by John Mead
“He looks after me and has tried to dissuade me but I have been in the cage of my skirts for too long and wish to escape,” Kitty explained, then drawing breath as there was something in Martha’s disdain for her that gave her strength. “I will part from him tonight, cut my hair and renounce my dresses and female finery for a better life. I travel to Canada with Barty to start a new life.” Martha made no response as Barty, now the figure of a finely built young man dressed in trousers and shirt, joined them; his nose no longer bleeding but he held the bloody kerchief to his face as a precaution.
“It is money we need,” Barty explained as he took a seat at the table, Kitty going to stand beside him, “we wait to ask if Mr Stevens will loan us a stake.”
“It is a liberty I know,” Kitty jumped in, seeing Martha frown, “and we can cover the fare by boat or train but need something to get us started. We will look to travel a while then find a business to open perhaps a clothing shop or dry goods.”
“Such plans,” Martha could not think of anything to say, how Jack spent his money she cared not one jot.
“Bartholomew’s a good man, aren’t you Barty lad?” Kitty went on trying to lighten the mood, still yet far from trusting Martha as she was afraid that if Jack’s wife left now and sent word to Hank they could be still be stopped. “He is a loving and trusting sort, so our being partners makes sense as we give each other cover and the lie to our true natures.”
“How much do you need?” Martha’s tone was still far from friendly but neither was it one of disgust as many might have felt, she understood the woman’s need to be able to act more freely as it was her own skirts that stopped her from roaming the streets and bars to hunt for Minsky and Jack.
“No great sum, I would not presume on our friendship,” Kitty said, determined to run the moment when Martha left, not daring to risk being caught by her brother. “Two or three hundred, or less, whatever Jack thinks.”
“I will give you five hundred if you both help me find Jack tonight,” Martha told them. “You are right in as much that two men will be able to go where I cannot and where it might be dangerous for only one to go.”
“You have that sort of money?” Barty spoke up, disbelieving that anyone he knew could have such a sum to hand.
“I will go to my son at breakfast, such an amount means little to him and he will not ask why I want it, so you can leave first thing,” Martha smiled, holding out her hand. “Is it a deal?”
They tried a number of places, starting with the River Bar before Kitty began to realise that Jack may have gone to the one place she had thought the least likely, Ruby’s. The driver flatly refused to go that close to Black Hawk territory at that time of night and neither Barty nor Kitty thought it safe to go on foot. Martha told them all plainly they were a disgrace to their sex and she would go on her own if need be; the irony of addressing Kit with these words escaping her in her annoyance and frustration. Barty was in the process of telling them all that he would go and do so on his own when the sounds of an oddly groaning melody reached their ears.
“Cockles and mussels alive, a lively oh!” Jack lurching, in parody of a man sauntering along at his leisure, along the side street in which the cab had halted, whilst alternately taking swigs from a near empty bottle and singing catches of the song he regularly heard at the River Bar but could only remember one line of and that not with any accuracy. “Why Martha?” Jack stated in surprise as his wife stepped from the cab in front of him. “Kitty! Or Kit as is,” Jack waved his bottle, looking confused by what he saw, wondering if he was dreaming. “Barty! Old man, you make up the full set: king, queen and knave,” Jack laughed inordinately at his own joke, repeating it and snatches of song as his three companions waited in stony silence.
Day Twelve – Saturday April 26th 1886
Jack awoke the next day with the feeling he had lain, without sleep, on a bed of rocks. He ached from head to toe, was bathed in sweat, exhausted and in desperate need of a drop to bring him too his senses and alleviate his woes. As he struggled out of the bed and into the parlour, he found Kitty, still dressed as Kit, and Bartholomew sat at the table with a sailor’s knapsack and a suitcase stood by the door.
“I had the strangest of dreams,” he informed them both, slumping into the only other chair in the room.
“It was no dream, Jack.” Kitty informed him, doffing her hat to show him her neatly barbered hair.
“Dear God in Heaven,” Jack blasphemed, incredulous at the sight, Kitty’s masculine haircut making her look like a man in his thirties, now even without make up to darken her chin she could pass down a street in broad daylight.
“Martha went with me and paid the barber a fortune to cut it in the latest of mens’ fashion,” Kitty explained. “Even then I thought he might stab us with his scissors, cursing us both under his breath for having unnatural desires. Martha, however, was fierce enough to cower him, stating, in no uncertain terms, ‘if she wanted her friend to pass as a man it was no business of his’. Afterwards we went to my place to collect the few things I’d need,” she nodded to the suitcase. “Then I dropped her at your son’s house and returned here. Barty has collected and returned with his things whilst I kept watch on you. Martha will be with us in a short while.”
“My son’s?” Jack pondered, trying to make sense of what he heard.
“For money, your wife has promised us a grub stake,” Kitty told him, sighing slightly so that Jack would know she was sad at what she now told him. “Barty and I leave today for Canada, to make new lives for ourselves.”
Jack sat for a long time in thought, then perplexed Kitty by asking, “You knew John Wesley Blackstaff tolerably well, isn’t that what you told me? And about these tarot card things?” Jack had recollected the conversation but not when it took place, it coming to his mind at that point must, he thought, mean something.
“Yes, tarot cards. An old colored woman read my future with them,” Kitty, having expected Jack would raise objections to her leaving, was not happy to be asked such an odd question.
“And these cards are special to coloreds?”
“To many types of people, of many races and stations in life, many that pray for guidance from God still want to divine their future if they are able,” Kitty told him, realising Jack was not going to try and stop her from leaving, it not only confirmed she did the right thing but also how little she really meant to him.
“How? What do the pictures mean?”
“The compass means ‘good fortune ahead’,” Barty put in but could add no more, he never fully understood the working of the cards.
“Two people hung the wrong way up,” Jack wanted to know, ignoring the Canadian, “what does that mean?”
“‘The Hanging Man’,” Kitty corrected Jack. “A man hung by his ankle with his other leg crossing, like an upside down four. It is the symbol for treachery; treasonous actions by or against you, someone will lie to you or deceive you. Why?”
“And, John Wesley knows about this code?”
“He knows how tarot cards work, we spoke about them when I was in his office,” Kitty told him. “Jaunty, who was acting as my protector for the day, made fun of it afterwards, ‘only a darky could be so superstitious,’ he said. But, I know plenty of all types that heed the cards.”
“Does it denote anything different if it is a woman that is hung so?” Jack asked, interrupting Kitty’s recollections.
“Not that I know,” Kitty despaired at Jack’s addled thoughts to bring up such a matter at this time. “My old maid once said that female slaves where whipped so if they displeased their masters. Her mother had been a slave, had been brought over on the ships as a child and had told how she remembered her mother being hung upside down and beaten. She learned later that women were beaten if they did not lie willingly with their masters when required; on the ships the sailors would hang them by their ankles, thereby weakening their legs and adding to
the agony of being whipped.”
Jack remained silent, the other two watching the minutes tick by on Kit’s pocket watch, until, not long after, Martha returned. Thinking that Kitty was more likely to be recognised at the docks, the pair instead departed from the train station. Martha, despite being tired, said that she and Jack should return home, freshen up, eat and then visit Mr and Mrs Hugh Partkis; it would be wrong not to do so, now that Beatrice had been publicly declare dead.
Intruding on others grief is never easy, no matter if socially correct to do so. Banjo, another of Jack and Hugh’s old war buddy’s was leaving as they arrived; a tall, lean man whose normally sunny disposition was clouded over, his only acknowledgement of Jack and his wife being a stern nod.
Hugh paced the rooms of the small house telling Jack there would be a retribution, that there would be payment for Beatrice’s death. After a short while Jack stopped trying to engage the distraught father and left him to his anger and grief and joined the women. The younger daughter served coffee and cakes whilst speaking of the funeral arrangements. Mrs Partkis was swathed, as was much of the house, in black crepe she said little and when she did speak between sobs it was only in the lightest of whispers. Jack could not make out what she said but the other two women both spoke as if they did, offering some uplifting quote from the bible or a sympathetic word, whilst Jack held his tongue not knowing what to say.
Jack was equally silent over dinner, which suited Martha as she was tired and it had been a trying day, she had no intention too attempt to further clear the air between them, as to do so now would be a mistake. Martha retired early whilst Jack sat and mused over everything, trying to put the puzzle pieces, that floated in his mind, together in a way that made sense. Eventually, as the sips of whiskey he took became fewer and he started to doze before the guttering fire, he determined with absolute certainty two things.
Firstly, Jack must find a solution to Mrs O’Shea’s disappearance before Boat went in all guns blazing. And, secondly, he needed to speak with Inspector O’Leary about his suspicions that John Wesley Blackstaff was the killer of his own sister and Mary Walsh: the flask, the man’s knowledge of Ruby’s and what the women did there, how the pair were killed all suggested JW was the killer. The brother would consider the pair traitors; they were traitors to the Knights of Labour, on whom they jointly spied, and to their own sex for their actions at Ruby’s.
Jack slept soundly in the chair, only the tugging at his right ankle by the cold hand of some unseen dread finally waking him just after dawn as the servants began to stir.
Day Thirteen – Sunday April 27th 1886
Jack had not used his cane to walk with since storming out of the house the day before last, the swelling had gone and he walked much as normal, but still it gave him a twinge every so often, especially now having spent the night asleep in a chair. He had washed, changed and started to eat breakfast before Martha stirred and he had a tray sent up to her, that she might rest a while longer. A note had been delivered for him and, as he ate breakfast, he was mulling over the message, coldly giving thought to the implications of what it required him to do and how this might fit with his plans, when there was a knock at the door. A tired looking Sergeant Magnuson was shown into him by a concerned Hortense, who had been told by the sergeant he must speak urgently with Mr and Mrs Stevens.
“I apologise for interrupting your breakfast,” Magnuson began having removed his hat and, still standing, looking much like an errant schoolboy before the senior master, “but we have found a body.” Hortense in the process of closing the door behind her gasped and stopped, her shocked curiosity overcoming her sense of propriety in acting as a servant, “We believe it to be the diamond thief.”
“Is there any doubt?” Jack asked between mouthfuls, noticing Hortense’s reluctance to move from the doorway and scowling at her.
“The body was taken from the water late yesterday, it had been caught between two barges and had probably been there a few days,” the sergeant explained. “There were no papers on him so only his height and general features have led us to believe it is the thief, Minsky.”
“Hortense, stop dallying there and go to your mistress, ask her to come down as Sergeant Magnuson is here,” Jack instructed, “but say nothing of what you have heard.” When, some minutes later Martha entered the room in her night attire covered by a robe and followed by Hortense, the sergeant had been given a seat at the table and was hungrily devouring the ham and eggs Jack had served him from the tray.
“We await fresh coffee,” Jack explained, rising to help Martha to sit before she started to ask questions. “The sergeant is here to tell us of yet another death, they believe it is your erstwhile friend, Minsky.”
Martha took a deep breath, lowering then raising her head before saying, “I see, I had already feared the worst.” There was pause enough for Hortense to rush back from the kitchen with a fresh pot of coffee and to begin serving it, slowly, so she would not miss anything of the dramatic tale.
“From the description Mr Stevens has given us of what Mr Minsky wore when delivering the message to you at the O’Shea’s ball,” the sergeant went on, pausing in his much needed meal, “it would confirm both that he is the deceased and that he was drowned the same day or the day after the ball.”
“He was drowned,” Martha was aghast at the thought.
“We believe he was put unconscious into the water, there are marks to his head that suggest this though we can’t be certain…”
“The sergeant,’ Jack interrupted, noticing his wife turn pale at the detail of the sergeant’s answer, “has told me he was found near the bend in the southern branch, late yesterday. Obviously they are trying to work out who might have done this and he is here to ask if we know the names of any of his acquaintances.”
“That is correct, Mr Stevens,” the sergeant realising he had said too much in the presence of a lady, confirmed.
“There was only one name he mentioned, Black Rube,” Martha stated, confused and shocked she could not remember what she had already told the police and, for the moment, she was done with the tangle of lies and deceit.
“A dangerous fellow,” the sergeant informed them and not thinking of anything else to say looked at Jack for any further information as Martha had fallen into a reverie.
“I believe,” Jack went on, “he had only returned to Chicago a little while ago and was keeping himself away from his old friends, his meeting with Mrs Stevens being the exception. Given what we now know that meeting is suspicious and I doubt if it was accidental on his part.” Martha glared at Jack but said nothing. “You might have more luck asking Brandon O’Shea about those Minsky used to consort with, perhaps he was unlucky enough to run into an old enemy.”
“The inspector is with O’Shea as we speak,” the sergeant informed them, rising to go.
“No,” Jack stopped him, “finish your meal, ‘Eat when you can’ is my motto. But, you will excuse us as we must get ready for church.”
Martha did not have to ask what errands Jack had so urgently needed to run after church, on his return after midday, she could smell the drink on his breath. Fortunately, his grandchildren didn’t seem to notice as he played soldiers with them, little Harland advancing his lead troops towards his grandfather’s cannon whilst Sarah sat beside him trying to intrude one of her dollies upon the game, or as Jack told Abby and Martha, “At last the much needed reserves, the ‘little fillies’ come to the rescue of the beleaguered cannon which fall under the mighty onslaught of Major General Harland Jackson Jacob DeWert’s gallant men.”
Despite the gaiety of the family dinner both Martha and Jack were subdued as they were driven home in the carriage Jack had hired for the day, the long package he had placed under the seat before they had left in the morning unheeded. A young, uniformed police officer waited for them on their doorstep.
“What now?” Martha sighed, tired and e
xasperated. “What more can they want to know about poor Ibrahim?”
“Perhaps they have found the diamonds?” Jack wondered as they pulled to a stop and Gideon, their man-of-all-works, who had obviously been keeping a discreet eye out for their return, hurried to open their carriage door. “The sergeant was reticent to talk about them this morning.”
“Tell the inspector I will be there shortly,” Jack informed the young copper after a brief conversation, then turning to Gideon, “Have the carriage wait and take the package under the seat up to my study.”
“What is it now?” Martha irritably demanded her nerves drawn bow tight. “Haven’t they questioned us enough that they must summon you to answer for Minsky?”
“It isn’t about Minsky that they wish to consult with me,” Jack took her hands and led her to a chair, seeing her seated before continuing. “There has been another murder, this time it is Brandon, he has been shot and killed.” Martha could not comprehend his words at first, but stared up at him, her face blank. “Four deaths in almost as many days, it is a terrible thing. They are obviously linked, Brandon, Nina, Beatrice and Minsky, and the motive would seem to be the diamonds but O’Leary wants to discuss with me how Brandon was shot.”
“Why? Why you, Jack?” Martha suddenly asked as her brain finally managed to absorb and piece together what she was being told.
“To be honest I don’t exactly know,” Jack confided, “but the message referred to Brandon being shot with a rifle and the killer has escaped so I fear they suspect Boat.”
“It is no great shot,” Jack informed the inspector as he peered over the roof ledge down the street to the front of O’Shea’s hotel, “but would have taken a steady hand.”
“Really? That is an insight we would not have gleaned without your expertise,” O’Leary, having missed a meal or two and after only having had a few hours sleep between the finding of Minsky and now Brandon’s killing, could be excused the sarcastic response.
