The White Feather Murders

by Rachel McMillan

Jem was patting at her matted hair, Merinda scratching at a smudge on her nose.

  “Rifle practice,” Merinda said in response to their questioning looks. “What are you doing in my parlor, DeLuca, Miss Kingston?”

  But neither were given opportunity to answer. Instead, Merinda reached into her vest for some folded documents, which she then spread on the center table.

  “What are these?” Martha wondered.

  “We snatched them from Philip Carr,” Jem said proudly.

  “You suspect the war agent?”

  “We’ve had our best people on him for a while.”‡

  “Jem’s a pretty good distraction,” Merinda said, smoothing their bounty with her palm.

  “Blueprints,” Ray said.

  Merinda rifled through the pile. “Wait.” One finger made out the gloss of another sheet further down. “And photographs.”

  The ring of the telephone from the kitchen set Merinda jogging that way.

  When she returned a few moments later, her eyes were cold and her face was drained of color.

  “That was Jasper.” Her voice was dead, and she swallowed in a rare display of uneasiness. “Jem, we have to go to the King Edward Hotel immediately. Something terrible has happened.”

  * The curious reader will want to follow up with Merinda and Jem’s intrepid adventures in Chicago in the case documented as A Lesson in Love and Murder.

  † This experiment was met with near disastrous result on more than one occasion, often because Merinda forgot to empty the barrel of bullets.

  ‡ Well, best urchins at the very least. Kat and Mouse always seemed to find time to be at Merinda’s beck and call.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The careful detective will recognize that little good can come from personal attachment. In order to hone your logic and focus on heightening your skills, you must be willing and able to block out all human feeling. The only empathy you need is the slightest kernel from which to better understand your client’s particular situation. All other semblance of affection is little more than a stumbling block.

  M.C. Wheaton, Guide to the Criminal and Commonplace

  The sky matched Jasper’s mood, and he hoped the clouds above would soon rumble and split open to reflect the disastrous day.

  People crowding the street had yet to disperse, and though he and Russell attempted to corral them, they inched in. Three officers pooled traffic on either side of the street, parting a jagged and ineffective path of observers to the tragedy.

  Jasper inspected every passing face in the hope that the throng would reveal Merinda. But it was several moments before a black taxi swerved outside the grand hotel and four passengers spilled out.

  Merinda dashed over first, elbowing through those in her way.

  Jasper intercepted her, holding her back. “Merinda…” he pleaded.

  But her wiry frame was strong. “Where is she?”

  “The medics are—” Jasper began, but at that moment a familiar figure flew through the commotion and aimed straight at her, crashing into Merinda’s chest, encircling her waist, and holding on for dear life.

  Jem was not two steps behind and gently untangled the slight individual with a gentle grip on her shoulders. “Kat.”

  For, indeed, it was the girl. Horrified and shivering.

  “It’s Mouse.” Kat’s frantic eyes moved from Merinda to Jem to Jasper and then back to Merinda again.

  “Jasper said as much on the phone.”

  “Hit and run,” Jasper said quietly, scratching at the back of his neck.

  Martha and Ray tried to move in, but Jasper held them back. “There are too many people.” He looked at Martha. “I’ll give you the story later if you are amenable?”

  She nodded.

  “Ray?” Jasper motioned him over, and Ray followed suit.

  “I have to see how Jem is!”

  “I’ll take care of her,” Jasper said with finality. “Look. She’s attending to Merinda.”

  “Jasper—”

  “Just make sure that Martha stays clear away.” Jasper squeezed Ray’s shoulder. “If there’s any news, I will tell you.”

  “But… Jem…”

  “I’ll see to Jem. But this is a sensitive issue, and from what we both know about Martha Kingston, she’ll be eager for a headline. I want to make sure we have everything we need in order to make a fair assessment.”

  Ray read between the lines. “You think that this could be the same culprit who has been targeting the Cartiers?”

  Jasper shrugged. “It’s too early to say. I’ll make sure Jem is all right. Believe me.”

  Ray nodded. “I’ll take Martha away from the commotion.”

  Jasper nodded his thanks and went back to stand next to Jem.

  Kat was clinging to Merinda. She looked up at Jasper through the curls curtaining her forehead.

  “I… I… the automobile skidded and swerved,” Kat hiccupped. “It was like it was… as if… as if it was chasing us….” as she babbled almost incoherently, Jem and Merinda picked up pieces of the fragmented story. The car finally collided with Mouse, who was now on a stretcher being attended to by medics.

  “Mouse might be dead, and it’s all my fault.” Kat looked around. “And look,” her shaky hand held up a white feather. “Like in the papers.”

  Merinda couldn’t see straight. She couldn’t settle her eyes on Jem even as Jem pulled the urchin to her tightly and kept her still. In her mind’s eye, Merinda pulled back a curtain to reveal the horror of what her little Kat had just gulpingly described. And though the constables attempted to prevent her, she maneuvered past them and sprinted the last aching strides until she saw a motionless little Mouse, her perfect pixie face pale with one single ribbon of blood trailing to the pavement. Her arms and legs were crooked under her at a sickeningly still angle.

  “Is she dead?” Merinda demanded of an attendant.

  “Not yet,” he said coldly, transferring Mouse’s stretcher to the ambulance.

  Merinda pressed her hands into her curls, hunched on her knees. She’d never before felt such a sweeping wave of emotion that made everything tint red and green in her eyes, that twisted her stomach, and that obliterated any rational thought in her brain.

  Jem’s voice was behind her, but all she could do was stare and tremble and stare. Then she slowly drew in all the breath she could and straightened her shaking shoulders, walking back to the curb where Jem was still holding tightly to Kat.

  When Merinda spoke, it was a low gravelly tone foreign to Jasper and Jem. “I will destroy whomever did this.”

  Jasper told Kat to stay put as he motioned for Jem and Merinda to join him several feet back under the hotel’s awning. On any other day, a command to Kat would be akin to catching a slick fish with fingers, but she was too lifeless just now to do anything but obey.

  “White feather,” Jem said, her eyes red rimmed.

  Jasper nodded, taking it from her. He studied Merinda closely.

  “I will find out who did this, Jasper.” Merinda’s voice was a tight wire. “And he had better be prepared.”

  “Miss Herringford, Mrs. DeLuca, Constable Forth.” Skip sidled up. “Quote for the Hog?”

  “Now is not the time, Skip,” Jasper said to the photographer as Merinda lunged at him.

  “Get that ruddy camera out of my face, Skip McCoy!”

  Jasper restrained her, lest she set off like a rocket. “Easy there, Merinda.”

  She stared vacantly past his shoulder to where Mouse had lain behind the crowd. “Whoever did this almost slaughtered a child!”

  “Merinda, it’s disgusting, I know. It’s—”

  “And if he is willing to do this… if he is willing to… to…” She flung her hand toward the accident. “It’s war. He will not touch anyone else.”

  “Merinda. Don’t just dart after him—”

  She was trying to wriggle out of his arms. “Merinda!” Jasper tightened his hold. It pained him to hurt her, and he watched her winc
e from the force of his clasp, but he refused to let her go.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A detective learns how to compartmentalize. Use your brain as a filing system, keeping the most pressing and imminent facts at the forefront while filing those of not immediate relevance to the side, no matter how difficult.

  M.C. Wheaton, Guide to the Criminal and Commonplace

  Later, Merinda paced the Persian carpet in the sitting room.

  “Merinda, sit down. Have a cup of coffee. Mrs. Malone made shortbread.”

  Merinda didn’t hear Jem. “The universe is reminding me how clearly I have failed.”

  “You are going in circles, Merinda. I already told you—”

  “Dinner parties and rifle practice. I am playing at detective, aren’t I? Just like they always say.”

  “Who says, Merinda? That Carr fellow? Tertius Montague? You never listen to them anyway.”

  Merinda stopped a moment, and Jem brightened, hoping her incessant movement would stop. It didn’t.

  Merinda swerved and walked toward the blackboard. “We haven’t solved this white feather nonsense.”

  “We’re pursuing it. We just haven’t found our resolution.”

  “You’re not being helpful, Jemima.”

  “I’m sorry, Merinda. I am as heartbroken as you. I love that little girl, and—”

  Merinda spun on her heel and faced Jem. “We can’t just sit here.”

  “Well, what do you propose we do?”

  “I don’t know. Where’s DeLuca?”

  “Martha is offering him her byline to write about Montague’s war measures. If you think he could help—”

  “Nothing can help.” She paused and then opened her mouth to continue when a knock at the door distracted her.

  A few moments later, Mrs. Malone announced Heidi Mueller.

  “Miss Mueller,” Jem said with a smile.

  “Any news on my brother’s killer?” Heidi asked.

  Merinda stepped nearer and noticed that the poor girl was shaking, the dark moons under her eyes a testament to too many sleepless nights.

  “Unfortunately, no. You see, we’ve had some terrible news,” Jem explained.

  Merinda shook her head. “But we are not giving up.”

  “It’s bad enough I have to humiliate myself at city hall,” Heidi said. “Checking in, answering drivel. Tedious.”

  “Has the vandalism in the Ward stopped?” Jem asked.

  Heidi shook her head.

  Merinda bit her lip. “Tonight.” She decided boldly, grasping at the opportunity it afforded to put the awful day behind her. “We’ll solve this once and for all tonight.”

  In The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton, Holmes and Watson make use of silk masks and rubber-soled shoes in order to break into Milverton’s house and subsequently his safe. Jem, donning black trousers, shirt, and cap, couldn’t help but think of one of Merinda’s favorite stories.

  “It needs to be someone who can fit into any situation,” Merinda said as they set off into the breezy evening, the darkness falling portentously around them. “Someone who can flitter in and out of the Ward like a ghost at night with no one stopping him.”

  “Someone they are familiar with,” Jem added.

  “Exactly.” A smirk flirted with Merinda’s mouth, and Jem was thrilled to see her friend act a little more like herself.

  “Someone who has such a deeply ingrained hatred of so many that he would act on his own and not hesitate to distribute his particular sense of justice,” Jem continued as they walked in the direction of St. John’s Ward.

  Merinda’s eyes flew wide. “You really are a remarkable conductor of light,”* she squealed, taking Jem’s arm. “That’s it, Jemima! The man we are looking for tonight has every reason to be patrolling the Ward.”

  “You can’t mean…”

  “What if it is Russell St. Clair? Jasper hasn’t stopped harping on this fellow’s brand of prejudice. He can maneuver in and out of the Ward because he is a police officer. He is meant to be a beacon of protection, yet he can use the same influence to threaten and bully.”

  “Is he the murderer, then?” A chill tingled Jem’s shoulders.

  Merinda shrugged. “I can’t be sure. But I’m willing to put my bottom dollar on his skulking around tonight. No wonder he fought to keep poor Lars behind bars!”

  A slight breeze fluttered around them as they crossed Center Street. Mellow light spilled from ramshackle cottages, dogs yelped, and chickens clucked. Merinda and Jem kept to one side of the dirt road, Merinda rapping her crowbar-walking stick silently on her open palm. Her pistol was tucked safely in the waistband of her trousers. The murky light from the sputtering streetlamps did little to brighten the din of a night whose moon was hidden by latticelike clouds.

  They slowly crept along, Jem jumping at every noise, be it a squirrel, a fox’s errant footfall, or the raucous voices of men engaged in a ribald rhyme as they stumbled home from the tavern.

  A chiming clink sound drew their attention northward. They crouched and crept across the street, hiding behind a shrub while the clink began again. A shadowy figure was tossing pebbles, but not to rouse a sweetheart from slumber. Rather, he was doing so to plague and terrorize.

  Just then a trio of giggling young men stumbled into view. A lanky kid appeared under the swath of light.

  The black figure moved toward them, and Merinda and Jem saw one kid stumble back, most likely on account of unexpected collision with another man.

  Then they recognized a large, familiar figure as Lars Hult calmly crossed the road to confront the situation. Merinda and Jem edged closer, abandoning the hedge and watching in plain sight. If their hypothesis was correct and the man was indeed Russell, he would be too preoccupied with the situation swarming around him to make them out in the dim light.

  “These men were not causing any trouble.” Lars’s heavily accented voice cut through the darkness.

  “You again! I should’ve insisted you remain locked up!”

  Merinda snickered. “Well, well. It is Russell.”

  “And never once recognized.” Jem clucked her tongue as they watched Lars with rapt interest.

  “Of course not. He could easily rough up whatever kids he wanted, throw a few bricks, ransack a few properties, and then collect his uniform from a nearby location. Then he would return on the beat and convince the neighborhood he was keeping watch.” Merinda looked around as if expecting to find the uniform he must have discarded.

  They watched a few moments more, Lars’s physical presence controlling the situation. The kids scattered homeward while St. Clair attempted to stand his ground.

  Finally, Merinda motioned to Jem as she extracted her torch from her pocket and shone it in St. Clair’s direction.

  “Russell St. Clair!” she called as she illuminated him. “Take off that ridiculous cap.” When he failed to obey, instead gaping at her, she passed the torch to Jem and swiped it off his head. “You’re the lowest sort of cad.”

  “Merinda Herringford!” Russell said in surprise.

  Lars beamed, recognizing them both, most likely from their exploits in the Hog.

  “You will never bother the Muellers again!” Merinda threatened, her hands on her hips.

  “Or what? A girl will attack me with her walking stick?”

  “No,” Lars interjected with a knowing nod at Merinda. “But I will.”

  At his silent behest, Merinda passed Lars her walking stick, and he held it at an ominous angle. “You are fighting a war against people who would rather be left in peace. These boys are joining every day.”

  “Why do you hate so much?” Jem interjected.

  “I hate because I know.” Russell eyed Jem. “I know that we are better without this degradation to humanity.”

  “Spare me!” Merinda was seething. “So you would see men murdered with white feathers beside them to compensate for your own cowardice?”

  “What?”

  “You’re tellin
g us you didn’t murder Hans Mueller?” Merinda queried, with a flick of a look in Lars’s direction. Lars raised the walking stick and pressed it into Russell’s neck. With Merinda’s slight nod, he pressed harder.

  “What?” St. Clair repeated, sounding as if he were choking.

  “Harder!” Merinda bellowed to Lars.

  “Wait! I’m no m-murderer! You think I went and m-murdered Milbrook? Take this off me or I can’t answer you! You think I murdered Milbrook and Waverley and then stuck around to question them?”

  “But Mueller?” Merinda asked, while sending another pointed look at their unexpected ally.

  Lars leaned back and took the weight of his bulk with him. St. Clair was diminished in forced recline. Jem saw that St. Clair’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed uneasily, and his eyes under the dingy streetlight were fearful. “I-I didn’t mean to! It was an accident…”

  “An accident?”

  “I-I wanted to teach him a lesson. He was hiding something. I knew he was.”

  “So it had been another night,” Merinda began. “And you applied yourself to a patrol of your own making as you had many times before. But Hans evaded you, and Lars stepped in and you were angry. You never finished what you started. You knew that Hans worked at Spenser’s—you had seen him en route before. The station is not that far from there. So you followed him, wanting to teach him a lesson. You found him, tired and a little beaten down from the night before, which made him easier to corner…”

  “I didn’t mean to kill him. All right? It wasn’t my fault that he kept fighting back and that… I accidentally…” St. Clair cursed. “My only crime is wanting to drive these people away. I didn’t mean to kill him.” He swallowed, an act made difficult by the pressure of Merinda’s stick on his throat. “And I wasn’t the only person at Spenser’s that night.”

  “Who else was there?” Jem asked.

  “You think I know?”

  Lars released the walking stick and pinned Russell’s elbow behind his back. “What do we do now, Miss Herringford?”

  Merinda clucked her tongue and tapped her brogan. “Well, three people have heard him confess to murder, so we had best take him into the station and let the police deal with him.”