by Joanne Dahme
Patrick was also silent as our carriage clipped past blocks along Broad Street, only slowing as we neared Broad and Vine. We passed the carriage manufacturer, the cigar manufacturer, the flour and grain depot, and the wagon works. It was only when we smelled the sweet aroma of baking bread puffing like smoke from the Vienna Model Bakery was Patrick roused.
“You must not say anything to the detective, Rose, about the letters. I will inform him.” His chin nearly rested on his chest. I had seen him address his men in the same manner.
“I won’t need to, Patrick. You will be there.” Why was he acting this way? If he didn’t think the letters had anything to do with Nellie’s death, then what harm was there in showing them? Except, as Charles had pointed out to Nellie—more questions.
The remark about Officer Russo nagged at me too. Pieces of my conversation with Officer Russo flashed through my mind. He had asked me if I knew of anyone who would want to hurt Nellie. I remembered shaking my head, although I was certain that I was not convincing. I knew I was a terrible liar.
Patrick pulled his hand away and leaned his back against the seat. “He didn’t say you told him anything specifically,” he replied, watching my face. “He implied that there was some doubt—on your part—in the things that you didn’t say.” The air in the carriage suddenly felt hot and stifling. “What were you trying to tell the policeman, Rose?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I replied, truly alarmed. “All that I am sure of is that Nellie’s death was a murder. What else would you have me say?” I retorted. “I will insist on justice for her.” I touched my forehead with the back of my hand. I didn’t want to do this now. We had just buried Nellie. “You left me in an awkward position, Patrick, not arriving home in time for the interview. I’m sure I sounded evasive, especially as I was insistent that Nellie’s death was not an accident.”
Patrick sat straight in his seat again, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Perhaps that is why he questioned me so ...”
“Surely he wasn’t rude, Patrick?” I asked. I wanted more than anything for Patrick to be cooperative.
He didn’t answer but instead turned to the window. We were turning onto Vine Street. Patrick liked to use the Lybrand Street entrance to his office. I watched a group of boys from Roman Catholic High School as they filled the sidewalk, wearing white shirts with collars, their sleeves pushed up to their elbows.Where were their coats, I couldn’t help but wonder. All held books in the crooks of their arms and playfully shoved one another—their sudden freedom was intoxicating. I envied their joy.
Julius pulled up to the entrance. I felt the familiar bounce of the carriage as he dismounted. Patrick’s door opened.
“We’re here, Mr. Dugan. What time should I return?” Julius asked. I could see that his thin shoulders were bowed under his sorrow. Julius loved Nellie too.
Patrick turned to me. “What time did the detective tell you, dear?” he asked pleasantly.
“Four o’clock, Patrick.” I smiled in gratitude.
“I will see you then.” He bent to give me a light kiss on the cheek, and I wondered anew how I could ever doubt him.
It was almost four o’clock. Just as I had on that cold, gray day three weeks ago, the day I had first visited the mausoleum, I sat in one of the armchairs facing the fireplace. The glowering coals were hypnotic. Martha had placed fresh coals in the hearth and had opened the drapes.
I was anxious about meeting the detective. What kind of man is he? A man to be trusted, unlike so many of the others who were recorded in Patrick’s ledger? I shook my head. That’s not fair, I berated myself. Patrick had told me in the past how the city government truly operates, greased by the money of its patrons. Of course, Patrick had never told me that he participated so heartily in such patronage. I liked to assume that he was above such ignominious practices.
I stood and began to pace around the room. As usual, I was drawn to the photographs of our parents. I suddenly ached for my mother’s embrace, feeling like a lonely and lost child. I picked up the portrait and held it to my breast. I realized with a jolt that Nellie and my mother were the only women in my life to whom I had felt such a loving bond.The emptiness was overwhelming, and I felt guilty for selfishly missing them.
I took a deep breath when I heard the loud rapping at the front door. I carefully repositioned the photograph on the end table before I opened the doors to the hallway and nearly bumped into Martha. Her usually vapid, pale blue eyes gave the impression that a lazy mind resided behind them, but I knew that quite the opposite was true. Martha’s gaze took in every detail and imprinted these details in some part of her brain so that she could faithfully cater to her master. But now, oddly enough, she appeared almost skittish. She was smoothing her pinned hair and did not seem anxious to answer the door.
“I’ll get it, Martha. It must be the detective,” I said. “Have you heard from Patrick about any delay in his coming home?”
Martha’s hands dropped to her sides. “No, ma’am.” Her mouth twitched as if she were warming up to say something more. But then she looked to the front door and back to me. “I’ll be in the kitchen should you need me, ma’am,” she said, turning on her heels to walk quickly down the hall.
I waited until Martha was out of sight. I pressed my hands against my hair, nervously patting it into place, although it was still held in a tight French twist. I crossed the hall and pulled back the latch on the door to open it, exposing a large man, broad shouldered and thick-waisted. He possessed the bushiest mustache, without the characteristic walrus curls, that I had ever seen. He held his fist, round and thick as a cantaloupe, in mid knock.
“Detective Buchanan?” I asked tentatively.
He slowly allowed his hand to curve down to the breast pocket of his coat and produced a badge. “Yes, I’m Detective Alexander Buchanan,” he said, tipping his bowler, exposing a mat of dark hair, parted to one side. He examined me with his startling blue eyes. “Mrs. Dugan,” he continued more than he actually asked. “May I come in?”
I stepped closer to inspect the badge. “Yes, of course.” I moved aside to allow him to enter. I thought I detected a familiar odor on his sack coat. It smelled of the river. I felt slightly alarmed, although I wasn’t quite sure why.
“We can sit down in the morning room—to our right,” I said, indicating the location with my hand, “if that’s agreeable to you, Detective. I’ve had some tea prepared,” I said. “It’s so chilly outside.”
“Tea would be wonderful,” he responded with a smile that pushed half his face up to his cheeks. “Wherever you are most comfortable.”
I escorted the detective to an armchair and picked up the pot from the serving tray. As I offered him a cup, I noticed his gaze sweeping the room, pausing to mentally tally the abundance of objects.
“Thank you, Mrs. Dugan,” he said. “Quite a remarkable room,” he added, tilting his head toward the cherry wood shelves crowded with Patrick’s Delft china.
“Yes,” I replied, without passion or conviction. I realized this lack of enthusiasm might seem odd to the detective. “My husband is the collector—and the decorator. At least he’s the one who hired a designer to fashion this room, in addition to a few other rooms in the house.This was done fairly recently, after my husband became interested in some of the British designs.” I sat down. I felt like I was suddenly chattering. I was nervous. I didn’t know how to entertain a detective.
Buchanan smiled kindly at me, reading my thoughts, but just as suddenly grew serious. “Mrs. Dugan, I must tell you straight away that I am going to say things and ask you some questions that are distasteful and, under ordinary circumstances, inappropriate. For this I must ask that you forgive me, but it is a necessary part of my duty.”
I felt alarmed. I didn’t know how to reply. Instead, I nodded tentatively to indicate I understood.
“You’ve come from the funeral luncheon, haven’t you?” he asked gently. “I am sorry about Mrs. Murphy’s death. I understand tha
t you were good friends.”
The mention of Nellie’s name dispelled my apprehension. I looked at him, surprised by his abrupt change in conversation. “We were,” I agreed. “We’ve known each other since we were girls. She is like a sister to me.” I couldn’t bear to speak of Nellie in the past tense.
Buchanan nodded, agreeing with my facts. “Mrs. Dugan, I’ll get right to the heart of the matter. I’ve looked over the reports filed by the Ninth Police District station house. I’ve also spoken to Officer Russo, who has been assigned to work with me on this investigation.” He paused, and leaned toward me, his beefy hands folded in his lap. “Officer Russo and I have been all over that hillside and reservoir, hoping to find nothing.”
“Nothing?” I asked, confused.
“Yes, nothing,” Buchanan repeated. “Because nothing would indicate to us that the chump who pushed Mrs. Murphy off the arch, was precisely that—a chump. Someone who is a novice to robbery and simply panicked when he found that neither of you had anything worth stealing.
“But he didn’t just push Nellie,” I interrupted. “He knocked me to the side first, as if it were Nellie that he was after.Why would he do that if he wanted to rob us?”
“He wouldn’t,” Buchanan agreed, taking a surprisingly delicate sip of tea. “We found something on the hill, Russo and I, by the gazebo, early the following morning, that confirmed that this man was waiting for you. We found a piece of crumpled paper, composed in a hand that looked like a child’s. It simply said, “brown hair, green cape.” The paper had been dropped or tossed by the gazebo and was caught in a clump of weeds.”
“Nellie’s hair is red!” I responded impulsively.
“Yes,” the detective drawled. “Someone was careless with the instructions.”
I couldn’t help but stare at him incredulously. “He was waiting for me.”
“Yes, it appears that way. Who knew that you were meeting Mrs. Murphy at the arch, Mrs. Dugan?”
I paled. “My husband, our house staff. Probably Nellie’s household knew also . . .”The detective’s confirmation of my theory caused me to turn away. I covered my mouth with my hands. I felt cold to my bones.
Buchanan squinted. He rubbed his hands together, he felt the same chill. “You don’t appear surprised,” he said gently.
I thought of Nellie wearing my green cape and Patrick looking for the cape when he came to take me home from the Water Works. Patrick’s enemies may have been watching me for some time.The cape was an easy marker for me.
“Mrs. Dugan,” Detective Buchanan prodded gently. “Has anything happened, before this—crime, that made you feel at all threatened?”
I was facing him again, and I suddenly flushed. Where was Patrick? What was I to say? I felt I was looking at him stupidly for minutes. I could hear the telling tick of the porcelain clocks. And then the image of Nellie lying shattered on the park path flashed across my mind.
“There are letters,” I began.
The detective’s eyebrows shot up, but his tone remained invariable. “Letters? May I see them?”
I paled. Patrick had given me his word, but in his absence, I could not lie to the detective.
“My husband has them,” I replied. I looked at the clocks on the mantel as they tolled four fifteen.
“It is important that I see the letters, Mrs. Dugan. Is your husband expected to join us?”
“Yes. He was to be home by four. I’m sure he’ll be home within minutes. Can I offer you another cup of tea?” I asked. I thought my voice sounded pleading. I wanted the detective to see those letters, to trust my telling of the story so that he could track down Nellie’s murderer.
“Thank you,” the detective nodded. After I had poured and placed the tea pot back on the server, he asked, “Do you have any idea who would send them?”
I thought of the ledger. “I’m not sure, Detective. There are three of them. None were signed and all were written in a childish hand. They were addressed to me, although they concerned Patrick and his lobbying for the filtration contracts.”
Detective Buchanan returned my gaze and said nothing, expecting me to further explain. He then looked around the room. His gaze settled on the photographs. “Your family, Mrs. Dugan?”
“Yes,” I replied, allowing my hands to drop to my lap. “Mine and my husband’s.”
He stood and moved gracefully through the room, despite his bulk, to stare at the various portraits. Without turning to look at me, he noted, “You are very young, and your husband is how much older?”
I wasn’t sure what he was insinuating, but I didn’t like it. “Our families were very close. Patrick and I were betrothed when I was still a child, to keep us all together.”
The detective rubbed his chin and nodded. “How is your relationship with your husband, Mrs. Dugan?” he then asked.
“Our relationship!” I repeated. “What does that question have to do with Nellie’s murder?” I felt that twitching panic, the same panic I had felt when I discovered the glove box.
“Is there a mistress?” he said, now turning to confront me directly. The words stung, and I blushed.
“Why would you ask me that, Detective?” I cried. I knew I was trembling but didn’t experience the wave of anger I expected to wash over me. “My husband—loves me. He would never ...”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Dugan,” the detective interrupted. He drew up a chair. “This is a most difficult time for you. But you must understand that I am asking these questions only to explore all avenues that might lead us to Mrs. Murphy’s killer.”
I looked into his eyes. I liked his eyes, shaded beneath his bushy eyebrows. They provided the only color in the room. His eyes were the opposites of Patrick’s.
“I know that,” I said, continuing to stare into them, to ensure that some veil would not fall to make them indecipherable. “And I promise you, I will do anything that I can to help you. Nellie was—like my sister, my only remaining family.”
He nodded slightly. “Officer Russo has told me that you are—friendly with Mr. Parker, the engineer at the Water Works.”
I felt the color drain from my face. “Yes,” I heard myself stammering. “I know him. We’ve been working together on the park and pollution law issues.” I felt hot. My hands were balled in my lap. “If you are trying to suggest that Mr. Parker and I . . .” I hadn’t the experience to say it aloud. “He is a good man, one of the most decent men that I have met in a long time. And I cannot overemphasize the word ‘decent.’”
Buchanan drew back. He smiled without cynicism. “I understand, Mrs. Dugan. As I said a few moments earlier, you will have to forgive me for my bluntness, but honesty is the only device that will enable us to solve Mrs. Murphy’s murder.”
“I know,” I said. I stood, clutching a handkerchief, and began to pace to exhaust my agitation. Where could Patrick be?
When I was about to speak, I froze, seeing a shadow beneath the threshold of the closed morning room doors. Without saying a word, I swung the doors open. I expected to find Patrick, but it was Martha that stood in the hall, a few steps back from the door, holding a tray of cookies in her hand.
Martha didn’t flinch, but she narrowed her eyes daring the detective to confront her. When he simply smiled, she quickly rearranged her features to feign her own smile and announced, “Mr. Dugan called and asked that you wait for him, Detective. He should arrive home in twenty minutes.”
SEAN
Isat in my office in the Caretaker’s House, as the room was small and any pacing was cramped by the plain wooden desk, worn straight back chairs, drawing rack, and pine board filing drawers, which filled the limited floor space. Construction drawings were pinned to the walls.
I hated to spend much time in here, especially now. I felt that the piles of reports and the City Councils’ proposals, precariously stacked on the old wooden chairs, were accusing. Many still were unread. In the face of them, how can I continue to fight for the Water Works? The reports detailed all too clearly the
epidemics, the political feuds, and my own impotence in regards to both, to change anything at all. I rubbed my temples with callused fingertips. When did paper, so much paper, gain the advantage?
I could hear my men shouting to one another on the deck—something about tools and a broken valve. I promised myself that I would investigate the item needing repair after a fair amount of time had gone by—enough time to give my men a chance to complete their work. Beneath me, I could hear the turbines whirring in liquid motion and the gears and pistons of the pumps rattling in concert. Even the floor vibrated from the turbines’ energy.
Yet so much had changed from the days when I was a fresh assistant. My superiors and I had been hopeful about the success of the sewer laws, particularly as filtration was viewed as costly and foreign.Yes, there were some places in the United States that were filtering their drinking water, and London had been filtering the Thames for decades. But then again, the English river had suffered nearly 2,000 years of abuse at the hands of man.
I knew it was only a matter of time before filtration was pushed through. Yet I vowed that I would not rest until I could convince the mayor and the City Councils that filtering was not enough. Every man made machine or scheme had its limits. I feared that filtration would provide industries and government a license to pollute.
And there was now Mrs. Murphy’s death. My beloved site was tainted by something evil. I could sense it. I knew that Rose Dugan was right—her death was not an accident. Rose. I felt the heat of my shame. I could not deny my feelings for Rose—a married woman. A woman married inexplicably to the vilest man I had ever met.
Where am I to go from here, except to plod stubbornly forward? It was all I knew.
A sharp knock at the door interrupted my thoughts, and I spilled my tea. I cursed while jumping up to dab at the stain on my shirt with my handkerchief. Today, I felt like a cat in water.
