Contagion

by Joanne Dahme

  The knock was louder this time, more insistent, and before I could yell, “Just one moment,” the door swung open. On the threshold stood Rose Dugan.

  “I’m sorry. I should have waited,” she apologized in a decibel barely above a whisper. “I seem to be making these intrusions a habit.” I could hear the irony in her voice.

  My first impression, as always, was of her startling beauty. She stood before me, one hand still on the knob. She looked out of breath, her cheeks flushed, and single strands of hair, which had escaped the confines of her bun and hat, floated about her head. She wore a deep blue cape around her shoulders. I couldn’t help but wince at the reminder. But despite the mist that hung like a melancholy upon the site, the day’s grayness could not pale her loveliness.

  “Rose,” I stammered. “Excuse me, Mrs. Dugan. Is everything all right?” I felt I was moving in a haze. “Please, come in,” I remembered to say.

  She smiled, but it was a weary smile. “You were right the first time.You’re supposed to call me Rose.”

  I thought I smiled. I felt my mouth move, but I couldn’t be sure.

  “Please, let me take your cape.” I fumbled with its flounce as I removed it, noting a small bruise on the back of her neck. An unlikely place to bump. Dugan, that scoundrel, I thought alarmed. Could he really have touched her harshly? I’m turning him into a monster, I realized. I tossed my own coat, which had been hanging on a hook by the door onto one of the paper-occupied chairs.

  She had taken off her hat and was holding it at her waist. “Thank you,” Rose said, practically into my ear as I brushed by her. I thought I could smell her hair. It smelled of the cold and the wind. She looked about the room. “You look terribly busy.”

  Although my collection of papers never embarrassed me before, I felt myself redden now. “Please excuse my office.” My mind scrambled to make light of it but couldn’t find a single thought or image to allay my nerves. Instead, I shrugged and began transferring the piles on one chair to join a heap on the other. I brushed the seat of the cleared chair with my tea-stained handkerchief.

  This time she smiled in sympathy, pointing to my shirt. “Did I cause that? I startled you. I don’t know what happened to my manners,” she added, shaking her head.

  I dismissed the notion with a flick of my hand. Instead of sitting at my desk, I pulled a chair around so that we were sitting side by side. I was jolted by an urge to take her hand.

  “How are you, Rose? And how is Mrs. Mur phy’s family?” I couldn’t distract my thoughts from that bruise, dark and mean against the paleness of her neck. I wanted to protect her, to make her safe. And I didn’t care if it was Dugan that I had to fight against.

  She was silent, searching for the words. Then, without a preamble, she looked at the hat in her lap and sighed.

  “They are struggling. Mr. Murphy tells me that Sarah, Nellie’s daughter, keeps crying out in the middle of the night for her mother.”

  I said nothing as no words would do.

  “That was kind of you to attend the funeral,” she added.

  “I admired and liked Mrs. Murphy. I felt honored to know her,” I replied.

  Rose’s eyes were shining as she smiled in gratitude, and I felt a flare of pleasure. I knew I was reacting like a school boy. It takes so little—a smile, a word, a look.

  “Detective Buchanan met with us yesterday.” Her tone had changed, suddenly guarded, and she noticeably colored. “Patrick did show him the letters.” She turned her head away. She picked at a flower on her hat. “Patrick is blaming you, Sean. I don’t know why. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Does he really believe that?” I asked, awed suddenly by that possibility. Rose was in danger.Would Dugan direct the investigation toward me if he didn’t think there was some merit in my possible guilt? If Dugan didn’t truly believe this, would he place Rose in harm’s way by sending the detective on a false trail? It seemed impossible.

  “I think he does, Sean. He argued with me about it after the detective left. I had protested when Patrick named you. I said it was ridiculous.” Her chin was up now as she addressed me.There was fire in her eyes.

  Good God. Is that how she got that bruise?

  She continued, “Patrick insisted that he was a threat to you, that he represented the filtration forces. He said that yours was just a voice in the wind, trying to protect the river from foul man. Patrick can be so dramatic at times.” Her voice was suddenly tinged with wonder. “I protested, but Patrick chided me and said that people are not always what they seem.” Rose had been speaking fast, the words spilling from her with the sting of the memory. Finally, she paused.

  “I think he is sincere, Sean. He is a man who follows his instincts.”

  I looked into my empty teacup but could not read the future. “It was kind—and brave of you to warn me, Rose. I will not say a thing.”

  She nodded. Her smile was pained.

  She then glanced again at the drawing on the wall and stared at it, suddenly lost in thought. “Has Patrick been working on a contract here?” Her tone was measured, as if simply curious. I straightened. I knew there could be nothing casual about Rose’s question.

  “I haven’t seen your husband on the site, Rose, but I have met his foreman, Peter Brophy. It appears your husband has a contract for replacing a section of the sewer in the North Garden.” I couldn’t help but smile as I watched Rose purse her mouth in distaste at the mention of Brophy’s name.

  “You don’t like Mr. Brophy?”

  Rose returned a conspiratorial smile. “Patrick was kind to take Peter under his wing. But I have never been able to develop a liking for him. Perhaps with time.”

  “Why do you ask about the work?” I wondered if Dugan had said something about the job that alarmed her. I immediately felt ashamed for prodding her. “You don’t need to answer that, Rose. Forgive me.”

  “Sean, please don’t apologize. Of course you are cur i-ous.” The shine had returned to her eyes. A bloom of red burnished her cheekbones. “I must sound mysterious. I just happened to see a copy of this drawing,” she looked to the wall again, “in Patrick’s study.”

  “Patrick—or someone—had marked the drawing.There were Xs in a variety of places.” She squinted, trying to remember the details.

  I attempted to sound only mildly interested. “Could you remember where any of those marks were placed by looking at this drawing?”

  “I think so.” She stood and walked over to the drawing. She touched the arch with her gloved hand and frowned. “There was an X on the arch and many in the North Garden. There was one very close to the wharf. But I couldn’t show you exactly where.”

  The X on the arch seemed odd, although the other marks could signify locations for excavation or storage. Rose was still scrutinizing the drawing when she turned to look at me, her eyebrows raised, waiting for an explanation. But before I had a chance to ask any more questions, someone pounded hard on the door.

  “Mrs. Dugan! Mrs. Dugan!” Our focus was riveted to the door.

  “Julius?” Rose called, her eyes wide. I motioned to her to stay where she was as I opened the door. Julius stood with his top hat in his hand. I saw the panic in his rheumy blue eyes.

  “Mrs. Dugan,” Julius croaked, struggling to catch his breath. “Mr. Dugan is in the North Garden. I saw him with Brophy.”

  “Oh dear,” she replied, gripping her hat. “If Patrick sees me, he will be upset. He won’t understand why I needed to explain to you . . .”

  “I moved the carriage to the other side of the reservoir. He didn’t see it. We can leave by way of the garden,” Julius interrupted. He had no time for Rose’s ruminations. He gestured to her to hurry.

  I couldn’t help feeling anxious for Rose too. Dugan . . . coming here? Was he looking for her? More likely, simply checking on his men’s progress with the sewer job.

  I helped Rose with her cape and escorted her to the door.

  “It seems that Julius knows what to do,” I said.
Julius hovered in the doorway, anxiously looking toward the bridge connecting the drive to the forebay bridge.

  “Rose, thank you for coming,” I added. I touched her gently on the elbow. I didn’t want to let her go.

  “Of course,” she nodded. Once on the deck, she turned to look for Patrick, but instead allowed Julius to hurry her along. I followed them out, watching for Dugan’s approach from the north while following, the best I could, Rose’s flight to the south.

  I saw Dugan appear on the bridge before Dugan called out my name.

  “Parker, a moment of your time,” he hailed pleasantly. His step was jaunty. He was invigorated by the chill and pallor of the day.

  As I stood on the deck, directly across from the Water Nymph and Bittern on the bank of the forebay, I couldn’t remember feeling such a roiling rage, except for the day that Eileen succumbed to typhoid.Yet this man, who was promenading across my bridge, tapping his walking stick, not like a blind man, but like a child who enjoyed the noise, affected me like the disease.

  “How may I help you, Mr. Dugan?” I struggled to control my tone. Dugan inspired many things in me—anger, contempt, impatience—and now guilt. By seconds, he had missed finding his wife here. I realized that my hands were trembling. Did Dugan suspect that Rose was here? I anxiously searched his face for a clue. Dugan looked as in command as he ever did.

  We shook hands. I returned the pressing grip until Dugan released me to rest both of his hands on the top of his walking stick, which he thrust forward between us. I couldn’t help but grimace at the serpent head. I had to resist an impulse to grab it and toss it into the forebay.

  “Can we step into your office?” Dugan asked lightly. As usual, he was immaculately dressed. His black eyes shone in contrast to the gray day. I felt a fleeting relief. Obviously, he had not seen Rose.

  I hesitated a moment. I couldn’t allow Dugan into my office, a mere few minutes after his wife had sat in that very space. I noticed that she hadn’t been wearing perfume, but the scent of her hair was still with me. I was sure that her very presence in the room had changed the air. There was no way that I could invite Dugan in there.

  “I prefer that we speak here, Mr. Dugan, if you don’t mind.”

  Dugan smiled slowly, allowing his gaze to sweep his surroundings until it settled upon the Water Nymph and Bittern.

  “Very well, Mr. Parker. Wherever you are comfortable,” he said agreeably. “What a charming site for a tryst,” he said off-handedly, staring into my eyes. And then glancing at the statue again, he added, “I didn’t wholly catch your reference to the beauty of this site during my last visit.” He arched an eyebrow. “That, for instance,” he raised his walking stick to point. “A truly magnificent work of art.” When I didn’t reply, he continued, “But do you have a flesh and blood woman in your life, Mr. Parker? Or are you married to this?” he asked, his arm indicating the entire site with one expansive gesture.

  Again, I felt myself redden.This man was toying with me.

  “This is my life, Mr. Dugan, but I’m sure you haven’t come all this way to inquire about me.”

  “Oh, but in a way, I have,” he answered, stepping insinuatingly closer.

  I recognized the overture. I resented the implication that Dugan was hoping to create through this scene. Two of my workers stared at us as they passed, each man carrying one end of a pipe. They looked away when they saw me glance at them.

  “A problem?” Dugan asked playfully.

  “Just a minor repair,” I answered dismissively. “What is it that you want, Mr. Dugan? I still have much to accomplish today.”

  Dugan pulled back, a contrite look on his face. “Of course, of course.”

  Neither of us spoke for a moment. Dugan continued to level his unwavering gaze at me. One of Dugan’s favorite intimidation tactics was to wait and stare until his victim blurted out promises or information like a leaking pipe, just to stop his malevolent glare from touching one’s soul. I had one advantage this time. I didn’t know what Dugan really wanted.

  It was Dugan who broke the silence. He didn’t blink, didn’t move one muscle in his body, although I could feel my own body tense.

  “I’ll be brief, Mr. Parker. The Select and Common Councils meet tomorrow to come to a preliminary decision about the building of filtration plants.” Only the breeze succeeded in disturbing Dugan’s slicked, black hair.

  “You’re not telling me anything that I didn’t know,” I interrupted quietly.

  Dugan smiled. “Quite correct. But here’s the important part of the tale for you. If you appear before the Councils tomorrow and testify on behalf of the new plants, essentially admitting that you underestimated the degree of pollution control that would be necessary to purify the Schuylkill.” He leaned toward me, and I could smell the odor of Macassar oil on his hair. “I could ensure you that you will be the engineer in charge of the new plants.You will have more than enough money to keep yourself—and your father—in comfort.”

  I scowled at the mention of my father. Dugan certainly did his homework.

  “And if I refuse, Mr. Dugan?”

  Again, Dugan smiled, as if he were calling upon his patience to describe something to a slow, little boy.

  “Then I’ll truly be sad to see one of the city’s finest water engineers out of gainful employment. And you, I’m sure,” he said, looking across the forebay at the smooth, white statue of the Nymph, “would surely miss your woman.”

  ROSE

  Islowly walked the dirt path that led to the mausoleum. Something had drawn me back to Laurel Hill after visiting Nellie’s grave. Perhaps it was that Nellie had been buried three weeks ago, and since then, all I could think about was death.

  Julius had tried to take me home after my visit to St. Mary’s Cemetery, but I had refused. I was not ready to go home. Something had died with Nellie, something I couldn’t quite name. I felt horribly betrayed.

  Julius had parked the carriage at the cemetery’s Gate House. He had wanted to accompany me on this visit, but I had insisted that he stay by the carriage. I was worried about Julius. His color was off, and he had a persistent cough that he could not shake. He promised that he would wait in front of the memorial Old Mortality as Julius was extremely partial to horses and was charmed by the sculpture of a pony by his master’s side. Perhaps there is some solace here.

  It was a cold, damp November morning, and the cemetery appeared particularly melancholic. I was wearing my reefer coat and tam and a thick black woolen skirt, which deflected the biting chill. I was glad I had remembered my gloves. This morning, while visiting Nellie, I had left them in the carriage.

  The mausoleum was not far. I could see the massive sycamore that would cast its shadow across its face and roof in the summer.The branches were completely bare now and the tree, bent by age and wind, leaned toward the tomb protectively.

  Despite the cold, I was in no hurry. Today, I felt like a kindred spirit. Many of the tombstones and monuments were separated from the other graves by miniature, cast-iron fences, denoting the various family plots. I had been told that the cemetery looked like a picnic ground in the summer, with families spending the entire day and parasols dotting the landscape like mushrooms. I found that thought oddly comforting.

  I looked beyond the denuded trees that usually blocked this view of the swiftly moving Schuylkill, its currents carrying multiple swirls of darkness. The river, as always, reminded me of Sean, and I wondered what he was doing now. For the past two weeks, Sean had paused on our sidewalk at seven-thirty each morning. I would stand by the window in the morning room, had actually taken to waiting for him, to wave to him as a sign that I was well. We had never talked about this. But the morning after I had told Sean about Patrick’s allegations—that Sean was probably the master-mind behind the letters—Sean began this ritual.

  In the beginning, I found it extremely disconcerting. It felt to me like a furtive rendezvous, although Sean did nothing to hide his guardian-like visits. Despite my d
iscomfort, I began to find a guilty cheer in them. I felt oddly safe under his devoted supervision.

  “Mrs. Dugan!” someone called, breaking my reverie. Detective Buchanan, dressed in a black Chesterfield coat and a derby covering most of his thick dark hair, waved to me as he rounded the path. I was surprised to see that he was carrying a walking stick, although it swung in his gloved hand in a steady rhythm and never touched the ground.

  “Detective Buchanan,” I managed, as he maneuvered between the graves to reach me, careful to avoid the plots of earth with his brown oxfords. His face was florid from the cold and exertion and his blue eyes shined with excitement. “How did you know to find me here?” I asked, disappointed by his appearance. I didn’t want company, not even the company of the well-meaning detective.

  “Your housekeeper told me you went to St. Mary’s this morning. When I didn’t find you there, I had a notion that you might be here and that our related conversation could be advantageous.” He tipped his derby. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Forgive me for imposing myself on your time here,” he said brusquely. “Your carriage driver pointed me this way.”

  Over the past few weeks, I had seen a lot of the detective. He made it a habit to call at our house even when he didn’t have any real information to share. I liked the detective—his eccentricities and his thoughtful manner. But this morning, I wished he hadn’t found me.

  “Advantageous?” Why did I get the feeling that the detective was always a few conversations ahead of me? “Whatever do you mean?” I asked.

  “Let me explain, but first tell me, are you cold? Can you spend a few more minutes out here, or do you wish to return to your carriage?”The detective’s brows were creased in concern, and he looked frankly into my face.

  He was indeed a man who followed his own train of thought. “No, no. I’m fine, thank you Detective. Just a bit confused.” I couldn’t help but to appraise his appearance, noting his neatly creased gray striped trousers and black tie. I had grown used to seeing him in his biking attire.