Contagion

by Joanne Dahme

  I again looked at my father, begging him to intervene. I needed to slow down the events I had inadvertently put into motion. He had his thin arms crossed now, as he looked at Rose standing beside the door.

  “Mrs. Dugan,” he said. “We only ask that you think of us if trouble should come to you.We are your friends.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “You are both too kind.” She turned to me. “And thank you for stopping by my corner every morning. You were a welcome guardian.” She smiled. Her eyes glistened in the light from the hearth. “But I don’t think it will be necessary anymore.”

  ROSE

  Ihad felt like a sleepwalker during the trolley ride home. Later, I couldn’t recall the conductor’s face, or the assortment of people who shared my short trip. The street scenes drew a blank.

  I had felt a rush of relief when Sean told me of Chief Trout’s confession. I couldn’t cite a disreputable connection between Patrick and the chief, or remember an instance when they might have championed the same cause. His name was not in the ledger. This proved to me, and should be proof to Detective Buchanan, I believed, that Patrick’s enemies were wrong.Their accusations were meant to mask their own jealousies of Patrick’s success.

  But I had also felt my heart sink, seeing Sean’s face when I told him that he no longer needed to worry about me. He had almost reached out for me but had stopped and turned away. What did he expect me to say? But I knew better. I knew that the heart was not ruled by logic. Is that why I had ached to place my hand against his cheek?

  I was handing my coat to Brigid when Martha intercepted me in the hallway.

  “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Martha said, resting her hands on her hips. “You should sit by the hearth to revive your color.” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  I knew that Martha was dying to ask me where I had been.

  “Perhaps I will, Martha,” I said, smoothing my hair with my hand. “I’ll wait for Patrick in the morning room. It’s important that I see him right away.”

  Martha said nothing for a moment, although there was a slight quiver to her lips. I wondered what Patrick had said to her about the water pitcher.

  “Very well, ma’am. When he comes home, I’ll let him know you are waiting.” She turned abruptly to walk back down the hallway.

  It was just before five o’clock when the morning room door slowly opened. Patrick stood in the shadow of the hall.

  “Have you heard?” he murmured, almost demurely, as he removed his Chesterfield. He ran his hand down the length of the garment before draping it over a chair and then placed his walking stick in the bronze umbrella stand before facing me again. I nodded as I stood.

  “How?” he asked, standing perfectly still to stare into my eyes. I was surprised by his somber mood. He had been right about the letters. He should be jubilant.

  “Detective Buchanan called me,” I replied. It hadn’t been a lie. The detective had called me almost as soon as I had returned home. He sounded reserved, as if he were not pleased by Chief Trout’s confession. He had told me that he wanted to stay in touch with me, to keep me abreast of the case. I had agreed. I didn’t tell Patrick that part. But I wanted to be kept informed of Officer Russo’s condition. I felt responsible for him. I also needed to know what could possibly have persuaded Chief Trout to murder.

  Patrick smiled. His eyes noticeably softened. “Let us talk,” he said, taking me gently by the elbow. He guided me to the chintz-covered love seat. I sat, watching him stoke the coals in the hearth back to life. I listened to the ticking of his prized porcelain clocks. He finally sat beside me, his knees touching mine. He said nothing, but his eyes appeared full of emotion. I instinctively reached for his hand.

  “Patrick,” I began in a whisper, fighting back tears. “You must be so relieved, although I find it inconceivable that Chief Trout could have done such a thing.You were so sure that it was someone in the Bureau of Water.” I looked from our hands, our fingers tentatively entwined, to his eyes again, and saw that they were shining.

  “Do you feel better, Rose, now that you are able to name Nellie’s murderer? Will this knowledge give you peace?” he asked. His eyebrows arched. He ran his hand through his sleek, black hair, as he always did when waiting for a response.

  I looked away from him, as if the answer was in the vases and statues and china that Patrick had collected and displayed throughout the room. I turned to face him again. “A part of me feels some relief. But a larger part cannot fathom the magnitude of Chief Trout’s hatred of us. Why Patrick? What have we done?”

  Patrick shrugged. “We’ll never understand, Rose. Trout had allowed our differences over business to become a personal duel. He broke all the rules. The man was obviously incompetent.”

  I was surprised to hear an annoyance in his voice, as if he were impatient with my interest. He was looking at the hearth and tapping his foot. He had wanted me to simply answer “yes.”

  “Patrick, he was much more than that,” I pressed, tugging at his hands to make him look at me. “He was driven to commit a dreadful act. Were you so brutal in your dealings with him?” I knew this question might make him angry, but I needed to understand. This was Nellie’s life—and the lives of Charles and Sarah—that were forever altered.

  His gaze whipped back to me. “What is really bothering you, Rose? Is it those gloves you found?”

  I drew up in my chair. My cheeks flushed. I felt hot and ashamed. “How dare you ask me that now?” I was surprised by the sudden intensity of my own anger.Why was he lashing out at me?

  He sat back and looked at me, the peevishness in his face gone. “I know you, Rose. I can read you like one of my plans. You’ve been acting aloof ever since you found that glove box.”

  “Aloof?” I repeated. I hardly thought I had acted aloof. I had been stricken by Nellie’s death but had tried to be strong for Patrick. Had I been cold in my efforts? Perhaps Patrick was more vulnerable than I knew and was hurt by my obsession to find Nellie’s murderer at any cost. Patrick was always able to undercut my anger with an injured look or a tentative squeeze of the hand. His need was so rare.

  “I’m sorry, Patrick.” I clasped his hands. We both had been tormented over the past few weeks. It had taken its toll. His hands felt rough and powerful, and I warmed to the heft of them. “I didn’t mean to neglect you. I guess that finding that box when I did was an unexpected blow. It reminded me that ... I have . . . disappointed you.”

  “Because we do not have a son?” he interrupted now. The question was gentle.

  “Yes,” I sighed. I felt the threat of a sob. I was miserable, which didn’t make sense to me at all. “I don’t want to talk about this now, Patrick. It doesn’t seem right—under the circumstances.”

  “I don’t want you to blame yourself, Rose.” He grasped my hands tightly. “It has only been a year, and it hurts me to think you’ve been tortured by such doubts.” He glanced at the chiming clocks.

  I searched his face. His eyes showed nothing. They appeared black and empty, but his face was pinched with impatience. His mind was elsewhere. I was amazed at how easily he grew bored.

  “Is there a mistress?” I dared ask. I wanted his full attention.

  For a moment, annoyance tugged at the lines about his mouth.

  “Of course not,” he blurted. “Surely you are teasing me, Rose.” His eyes now softened. “I’ve always loved you, my beautiful wife.”

  He reached for me, suddenly eager, and I went into his arms. Patrick pressed my head against his chest and stroked my hair. I smelled the mixed essence of cigars and raw lumber and the cold outdoors in his clothes and felt the sob of bittersweet nostalgia.Why was I feeling such emptiness? Everything was happening too quickly. Nellie’s murder was too easily resolved and my heart couldn’t embrace Chief Trout as the killer. It didn’t feel right. Patrick placed two fingers under my chin and gently forced me to look into his eyes.

  “Do you believe me now?” he whispered. I suddenly tho
ught about Sean and felt a stab of despair. Patrick is a businessman, I reminded myself. He was simply protecting us against his unnamed enemies. I nodded.

  I was staring at a somber young man as he arranged the chairs around the polished mahogany table, a fixture of the inner chamber of Councils’ Hearing Room. I had accompanied Patrick to the emergency hearing he had requested on the water supply, although Patrick had an appointment to see the mayor first. He had promised to brief the mayor regarding his petition, as the mayor was still in a quandary concerning the Bureau of Water.

  “Will you be speaking on the need to build filtration plants?” I had asked. Patrick had brushed my question aside.

  “That’s not an issue for you to worry about.You will hear soon enough.” He then told me to wait in the Hearing Room.

  When I opened my mouth to protest his dismissal of me, he interrupted.

  “Forgive me, Rose. I’m just anxious to finish this business. You understand, don’t you?” He ran his sculpted hand through his hair. His eyes shined, appealing to me.

  “Of course,” I acquiesced. But I felt manipulated.

  It wasn’t his callused behavior that bothered me, but his attitude, patronizing with the implication that I should never question his judgment about anything again. This treatment was working on my spirit like a slow poison.

  I watched the council aide as he walked with a reverence beneath the glow of the enormous chandelier that hung from the ceiling forty feet above our heads. I envied his implied belief in this room, his faith in the people who toiled here on a daily basis, manipulating the mechanics of government. The Hearing Room was splendid enough—ornate and palatial.The walls were covered with rich wood paneling. Thick, royal red curtains hung from tracks in the plastered ceiling to wrap councils’ members in velvet privacy. Greatness through ornamentation, I thought bitterly. I was seated in the front row of one of the church-like pews that surrounded the inner chambers on three sides, directly facing the Select Council president’s dais. Patrick had told me that he wanted to find me easily in the audience.

  It seemed like years ago, the last time I had sat in this chamber, although it had only been early October, not yet six weeks. Nellie had been sitting beside me as we had listened to Mrs. Warwick, and then Sean, make a case to protect and enhance the city’s parks and rivers. They had argued that building filtration plants would not be necessary if the sewer laws were enforced and if the city did not allow its rivers, its water supply, to be fouled. I tried to recreate the jumble of emotions, which had roiled through me that day—pride in our work on behalf of the Women’s Park Beautification Committee; respect and a disquieting thrill as I had listened to Sean eloquently support our report; and in the end, shame, at Patrick’s attempt to discredit all that was said in his bid to gain the million-dollar contract for building filtration plants. This contract would mean the abandonment of the Water Works and the city’s admission that it could not, or would not, control its own pollution. Today, I was sitting in this room for Patrick’s cause, and I couldn’t help but feel sick at heart.

  My ambivalence about Patrick had not improved over the last few days I realized, as I fingered the blue satin sash tied about my waist. Patrick had asked that I dress for this occasion, implying that the skirt and blouse ensembles that I normally preferred would not do the day justice. I wore a blue velvet dress, with a pleated bodice and lace appliquéd on to the sleeves, collar, and hemline, covered by a white caftan robe. My hair was in a bun. Soft, small curls framed my face. In this setting, dressed as I was, I felt like a display piece, like one of Patrick’s porcelain clocks.

  I looked up as people began to file into the Hearing Room. Men in black frock coats with top hats in one hand and pocket watches in the other, greeted one another with quiet handshakes. Women in flared capes, many with velvet bindings and lace neck ruches, stood in clusters, their feathered hats tipped to hide their faces as they spoke. Some carried black umbrellas with ivory handles and sashes. Many held handkerchiefs to their mouths. I recognized a number of men and women in the room as neighbors, parishioners, and fellow committee members. A colleague of Patrick’s, whose wife had just died, a casualty of the current epidemic, was standing by the entrance.Their presence boded well for Patrick’s petition, but I couldn’t help but soften, as many of their faces were gaunt with worry. They probably were all touched by the epidemic in some way, be it a sick relative, spouse, or child.

  “Mrs. Dugan,” I heard a familiar voice greet me. I glanced up and was pleased and surprised to see Detective Buchanan. I stood quickly as he warmly shook my gloved hand.

  “Detective, I am surprised to see you here.”

  “You look quite well,” he said, eyeing me unabashedly, as if this inspection were a part of his job. “Is everything all right?”Then, remembering to address my remark, he added, “The epidemic seems to have some connection to our investigation.”

  I nodded, thinking of Officer Russo. I couldn’t help but smile at the detective, genuinely glad that he was here. He was dressed in a Chesterfield coat like Patrick’s, except that it didn’t look quite as debonair on his shorter, bulkier frame. Buchanan’s large face was wrinkled in concern, despite his friendly tone.

  “I am fine, thank you, Detective. How is Officer Russo feeling?”

  Buchanan cleared his throat before answering. “Unfortunately he is ill, Mrs. Dugan. He has typhoid.”

  I felt the fragile sense of well-being I enjoyed in Buchanan’s presence shatter. I grasped him by the arm. “Do you think Chief Trout was responsible for this crime too?” My stomach felt tight with trepidation.

  The detective shook his head before answering. “I don’t think so. I’ve interviewed the chief numerous times. He swears he had nothing to do with poisoning Russo, and I believe him. Trout’s venom was directed solely at your husband,” the detective added pointedly.

  I placed a hand on my stomach to calm the general queasiness. “Please keep me informed of Officer Russo’s progress,” I said.

  “I will,” he promised, giving me a pained smile. “Trout’s preliminary hearing is within the week. I’ll keep you and your husband up-to-date on those proceedings also. And please, Mrs. Dugan,” he encouraged before taking leave of me, “Please do not hesitate to call me if you should feel the need.”

  “Of course,” I replied nervously and then watched him cut through the crowd. He obviously isn’t going to sit beside me, I realized, a bit disappointed. Only then did I become aware of the low roar from the whispered conversations of the mass of people milling around me.Yet I suddenly felt very alone. The proceedings were due to start according to the large clock hanging on the wall behind the Council president’s dais. I turned to look at the room’s entrance at the exact moment that Sean came through its double doors.

  He looked terrible, his normally clean-shaven, handsome face was gaunt and shadowed. I guessed that he was probably not getting any sleep since Chief Trout’s arrest. I watched him take a seat at a table on the inner floor, designated for the city officials who were expected to answer questions. This section was separated from the crowd by a thick, velvet rope. The council aide would ceremoniously unhook a segment when a Council member entered the floor, as if the hearing was a show.

  The table was covered by a red cloth and was placed perpendicular to the Councils’ table, which directly faced the rows where I was seated. Sean suddenly looked up, sensing that someone in the crowd was watching him. I shrunk back in my seat. I didn’t want him to see me here.

  I watched as the council aide jumped up again as Patrick, looking ever more the politician, strode in with the mayor. He pumped the hands that were thrust into his path as he made his way to the podium.The mayor looked cowed in Patrick’s confident presence. Patrick’s smile was dazzling.

  As Patrick and the mayor eased themselves into the red cushioned chairs, Patrick nodded graciously at the various members of the Councils’ filtering committee as they took their places around the table. I noticed that they
all looked ill-humored, bullied into this meeting. It didn’t matter whether they donned white beards or dark mustaches.They all tugged at the sleeves of their coats, or pulled at an over-starched collar. No one was particularly comfortable about the hearing, with the exception of Patrick.

  The sergeant at arms announced the arrival of the Select Council’s president, who called the hearing to order. The president was a tall, thin man with a bushy white beard and yellowish complexion. He scowled as he addressed the crowd. “As you all know, we are here this afternoon to discuss the approval of the filtration bill at the request of one of our leading citizens, Mr. Patrick Dugan.” He slowly scanned the room. I saw his gaze rest on Sean and the members of the Bureau of Health. I was glad to see that Sean stared back at him without flinching.The president, hearing the noise level begin to rise, continued. “I think that, under the adverse circumstances that our good city is struggling against, Mr. Dugan’s message is particularly appropriate.” He indicated with a look for Patrick to take the floor.

  Patrick stood for a moment, not moving or saying a word, until the crowd settled to an expectant hush. Patrick was patient. Only then did he take the few steps necessary to reach the dark wooden podium. I watched his powerful hands grasp it possessively. Patrick looked at the mass of people with an emotion that I would have called compassion. I leaned forward in my chair, as many of those beside me did, to hear his words.

  “Good afternoon,” he began, almost humbly. “I’ll strive to be brief and to the point.” I looked at Sean. His face was a mask. “The Bureau of Water is a disgrace,” he suddenly accused. One hand released the podium to stab at the air. “A farce,” he added, as he surveyed the many in the crowd who nodded their heads in affirmation. I thought I noticed his complexion suddenly flush with the thrill of the moment. He threw his head back, tossing his straight black hair.

  “In addition to their inability to protect our families from typhoid, they have acted grievously against my wife and me in an attempt to discourage us from demanding filtration for our ailing city.” Patrick paused, now leaning against the podium to stare into the eyes of the audience. I could see that he was measuring the effect of his words. “I’m sure you have all read in the newspapers about the chief of the Bureau of Water’s attempts to murder my wife, who had been working with Mrs. Warwick to protect and improve our parks and rivers.” A collective gasp took to the air. Some shook their heads in disgust.