned the trick of escaping without being seen?”

  “Exactly,” she told him. “And for the record, I do not believe that voodoo rumor for a minute. A lot of rubbish, that.”

  “Which brings us back to our topic from before Mrs. Phillips joined us,” he said. “No one at my end of the table wanted to talk about the killings, and it wasn’t for my lack of trying. Anytime I broached the topic, someone changed the subject.”

  “Funny,” Annie said. “The comptroller seemed to be of a similar mind. He wasn’t thrilled with the reporter’s insistence on discussing th
e murders. In fact, he turned the discussion around to deride the man for asking questions. Though he did answer a few of them.”

  “Do you think he behaved that way because he didn’t want to discuss the crimes, or because he didn’t have the answers?”

  “I’m not sure,” she told him. “But I think maybe he’s tired of the topic. That is likely true of most who live here, don’t you think? There hasn’t been a murder since September. Perhaps the monster has been arrested on some other charge and is in jail.”

  “Or he’s left town,” Isaiah offered. “Either is possible, as are a thousand other scenarios. We’ve got our work cut out for us investigating this. It won’t be easy to find answers.”

  “If it was easy,” Annie said, her gaze never wavering, “there would be no need for Pinkerton detectives to investigate, either us or the other group. Since you’re a native Texan and the one more familiar with Austin, how do you propose we begin?”

  “Tomorrow we pay a visit to the police for a look at their records. I want to know what they’ve got that they’re not telling the press. Then we go see the sites of the murders ourselves.”

  “At night?” she asked.

  “Still deciding,” he said. “It’s dark as pitch in most of these places.”

  “Then we go during the day first with a follow-up visit at night.” Annie paused. “I would also like to speak with witnesses.”

  “Agreed, though two are just children. I’m not sure how much help they will be.”

  The carriage rolled to a stop in front of Annie’s hotel. “Sometimes children see things more clearly than the adults do.”

  She spied a familiar face and groaned. Isaiah looked past her and frowned.

  “Is that Blake? The reporter?”

  “It is. I cannot believe that man is so brazen as to show himself at my hotel.”

  “Did you tell him where you were staying?”

  “I most certainly did not,” she said.

  Without a word, her companion headed off toward the New Yorker, leaving Annie to follow a few steps behind. “Isaiah, wait,” she called, capturing the reporter’s attention but not her fellow detective’s.

  “Miss Walters,” Blake called. “I was merely making sure you arrived safely.”

  “How did you know where she was going?” Isaiah demanded, closing in on the smaller man.

  “Simple investigative techniques,” he said. “I asked the driver who dropped her off at the governor’s mansion where he’d picked her up.” A shrug. “It’s amazing what people are willing to tell you if you slip them a little cash.”

  Isaiah glanced over his shoulder at Annie and then turned to Blake. His face was a mask of rage. Had he stood any closer, Annie feared he might have grasped the smaller man by the throat and shaken him senseless.

  Or worse.

  “Women are dying in this town from an as-yet unnamed assailant, Blake,” he said, his voice tight and barely controlled. “Think carefully about what you’ve just done here. Miss Walters did not invite you to her hotel, did she?”

  The shake of the reporter’s head was barely imperceptible.

  “I thought not. Keep yourself clear of her, understand?”

  While Isaiah’s chivalry was a nice gesture, she could no longer remain silent. She was, after all, a well-trained Pinkerton detective and not some woman who might actually need saving. Thus, using her great-grandmother as her example, she stepped forward to address the now cowering reporter.

  “Might I amend Detective Joplin’s statement?” At the man’s shaky nod, she continued. “If you were here to see that I got to my hotel safely, then I applaud your enterprising way of achieving that goal. If you have any other intent in arriving here or anywhere else I might be, unannounced and uninvited, then I assure you that you will be sorry with the results of your choice.”

  Blake looked past her, presumably to Isaiah. “These English women are something, aren’t they?”

  “That one is,” her fellow detective said. “If I were you, I’d heed her warning—and mine—and make yourself scarce.”

  “Or at least bring us some concrete facts to work on,” she said. “Do you happen to have any?”

  “I might,” he told her, his chin jutting out just so. “Nothing I care to share with you now, but perhaps once I have more evidence.”

  “You do that,” Isaiah said with unmistakable sarcasm. “In the meantime, let us do our jobs.”

  “Rest assured,” Blake said with venom in his voice, “while you are doing yours, I will be doing mine.”

  Chapter 6

  Austin Police Headquarters

  December 22, 1885

  Though Ike agreed to meet Annie at the Austin Police Department’s offices the next morning at half past nine, he set off a full hour before that. As he stepped inside the police station, he saw the Englishwoman hunched over a pile of papers at the desk where the watch sergeant generally sat.

  She looked up as he approached. Her dress today was golden yellow sprigged with tiny red flowers and featured a prim neckline that gave the impression of a schoolteacher rather than a Pinkerton detective.

  An absolutely breathtaking Pinkerton detective.

  Ike shook off the thought. There would be no covert kisses in the police station. No flirting. Not when they were working.

  Last night he’d come dangerously close to crossing the line between being professional and acting on his personal feelings, and he’d had most of a sleepless night to consider it. Today he would behave like a professional even if he felt like a lovesick fool on the inside.

  Or at least he would try.

  “Good morning, Isaiah,” Annie said with the slightest hint of a smile. “I didn’t expect you just yet.”

  “Good morning to you.” He moved a chair over to take a seat across from her. “Looks like you had the same idea of arriving early that I had.”

  “I couldn’t sleep, and breakfast at the hotel isn’t exactly my favorite. So after two cups of coffee and a poor attempt at finishing the report to the captain on the case I just completed, I decided to put my energy to work by coming down here to read through the reports.”

  He looked down at the papers littering the sergeant’s desk. “Have you found anything interesting?”

  “It’s all interesting.” Annie gestured to the page open in front of her. “Though the reports vary on the details, if you look at the big picture, there is no doubt one person is behind these killings.”

  Ike nodded. He’d heard enough and read enough about the case to come to the same conclusion. But it was good to have that conclusion confirmed by someone whose opinion he valued.

  “So we’re working off the theory that we have one assassin,” he said. “But who is he?”

  Her smile rose. “Ah, that is where it gets really interesting. There are so many possibilities. It could be anyone at this point.”

  “Why are you smiling?”

  She closed the file in front of her. “Because I now know where to start.”

  “At the beginning?” he offered.

  “If you mean by visiting the scene of the first crime, then yes,” she told him. “I propose that we take a walking tour of the locations of each of these crimes in order of their occurrence. I want to get into this man’s mind.”

  “So you’re determined it’s a man?” he said.

  “Fairly.” She paused. “Aren’t you?”

  “Based on the strength that would be required to wield an ax in the way the killer used it, yes. I think that speaks to a strength that only a male would possess. If this is a woman, she is an exceptionally strong one.”

  “Agreed.” Annie looked down at the desk and then back up at Ike. “That means our first stop is the Hall residence on Pecan Street.” She rose and waved to the sergeant who had been watching them from the other side of the room. “If you don’t mind, I would like to leave these here to look at later. Perhaps another day.”

  He nodded. “I’ll let the boss know.”

/>   “Thank you.” Annie rose and gathered up her hat and cloak. “And give him my thanks as well. This information has been most helpful.” She returned her attention to Ike, then frowned. “What am I thinking? I haven’t given you any time to go over the records yourself.”

  “I can catch up later. I would rather do the fieldwork first and let you fill in the blanks with what you’ve learned this morning.” He nodded to the door. “After you, Detective.”

  They walked the short distance to the Hall home on Pecan Street. “All right, Detective,” Ike said. “Tell me what you know about the first murder.”

  “The date was New Year’s Eve 1884 in the early morning hours. The victim was Mollie Smith, approximately twenty-three and a cook and maid for the Hall family. She was described as a hard worker and was well liked by the family. Also injured that night but not killed was Mollie’s paramour, a laborer at a brickyard named Walter Spencer. It was Spencer who alerted the guests staying in the Halls’ home that a crime had occurred.”

  Ike took in the size of the home, the double chimneys and wide expanse of porch, with its surrounding picket fence that marked it as one of the nicer dwellings in the city. Then he looked down at Annie.

  “That would be Tom Chalmers, brother-in-law to the Halls, who was a guest in the home along with his wife while the owners were away.” At Annie’s look of surprise, Ike continued. “Tom and my father served in the Rangers together. When all of this happened, I heard about his part in the events of that night from my father. It was a fearsome cold night. The sky was spitting ice and snow after a norther had blown through. Last thing old Tom wanted to do was get out in that mess. He told Walter to solve his problems without asking for intervention—he had no idea Mollie was lying dead in the yard—and let him go back to bed.”

  “I’m sure he later regretted that,” Annie offered.

  “He might have, though if he did, he didn’t mention it to my father,” Ike said.

  “He could have saved his own life. If the killer was still out there with Mollie, Tom might have walked into something he wouldn’t have survived.”