The Black Midnight

by Kathleen Y'Barbo

  “Or he could have saved Mollie and possibly caught the killer before he struck again.”

  Annie shook her head. “All of that is conjecture. Tom couldn’t have known any of this on that night.”

  Ike nodded toward the alley. “Let’s go have a look at the scene of the crime.”

  Annie led him down the alley until they stopped at a small shanty situated in the back corner of the Hall property. “According to the police reports, the body wasn’t found here.”

  “If I remember right, she was found by a passerby over at Ravy’s Store a few blocks away.”

  “No, there was a call to the police station from Ravy’s,” Annie corrected, “but the body was actually found about here.” She indicated a spot a few feet away from what was obviously an outhouse. “A witness thought it was a dead animal until he got close enough to see his error. From here, he ran up to the store and requested a call be put in to the police. After an investigation, the murder weapon was determined to be an ax.”

  They stood in silence for a moment. Ike glanced around to get a feeling for what the killer would have encountered in his surroundings. Not that he could have actually seen anything in the pitch black of this alley. Unless he had a torch.

  All around him were the homes of successful Austinites, the backs of their properties littered with outbuildings and servants’ quarters. Most of the servants who inhabited these quarters were women, living either alone or with their children.

  Only a few had a male companion of some sort under the same roof. Mollie had, and it hadn’t saved her.

  “Do you see anything of note?” Ike asked her.

  “Nothing that wasn’t covered in the reports,” she said. “What about you?”

  He stepped into the center of the alley and looked both directions. “Unless he managed to climb over a whole lot of fences, the killer went one of two directions down this alley. Both empty out onto very public streets, but those streets would have been empty on a night like that.”

  “So whichever way he went, he likely went undetected.”

  Ike nodded. “Unless you need to see more of this place, I say we move on.”

  “No, I’ve seen enough.”

  “Tell me what you know about the second murder. There was a gap in time of several months, if I remember correctly.”

  Annie tucked an errant curl behind her ear and nodded. “The next murder happened on May 7, although there was an attack on two Swedish maids that has been attributed to the same person.”

  “But they survived,” Ike said.

  “Yes.” Annie turned around to leave the alley with Ike beside her. “The women survived the attack but saw nothing of value to investigators. The one interesting thing about this attack is that a silver watch belonging to one of the women turned up missing.”

  “From the condition of the deceased to the choice of weapon and time of day, the killing of Eliza Shelly bore a striking similarity to this one.”

  They walked in silence until they reached Cypress Street and the home of Dr. Lucien Johnson. Similar to the Hall home, the Johnson residence was indicative of the doctor’s social status and wealth. Also like the first crime scene, the second murder took place near the servants’ quarters in the dead of night. After a thorough examination of the scene, Ike and Annie moved on to East Linden Street, just across from the Scholz Garden.

  “Now we’re at May 27,” Annie told him. “Irene Cross is the victim this time. Same method of dispatching the victim. No viable description of the perpetrator.”

  They walked on, stopping at the locations of the August assault against Clara Dick and then, the murder of young Mary Ramey. “Mary was eleven when she was killed on the night of August 30,” Annie said when they’d surveyed the scene there. “Her mother, Rebecca, was wounded and could provide no help in identifying their attacker.”

  “He walked right past the servants’ quarters and killed that girl in the kitchen of the house where she and her mother were employed.” Isaiah let out a long breath. “This one was the most shocking to me.”

  “They were all shocking,” Annie said. “But yes, he did diverge from his usual methods here.”

  “He put the town on notice that no one was safe.”

  “Yes, well, isn’t that still the case?” She sighed. “Let’s move on, shall we?”

  They soon reached the next murder site and paused to look around. As with the others, there was nothing particularly remarkable about the well-kept home and gardens or the neighborhood that surrounded the abode. That in itself was one of the more frightening aspects of the crime spree.

  She turned her thoughts toward the specifics of the case. “This is the most recent killing, the murder of Gracie Vance.”

  “The incident where there were four persons in the servants’ quarters when the attacks began,” Ike offered, recalling the details he’d read about the September 28 murder in several of the Chicago newspapers and the letters his father and their housekeeper had written to him.

  “That’s right.” Annie glanced around the back of the Dunham residence and then returned her attention to him. “Orange Washington, Gracie’s beau, was present in the quarters as well as two other women, Lucinda Boddy and Patsy Gibson. All four were asleep when the attacks began. Orange was knocked senseless and eventually died from his injuries. Gracie was dragged a full hundred yards away from where she’d been sleeping.”

  “Unlike the other killings,” Ike said, “where death happened on the property and nearer to the place where the victim was sleeping.”

  “Correct,” Annie said.

  Ike thought a moment. “Could be he wanted privacy and he was afraid one of those three he’d just assaulted might gather their wits and come after him to try to save their friend. Whatever the reason, this indicates another departure from his previous crimes.”

  “That is possible. And yes, it does.” She paused. “Also, the police gave chase to a man who ran from the scene, but they lost him. There was no reliable description, only what I would call unreliable guesses, based on what I read.”

  “This case has been marked by plenty of those,” Ike said. “Starting with the voodoo rumor. Then there was the thought that there were packs of murdering men that descended on the city at night. I could go on, but I won’t. The politicians have been so desperate to make an arrest that they’ve pressed the police department into an untenable position. Not a single arrest they’ve made has stuck, and not one good description of our killer exists.”

  Annie nodded. “I got a taste of how the politicians feel about catching this man at the dinner last night. But let’s return our focus to Gracie Vance. There is one more thing that is remarkable about this particular murder. Remember the silver watch that was missing from the Swedish woman? It turned up on Gracie’s wrist.”

  Ike frowned. “I didn’t read that in the newspaper accounts.”

  “I suppose the police are holding this new information back from the press to discourage anyone who might want to copy the killer’s methods.”

  “It would be easy to dispatch a woman and blame it on the Midnight Assassin,” Annie said. “It’s possible that has already happened.”

  “Which may be why the man has added this new signature to his crimes. He doesn’t want anyone else getting away with blaming him for something he hasn’t done.”

  Ike lifted his hand to hail a cab. They’d strayed far afield of downtown, and they needed to sit down and compare notes on what to do next. There was only one place he knew of where privacy could be assured and a planning meeting would not be interrupted.

  Also, it was lunchtime.

  Chapter 7

  Isaiah lifted Annie into the cab and climbed in beside her. Her feet hurt and her head spun with all of the information she’d taken on today, so she was grateful for the respite from walking. Between the police reports she’d read and the experience of seeing each of the crime scenes in person, she was exhausted.

  “I don’t recognize that a
ddress,” Annie said when she heard Isaiah’s instructions to the driver.

  “No, I don’t suppose you would.” He shrugged. “Trust me, okay?”

  “All right, but only because I am too tired to argue right now,” she said warily. “Should I not?”

  He chuckled. “We’ve worked together enough. What do you think?”

  Annie spared him a sideways glance. “I think we need to get something straight, Isaiah.”

  “That sounds ominous,” he said. “But I agree. I’ve got something I need to say as well.”

  “You go first, then,” Annie told him, grateful for the brief reprieve.

  “All right.” He looked down at his hands then over at her. “It’s no secret that I’ve got feelings for you. You’re quite a woman, Annie Walters. But I can’t be letting those feelings get the best of me like I did last night. It was the governor’s wife who walked up on us without me knowing, but it could have been anyone. If I allowed something to happen to you because of a lapse in my attention…”

  Not at all what she expected he would say. But this did work with her plans to keep their relationship on a business-only level while they were working on this case.

  “I understand,” she said on an exhale of breath. “Business only. Neither of us wants our judgment called into question.”

  “We do not,” he said.

  “Then we are agreed.” She rested her hands atop one another on her lap and studied her gloves.

  “Good,” he said in a tone that unmistakably conveyed his relief.

  “Good,” she responded as she tried not to think about last night’s kiss that almost was. The kiss that now was an impossibility.

  The cab lurched to a stop in front of a well-kept home that looked very similar to the residences they had just visited. Isaiah helped her down and turned to pay the driver.

  “What is this place?” Annie asked when he joined her on the walkway that led to the front door.

  “This place is—”

  The door opened, and a lovely woman with red hair mixed with silver stepped out. She wore a dress that matched her green eyes, with a pin in the shape of the letter H holding a tartan scarf in shades of red and green around her neck. She studied them a moment until her lips turned up in a smile.

  “Ike, I expected ya might be here for lunch, but I didn’t think there would be a guest. Who’ve ya brought?” she called in a thick Irish brogue.

  “Annie is a friend, Miss Hattie. Can we make room for her at the table? I promise she won’t eat much.”

  “Don’t you be smart with me, Ike Joplin,” she said with a chuckle before turning to Annie. “Miss, you’re more than welcome here at our table. That lot you’ve arrived with, I’m not so certain about.”

  “Annie Walters,” Isaiah said, “please meet Miss Hattie. She’s been running things around here and taking care of my father and me for as long as I can remember. She’s also a decent cook.”

  There was no mistaking the admiration in the older woman’s eyes. And the mischief. Annie had been raised by a nanny with much the same qualities.

  “Get on with yourself,” Miss Hattie told him. “Welcome to the Joplin home,” she said to Annie.

  Isaiah grinned at the housekeeper and then escorted Annie inside. The home was every bit as lovely on the inside as she expected.

  And something smelled delicious.

  Annie’s stomach groaned. The coffee she had consumed in lieu of breakfast had not been enough, but she had been too busy focusing on the investigation to notice.

  Until now.

  Miss Hattie bustled past to disappear behind a door on the far side of the room. Annie followed Isaiah into a beautifully decorated dining room that had been set for one.

  “She was expecting you?” Annie asked him.

  A look Annie couldn’t quite decipher crossed Isaiah’s face. As quickly as it arrived, the look was gone.

  “No,” he said gruffly. “I’m not the one she’s hoping will show up.”

  A moment later, Miss Hattie bustled in with a tray containing two place settings of china to match the one already set up on the table, along with a pitcher of water and two glasses. “You two make yourself at home here, and I’ll be right back with lunch. It’s beef stew and soda bread. Nothing fancy, but it’ll fill you up.”

  After being served, Annie took her first bite of the sumptuously thick soup and suppressed a groan as she slathered butter on a thick slice of bread. “This is delicious.”

  “So you like it, then,” Miss Hattie said as she poured water into their goblets. “I’m pleased, indeed I am. The bread and the stew, they’re my mother’s recipes, and I’m proud to serve them, though I do not do them justice.”

  Miss Hattie cast a glance at the empty plate at the end of the table. Then she sighed and disappeared back into the kitchen.

  “Why the empty plate, Isaiah?” Annie asked.

  “It’s for my father,” he said. “She cooks him three meals a day and always sets a place for him at the table.”

  “Where is he?”

  Isaiah shrugged. “Hard to say. He’s not an easy man to explain. Best way I can describe him is unique. He, along with Miss Hattie, raised me after my mother died when I was a baby. I didn’t realize until I was almost grown that he was odd.”

  “Odd how, if I might ask?”

  “He gets preoccupied and loses track of time. Pop is a professor at the college, and he spends a lot of time there and out in the field doing his research.”

  “I suppose I can understand that. My father was an occasional lecturer on English history. He often got sidetracked, so perhaps it is a hazard of the profession. Why does she worry so? I could see it on her face.”

  “Because, from what I understand, she promised my mama she would take care of him, and she took that promise seriously. The rumor is he first asked Miss Hattie to marry him sometime around my second birthday, but she turned him down. Last I heard, he keeps asking and she keeps turning him down. Says if he can’t remember to sit down at the table and have at least one civilized meal a day, then he isn’t the sort of husband she wants.”

  Annie stifled a smile. “Well, I do see her point, but I’m very glad she cooked today. This stew is indeed delicious. My mother employed a cook who could make a stew that I thought couldn’t be beat, but I was wrong.”

  Isaiah looked up from his bowl of stew. “Tell me about your mother.”

  Her heart lurched. “Nothing much to tell, really. She’s a wife to my father, a mother to me. Just the usual.”

  “Nothing usual about that for me,” he told her.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s fine.” Isaiah paused to study her. “It’s just that I feel like you’re not comfortable talking about yourself. Or maybe it’s just your family that you don’t want to speak about.”

  The truth, but she did not wish to admit it.

  “Truly, I had a normal English upbringing in a normal English family. I have a sister, Beatrice, and no brothers. Papa is a history buff who occasionally spoke to classes at the university level, and Mama loves gardening and buying new hats. My parents are still very much alive and arguing daily over which of them will be allowed to complete the daily crossword puzzle in their morning newspaper.” She shrugged. “All very boring.”

  Except for her relation to the queen and the fact that she was brought up as a royal, albeit a minor one many, many steps removed from the throne. Which she would never mention if it could be avoided.

  And it would be.

  Isaiah lifted one dark brow. “I am always suspicious when someone tells me there’s nothing unusual to be found by looking any closer. They generally mean just the opposite.”

  “Which is what makes you such a good Pinkerton detective,” she said, schooling her features into a neutral expression. “Perhaps we should move the topic of discussion along and take up Pinkerton business. It is what we agreed to stick to.”

  It was her turn to lift a brow in his directio
n.

  “All right,” he said, holding up his hands as if in defeat. “Pinkerton business it is. You’ve seen the locations where the murders occurred and read the police reports. What are your thoughts?”

  “My immediate thought is that whoever this monster is, he must be well schooled in making a quiet entrance and exit. No one ever seems to hear him coming, and except for one occasion when men gave chase—an occasion on which no one has proved they were actually chasing the perpetrator—he has never been seen or heard leaving.”

  “Would you say he’s a career criminal or just sneaky?”

  “I’d say neither.” She gave consideration to whether a theory she had was worth any merit and determined that it might be. “A career criminal would have left a trail before now. There have been plenty of opportunities for law enforcement in other cities to step up and say that they too have had unsolved murders similar to these. None have done that.”

  “True,” Isaiah said.

  “As to sneaky?” She shrugged. “That’s an obvious yes, if the qualification is that one can go about undetected. But let’s consider this a moment. If this man—and as I have said before, I do believe it is a man, based on sheer size and strength required to do the crimes—wanted to merely kill undetected, he could have easily shot these people from a safe distance and disappeared off into the night. He did not do that.”

  “No, he didn’t. In every case, the victims saw their assailant. He just left most of them in a state where they could not describe him.”

  “And the others,” Annie added, “so befuddled over what they’d seen or so frightened that they could give only the most basic description. We’ve had hundreds of men arrested for this crime. We have living witnesses in the two Swedish maids. Yet the monster remains uncaught. It’s baffling.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me.” He sat back and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “I think this ability to remain undetected speaks to some level of planning instead of crimes of passion. Do you agree?”

  “I think so.” She paused. “To me, the big question is not how but why. Why does he do this? What compels an otherwise unremarkable man to commit such heinous crimes?”