by John Mead
“Whatever her background and intent,” Pinky said, helping himself to another glass of Jack’s whiskey, “the risk she took in going to Ruby’s was too great, WP had too much faith in her abilities and gave her too great a freedom of action.”
“As performers they are likely to have been safe enough, it also gave them better access to the staff and won their confidence more easily,” Jack pointed out.
“Undressing in front of so many voyeurs, must have required courage, especially for the the daughter of a minister,” Cage surmised. “Although, in reality, they were protected from any unwanted advances and, in their innocence as unmarried young woman, to kiss and caress each other may have seemed a trivial thing. It certainly would not have raised any passion in them that might have have been lasciviously dangerous had a man been involved. Though it is not how they gained entrance to Ruby’s that should concern us but what they discovered, or they were thought to have discovered, that should lead us to their killer.”
“On that we are no further forward,” Jack pointed out, he was waiting for the whiskey decanter to reach Cage, who sat closest to him, before making a bid to claim it. “If you have Ruben under lock and key perhaps you will sweat the answer out of him.”
“I don’t have him under lock and key anymore, they were all released yesterday.”
“The heat was turned up, I expect,” Pinky grinned at the inspector’s predicament, though he felt sorry for the officer, O’Leary could not have expected anything else to have resulted from the raid.
“Inevitably my unauthorised actions annoyed my superiors, both the innocent and corrupt,” Cage explained, laughing at himself for the situation he had gotten himself in. “I barely had them in the cells before a judge was lined up to release them. I held Ruben, or whatever his real name is, for as long as I could before letting him go although he said nary a word the entire time we had him. None believe my story that I, like those with me, was responding to the emergency call; at least the others will be given the benefit of the doubt as they acted on my orders.”
“If you are kicked out,” Pinky said, “our agency would take you in like a shot, the office has talked about nothing else today other than your raid.”
“And,” Pug chimed in, “the pay would be double what you currently receive.”
“You should take the offer and resign,” Jack watched the decanter as Cage helped himself to another.
“Perhaps,” Cage smiled, sphinx like, “but when I released Ruby’s manager I had hints dropped that he had talked, not least about the boxes of guns and sticks of dynamite we found. What is more, I have set officers to watch both entrances to Ruby’s as well as follow the manager and other members of the Black Hawks. If I keep stirring the pot something will jump out, either the killer or something leading us to him.” Jack had stood as Cage talked and, ignoring the shooting pain in his leg, secured the decanter.
“Jack! How could you?” Martha’s reprimand, catching him with a half-filled glass and decanter in hand. “The doctor said, ‘sleep, no alcohol and plain food,’ and you three sit by and allow him to act so foolishly.” The Pinkerton’s and Chicago’s finest beat a hasty retreat under Martha’s polite but insistent goodbyes, which made it clear they had outstayed their welcome. Jack, at least, had the satisfaction of downing the half-glass he had managed to pour, though the nausea and dizziness he felt afterwards he put down to his tiredness and the pain in his leg.
Day Seven – Monday April 21st 1886
The funeral of a young person or child always seems more poignant, as in old age death is expected, and to watch parents bury a child, even an older one, is particularly sad. The funeral of Miss Philomena Blackstaff was no different. The father, Reverend Blackstaff, tried to look dignified and comforted by his spiritual beliefs, though for much of the service, which he did not officiate at, he looked frail, broken and without hope. The mother, Mrs Blackstaff, was blank and unresponsive, like some automaton, so deeply had she fallen into her grief she could not feel nor comprehend what was happening. Whilst the brother, Mr J W Blackstaff, did his best to bear the burden his parents could not shoulder and listened to the condolences and thanked those present for their kind words. Although his eyes flashed angrily every time he caught sight of Inspector O’Leary, the sergeant and Jack Stevens, leaning heavily on his stick, standing at the rear of the crowd.
The sergeant, Magnus Magnuson, with shining blond hair, bushy beard and blue eyes that sparkled with vitality, could not in his youth, fully comprehend the depth of pain the family felt, but smilingly offered his condolences, nodding as if to assure them of his intentions to ensure the killer brought to justice. Inspector O’Leary was more direct, grimly assuring all three that the police would use all at their disposal to bring the deceased justice and that he would work tirelessly in helping to do so.
“I can offer you nothing that will replace the light and love you have lost,” Jack told the parents, “I hope through prayer you will find some comfort and understanding.”
“I pray for the soul of the man that did this, for his soul is the black of hell,” the reverend told him in a voice that was only a feint echo of its former self. “My daughter marches at God’s right hand under his benevolent gaze.”
“Amen,” Jack and the preacher’s wife both whispered in response.
“I will not rest,” Jack stated more firmly, having moved on to the brother and shaking his hand whilst he looked him steadily in the eye, “until those responsible are brought to the noose. Whoever they are, they shall pay for this crime.” There could be no doubting the absolute assurance of his words.
“The orchestra is easily as good as Lounsbury’s,” Abigail enthused, ensuring her father was settled in the O’Shea’s downstairs parlour, which had been cleared of its usual furniture so it could be used as a recital room for the various singers and pianists the O’Shea’s had retained. “Are you fine? Mother will be along shortly.” Jack told her he was quite content to sit and listen to the recitals, sipping his champagne, along with the others who had no inclination or ability to dance. Stevens smiled, as Abby left him, despite being the mother of two, at times like this she still seemed a young girl eager to join in the quadrille that the orchestra was playing.
The O’Shea’s house was large with a ballroom down one side of the first floor, with a number of french doors that opened out onto the garden allowing the cool spring breeze to waft in; the scent of the early blooms mingling with the pomades and perfumes of the men and women present. Opposite was a large dining room where, those who needed refreshment, could find liquor or cold food, there was also a billiard room, its door shut as Mr O’Shea and Andrew competed with the elder McCormick and his son. The kitchen ran along the outer side wall with a short corridor to link it to the large entrance hall which was a bustle of servants and guests, crossing from one activity to another.
“Sitting this one out?” Mrs O’Shea asked taking the seat beside Jack. Three or four matrons who were trying to engage her in conversation followed her into the room but Mrs O’Shea, seating herself next to Jack in a solitary chair at the rear, left them floundering.
“I like to dance,” Jack ruminated, still with an ear to the singer’s reasonable attempts to execute, ‘Where my Love lies Dreaming’. “I cut quite the figure in a cotillion and when I was sheriff I was known for my square dancing as much as my waltzing.”
“Really, Jack, I had no idea you were noted for your terpsichorean ability,” Mrs O’Shea’s tone showed not the slightest hint of sarcasm or disbelief at Jack’s statement. “I am certain Kitty will regret missing seeing you perform, perhaps even to waltz with you.”
“A touch of gout, brought on by old age will keep me from the floor tonight, I am afraid,” Jack lightly touched his aching left leg with his stick, ignoring Mrs O’Shea’s comment about the absent Kitty.
“Gout?” Mrs O’Shea observed, her tone now sympathetic. “
I should seek a second opinion, if I were you, bruising about the head is not a symptom of gout that I recognise.”
“It is Canadian gout,” Jack informed her solemnly. “It causes the swelling of the head as well as the leg.”
“Really, I am sorry to hear it. Though it relieves me to know that the rumours that you had been half-seas-over and had fallen down the stairs of a brothel are unfounded. Your dear wife must be so relived to avoid yet another scandal,” Mrs O’Shea stated with considerable compassion.
“Nina,” Jack said, finishing his champagne, “you should not bait me whilst I have a stick in my hand.”
“So charming to talk to you again, dear Jack,” Nina told him, “but I must circulate amongst my guests, if there is anything more I can get for you, given your decrepitude confining you to your chair?”
“That is most kind of you,” Jack said with a cordial smile, “so few woman these days pay heed to the needs of their elders and betters. More champagne, would not be amiss, and a request for the singer, if she knows ‘San Antonio Rose’ it is an old favourite of mine.”
Nina was as good as her word, sending a servant in with more drink and asked for his song to be sung, but the singer not knowing the words agreed that ‘Wait for the Wagon’ would do instead. Jack, having given his word to Martha to keep off whiskey and other strong drafts, at least until he was recovered, was happily making do with beer and champagne as both lifted his spirits and were refreshing to his palate. He had never been partial to city water and the scare last August, after a particularly violent storm, that the town’s sewerage had once again flooded the drinking water he had sworn off it for ever; unless boiled for his coffee. Like many of the wealthier Chicagoans he had quit the city for a few weeks to ‘summer’ further south along the river but he had heard rumours that many had died, amongst the poor, of cholera. Fortunately no one he actually knew had contracted the disease but he heard innumerable tales in the bars on his return.
Fellows, the O’Sheas’ English butler, brought over from London many years previous, gently shook Jack awake from his reverie.“I am sorry to disturb your concentration on the entertainment, Mr Stevens, but your wife has asked for you,” he stated in the clipped tones of the Queen’s English.
“What?” Jack asked, puzzled by how he had missed the end of ‘Wait for the Wagon’ and there now seemed to be a pianist in place of the singer giving the audience a spirited rendition of ‘Camptown Races’.
“Mrs Stevens, sir, has asked to speak with you in the drawing room upstairs, she has received a communication of a private nature which she has found upsetting,” Fellows explained as he helped Jack to his feet, across the hall and up the stairs, making Jack feel like an elderly invalid but as he was feeling dizzy, from having sat so long in the stuffy recital room, he readily accepted the butler’s solicitous support.
“I am so sorry to trouble you,” Martha said to the pair as she met them at the top of the stairs, “but it was quite a shock,” she explained, starting to usher them both back down. “But I am fully recovered and we should return to the party, it is really nothing to worry you about.”
“What?” Jack grimaced as he spoke, his leg had stiffened as he rested and the sudden climb up the stairs had caused his knee to protest painfully.
“It is nothing,” Martha stated, a little irritably at Jack’s lack of compliance, “simply a message from a friend that her daughter, who is with child, has been taken ill. Silly of me to be so affected but I only spoke to her recently and she was so happy at the prospect of her first grandchild.”
“I’ll come down at my own pace,” Jack informed the butler and Martha.
“Should I have your carriage brought up, Mrs Stevens?” Fellows asked, sounding genuinely concerned at events.
“No thank you,” Martha replied. “My friend has gone to her daughter’s bedside and there is nothing I can do.”
“Very well, ma’am. The gentlemen who brought the message, does he wait below?”
“I sent him away,” Martha explained. “Please do not let me detain you further from your duties, my husband and I can manage now. And, thank you once more,” she said slipping two dollars into his hand, “you are truly a gentleman of the first water.”
“Thank you, Mrs Stevens,” the butler smiled and left her, passing back through the hall, checking that the small knots of guests had drinks and the servants circulating amongst them were doing so with a purposeful air.
Jack had only been to the second floor of the house once before, having been invited up to Brandon O’Shea’s study, his inner sanctum, and knew he had an excellent whiskey there. So Jack tried the door as the champagne had obviously upset his stomach and he needed something to calm himself and clear his head. Unfortunately, the door was locked and, cursing his luck, he turned to go back downstairs as he did he thought he heard a thud from the floor above. He knew there were only bedrooms up there but wondered if a servant had dropped something heavy.
Minsky was feeling inordinately pleased with himself, he had purchased a set of secondhand clothes that he thought a man of the working classes might wear when out and, ensuring he had a large cap which obscured his face, had made his way to the O’Shea’s front door. His disguise was helped by the fact that the young men, members of the Dead Hands, standing guard at the door and the butler who met him were all tall and, therefore, tended to look down on his cap rather than his face. He had met Fellows before but the normally astute butler did not recognise him nor his feigned New York accent. Martha had done her part, acting upset at the news Minsky had brought, and having the two men escort her to somewhere private, inevitably that being on the second floor, then asking Fellows to fetch her husband whilst dismissing the fake messenger. Minsky, however, as planned had gone to the third floor and Mrs O’Shea’s bedroom, it was locked but easily forced.
Once in the bedroom, Minsky had lit the small bullseye lamp he had brought tucked inside his jacket, and quickly located the safe hidden inside a false cupboard built to hide it. He had struggled with getting the heavy mattress off the bed and covering the safe, realising too late this might have been better done after he had set in place the nitroglycerine, just three drops from the small vial he cautiously carried in his breast pocket. However, he managed to do this and fit the small percussion detonator over the lock, setting the clockwork mechanism going and pushing the mattress back in position. Having only thirty seconds before the detonation he rushed to shelter in the wardrobe at the other end of the room.
Having reached a count of fifty he stuck his head out wondering if the mechanism had jammed, it would be just his luck to pull back the mattress and have the safe blow up in his face. However the slight smell of burning sent him rushing back across the room. He pulled the heavy mattress, which was smouldering on the inner side from the small blast, and sent it toppling, with a crash, to the floor. Momentarily annoyed that he had made enough noise to alert the household by dropping the mattress, he was pleased at having achieved an almost silent opening of the safe, its lock mechanism destroyed by the small but powerful blast. The boxes containing the jewellery were all damaged but he emptied them out into the long, thin bag Martha had sown for him.
The gems glittered in the light of his lamp, the slithers of blue-white light making him laugh to himself at the riches they implied. Two large necklaces, four earrings, three bracelets, three brooches and six rings, went inside the bag which he then tied around his waist and under his shirt, but the tiara was unexpected and, for a moment, stumped him as he did not want to break it to secure it in his bag. Then he hit on the idea of putting it around his upper arm and squeezing it tightly in place, the silver of its mounting being pliable enough not to snap.
With his jacket back on he made his way downstairs to the second floor, where he could hear the strains of a waltz from the ballroom. In their planning he and Martha had decided it would be dangerous for him to leave by the front
door as he would look out of place in his street clothes amongst the guests in their formal wear and the servants in their uniforms. Instead he went into the small dining room on the second floor, which though called the breakfast room was used for the family’s more informal meals, opened a window and climbed out onto the kitchen roof and, from there, down onto a water barrel and the safety of the dark, crescent-moon lit garden. Careful to avoid the couples walking the paths and standing in darkened corners, and the occasional guard, he crept from bush to bush until he found a tree that allowed him to clamber over the wall.
He was surprised to see, on checking his watch he had been less then forty minutes, from starting up the drive until dropping into the alleyway outside the rear of the extensive gardens. It had felt like hours and he was sweating profusely but now the weight of the world had lifted from him and his step was light and smile broad as he sauntered out onto the main road, a quite if unlit residential street. A few steps further on he broke into a whistle, an echo of the waltz he had heard earlier, unaware of a large, broad shouldered shadow tracing his steps.
Day Eight – Tuesday April 22nd 1886
They were awoken early by Gideon, their colored man-of-all-works who was a very early riser, knocking on their bedroom door.
“What?” a bleary headed Jack called out. They had not left the ball late yesterday, Martha had seemed unnerved after receiving her message of ill-tidings whilst Jack’s leg and head had ached and left him feeling tired and more morose than normal.
The door opened the merest crack, allowing Gideon’s stage whisper to reach the couple without allowing him to see in the room, “There are two gentleman downstairs insisting on speaking with you, sir, a Mr Burke and a Mr O’Gail from the Pinkerton agency, sir.”
