by Rhys Bowen
“We thought that maybe Mrs. Blackwell stayed at the Brevoort because it is within easy reach of the settlement house and the Lower East Side,” Sid said. “One can walk the distance with sturdy shoes on. They speak very highly of Mrs. Blackwell there, by the way. One of their most devoted patrons and workers.”
“And what about Letitia?” I asked.
“She comes quite regularly with her mother,” Sid said, “and once or twice with her fiancé. The comment was that they made a lovely couple and seemed quite enraptured with each other.”
“The settlement workers were expecting her to come and help them the day she disappeared,” Gus said. “They were planning an outing for the children to Coney Island the next day. Miss Blackwell was supposed to be one of the chaperons, and there was to be a final planning meeting that day. They were annoyed when she didn’t arrive.”
An outing to Coney Island? Until this moment I hadn’t seen any connection between Letitia and the murdered girls, but at the mention of the name, I felt my skin prickle. Letitia had been scheduled to go to Coney Island—but not until the next day. Letitia hadn’t actually gone there. Everything seemed to revolve around that place—and yet how could the murder of a prostitute, a prizefight, a doped horse, and a children’s outing be linked? It had to be one of those strange coincidences that haunt us in our lives—or maybe it was my Irish temperament seeing portents where there were none.
“What is it, Molly?” Gus asked.
“Nothing. It just startled me that an outing to Coney Island was planned. Everything I do seems to be somehow linked to that place. And yet I can see no connections.”
“It’s a big, bustling place,” Sid said. “New Yorkers practically live there during the summer months, so it’s no wonder you hear it mentioned so often.”
Of course she was right, and I was overreacting again. After all, what possible connection could there be between the patrician Letitia and some murdered prostitutes? Then the chilling thought came to me—one of the girls had not been a prostitute, had she? Letitia’s Coney Island connection did need to be investigated after all.
“So tell me, at the settlement house, was there any hint of a young man who might have been interested in Letitia?”
“As a matter of fact there was,” Sid said. She was still looking very pleased with herself. “He’s a divinity student who volunteers there from time to time. I was told that he seemed quite smitten with Miss Blackwell and awfully anxious to help her.”
“And was she smitten with him?”
“That wasn’t mentioned. In fact, her devotion to her fiancé was stressed.”
“Has he been seen there since that day?”
“Apparently he has gone home to his family for the summer. They live in Newport, Rhode Island.”
“You have his name?”
“We do,” Sid said. “You see what wonderfully efficient sleuths we are.”
“And since my family has numerous acquaintances in Newport, it should be easy enough to find his address,” Gus added. “You’ll just have to make us partners in your firm, Molly.”
“In fact, we’re all ready to go out to Newport and interrogate the suspect,” Sid said.
“Oh, I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” I said hastily, imagining the stir it would cause if Sid and Gus started interrogating.
“You’ve done marvelously,” I added. “And you’ve saved me precious time when I have not a moment to spare.”
“So you’re no closer to rescuing Daniel?”
I sighed. “I wish I could say yes, but that’s just not so. I have leads, I have theories, but nothing that’s a clear indication of the path I should follow.”
“What about the murdered prostitutes?” Sid asked. “Did Dr. Birnbaum actually take you along with him to the morgue?”
“The officers in charge wouldn’t let him,” I said. I had been going to tell them of my adventure with Sabella Goodwin when Gus said firmly, “And quite right, too. What good could possibly come from going to a place like that?”
“And it can have no bearing on Daniel’s case, Molly,” Sid added.
“I’m inclined to agree with you,” I said. “My latest theory is that the commissioner of police himself is the one I should be investigating. He is the only one who could have arranged with ease to come upon Daniel at exactly the incriminating moment. And he plans to visit The Tombs this week. Arabella suggested the guilty party would want to gloat over his victim.”
“Do you have any idea what Daniel might have done to upset the police commissioner? I’d have thought they should be on the same side,” Gus said.
“Daniel himself has no idea,” I said. “I’m going to the Herald tomorrow to look through old newspaper articles. Maybe some sordid aspect of Mr. Partridge’s past will come to light.” I sank my head into my arms. “I wish Paddy Riley hadn’t been killed. I could have learned so much from him. I’m a hopeless detective, you know. I just stumble upon things, more by luck than by skill.”
“I know this case means a lot to you, Molly, but Sid and I feel you’ve been overdoing it lately,” Gus said with concern. “You’re not looking well. Why can’t you rest for a couple of days? You’ll feel so much better.”
I should tell them the truth now. I tried to form the words in my head, but I couldn’t. Then it occurred to me that by tomorrow Mrs. Goodwin might have set up an appointment for me with a certain lady. Whether I would have the nerve to keep that appointment, I really couldn’t say.
“I’ll take a rest soon, I promise you,” I said.
TWENTY-FOUR
The next morning I woke to gray skies and steady, unrelenting rain. Hardly the sort of day to be out and about. Not that I felt much like being out and about anyway. My day started with a bout of sickness that left me feeling hollow and frail. And I didn’t want to miss Mrs. Goodwin’s visit. I hoped she’d stop by on her way home after her night shift. I felt excited and anxious at the same time, as if I was waiting for the results of an important examination. Don’t get your hopes up, I told myself. Perhaps the woman will want too much money. Perhaps she’ll refuse to see me. And if she agreed? My heart started racing at the thought of it. Was there any sin worse in the universe than killing your own child? And yet what sort of life would it be for the both of us? How could I go through with this on my own?
By midday Mrs. Goodwin still had not appeared. The rain had subsided to a light drizzle, and I paced impatiently. At last I could stand it no longer. If she hadn’t come by now, then surely she had gone home after her long night vigil and was now sleeping. I wouldn’t be likely to see her before this evening. I should go to the Herald and see what the fearsome Miss Pritchard had uncovered for me.
I was just turning onto Sixth Avenue when I saw a young policeman heading my way with purposeful strides and recognized him as Constable Byrne. Hope surged that he had come to escort me to Daniel again. He tipped his helmet as he approached me.
“Miss Murphy,” he said, “I’ve been asked to deliver this note to you.”
“Is it from Captain Sullivan?” I asked.
“I’m afraid it isn’t. It’s from one of our matrons. She apologized for not coming herself, but she was exhausted after a night in the rain and felt that she had to get some rest if she wasn’t to come down with a dreadful chill.”
He handed me the envelope.
“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate it. So you haven’t had a chance to see Captain Sullivan again?”
“No, miss.”
“And you’ve heard nothing? What are they saying about him at headquarters?”
“Nothing, miss. They’re saying nothing. It’s as if he never existed.”
“And what about this investigation that Quigley and McIver are leading? Is there any talk at the station about that? Any hunches? Any suspects?”
He grinned. “If there are, miss, they don’t share them with me. I’m just a constable on the beat. But I was assigned to that patrol myself the other day. Dreary work stan
ding on a street corner and nothing happening.”
“You didn’t see any suspicious vehicles then?”
“What kind of vehicles?”
“Carriages? Large and presumably enclosed carriages?”
“Oh no, miss. Nothing like that. In fact, the only vehicles to pass me during one twelve-hour shift were delivery drays, a couple of hansoms, and one automobile. That was about it. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious,” I said and declined to go into details. Maybe it would be better if nobody at police headquarters knew I was following this case.
He shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “Well, I best be getting back then, miss. I’ve work to do.”
“Of course you have, Constable. Thank you again.”
He nodded, then turned on his heel. I couldn’t help wondering if I should have tipped him. But since I was currently more of a pauper than he, it seemed a strange thought. The moment he was gone, I tore open the envelope.
My dear Miss Murphy,
I must apologize for not delivering this in person, but I am soaked to the skin after a night of observation on the Lower East Side and can only think of getting home to dry clothes and a warm bed. Another fruitless night, I’m afraid. But at least no more bodies. The advertisement should have run in this morning’s papers, so we’ll see what turns up.
And on the other matter we discussed. My friend’s name is Mrs. Rose Butler. I told her about you and she says she’d be delighted for you to pay her a call this evening, around eight, if that is convenient. She wouldn’t want you going home alone in the dark and would expect you to stay the night at least. You’ll find her a most competent and organized person. Her address is 231 Allen Street.
I do hope you take her up on her kind invitation. You’ll find the visit most worthwhile. But I should warn you to be on your guard throughout the Lower East Side after dark. Detective Quigley’s latest theory is that the murderer may ride around in his carriage or wagon or even automobile, looking for likely girls to snatch off the streets. He may then take them to a house nearby or may even pull into a convenient alleyway and assault them there, in the vehicle. So please be alert, and at the first sign of danger run, scream, and draw attention to yourself.
Believe me when I say that I wish you all the best and that your health should improve in the near future.
I remain yours truly,
Sabella Goodwin
I noted the clever way the letter was phrased so that there was nothing incriminating in it. So Mrs. Goodwin suspected that other eyes might read her letter, did she? That was interesting. I found myself trembling. “Mrs. Rose Butler, 231 Allen Street.” I said the words out loud, like a chant, over and over. And she was prepared to see me tonight, if I dared to go through with it. My hand strayed involuntarily to my stomach. Eight o’clock, I thought. That gave me almost eight hours to think about it. All the more reason to throw myself into my work so fully that I didn’t have time to think.
I climbed the steps to the El station and headed back to Herald Square. Today I had taken rather more trouble with my appearance, wearing my business suit and tying my hair back with a black bow. The lady in archives seemed to approve, and she nodded at me in almost kindly fashion.
“I have located a good sampling of material for you on the commissioner. What a fine man. I’m glad he is to be honored.”
She indicated that I should sit at a long, mahogany table, then produced a box of typewritten sheets, yellowed newspaper clippings, photographs, and etchings. I sat under one of the ceiling lamps and started to work my way through. Mr. Partridge, it seemed, had led an exemplary life. He had been commended for his hard work and devotion to duty by Theodore Roosevelt, when the latter had been commissioner of police himself. He had served in various other boring city departments—ways and means and public works—nothing glamorous and certainly nothing controversial. A short biography detailed his background as son of an Episcopal minister, his education at Princeton, his time as a lawyer, his marriage to a highly suitable young woman, and the birth of four daughters.
I started to flip through the pictures. There were photographs of Mr. Partridge shaking hands with Teddy Roosevelt, with the mayor, with the chief of police upon his appointment. Then I found myself looking at a photograph that made my pulse quicken. The headline stated: CITY BUSINESSMEN WELCOME IRISH CHAMPION TO NEW YORK. And several smiling men stood around a handsome racehorse. At last I had my link. Mr. Partridge was part of the syndicate that owned the winning horse that day at Brighton Race Track.
For a moment I was jubilant. I’ve got you now, John Partridge, I thought. Then I found myself rethinking things. So John Partridge was part owner of a horse that had won on that fateful day. Didn’t that just make it a lucky coincidence? The man I had spoken to at the racetrack hadn’t thought that any horse had a clear chance of winning with the favorite removed. And even if the worst had happened, even if Mr. Partridge’s syndicate had been responsible for doping the favorite, they would have made sure that they could not be directly connected to the crime. They were, after all, powerful city businessmen. Such men have underlings to do their dirty work. And even if Daniel had discovered that Partridge was part of the syndicate, was it really so damning?
I started to write these thoughts in a letter to Daniel, then thought better of it. It was quite possible that all his mail would be read by unfriendly eyes. I certainly didn’t want to make things worse for him. I’d have to approach his lawyer and see if we could arrange another visit to The Tombs. And I still hadn’t found out if someone was paying his lawyer to lose the case…. Once again I felt overwhelmed by everything that lay ahead of me. Even if I proved that Mr. Partridge was privy to horse doping, I couldn’t prove that he had planted the money on Daniel himself. It wouldn’t release Daniel from prison.
It looked as if I had no choice but to go through with tonight’s appointment after all.
TWENTY-FIVE
I arrived home by three o’clock. That left five more hours to brood. I looked out of my upstairs window across the street to Number Nine. I longed to have company, but I knew I couldn’t. Sid and Gus were so perceptive of my moods. They would ask me what was wrong, and I might well break down and tell them. Not that they would judge me, but I couldn’t do it. So I penned a note to Mr. Atkinson, the lawyer, requesting a chance to meet with Daniel as soon as possible to report on newly surfaced information that might help his case. If Atkinson was a spy for someone, then that might just cause a stir.
There was no sign of Sid or Gus all afternoon. I half hoped that Mrs. Goodwin would stop by in person. God knows I could have used a friendly face and a chat because I was definitely going through last-minute jitters about what lay ahead of me. Seven-thirty came at last and I set out. I had packed a nightgown, hairbrush, and face flannel in a bag, just as if I was going for a visit to a friend. I had also brought my checkbook with me. I had no idea how much she would want or how much I could really afford. There was still some of Paddy Riley’s money left, but it was dwindling fast with the lease on the house, at least through October, and no money coming in. I also had no idea whether I would actually have the nerve to go through with it when I reached Mrs. Butler’s house.
It was still raining and I held an umbrella over me as I splashed through puddles along Fourth Street to First Avenue. I knew that First turned into Allen Street on the other side of Houston. I suppose I could have taken a horse-drawn bus to get me across town, but they were generally slower than walking. Besides, the cold water splashing up around my ankles kept me tied to reality at this moment when everything else felt decidedly unreal. I don’t think I had ever felt more alone, not even when I fled from Ireland. Not even when I was thrown out of Nuala’s house after I first arrived in Manhattan.
As I crossed from West to East, the streets became more crowded, and as I turned south on First, it became positively clogged with humanity. The street itself under the El was lined with pushcarts trying to avoid the worst of the rain, and t
he pedestrians were channeled along a narrow path between storefronts and carts, accosted from both sides by merchants shouting their wares. At any other time I would have enjoyed the lively scene. Now the crowd was just an added nuisance through which I had to negotiate.
I should have taken the El after all because it was a long way down Allen Street. I crossed Rivington, then Delancey. At Rivington I looked longingly toward the East River to where Jacob lived. How long ago it seemed that I had hurried down to his studio by the river and he had welcomed me with a glass of tea. Then life had been safe and relatively un-complicated. If only I had felt differently about him. What a pity I wasn’t willing to settle for security over love.
Still, there was no point in brooding over what might have been. I was trapped in the present, and there was no way out but through 231 Allen Street. It was a tall tenement like any other, rising five or six floors high. The ground floor was occupied by a tailor shop. Gaslights were on and someone was still working. I went in and asked for Mrs. Butler. From the way the man looked at me, I guessed he knew what Mrs. Butler did as a profession.
“Fourth Floor, at the front.” He almost spat out the words.
This is how you would be treated every day of your life with an illegitimate child, I reminded myself and started to climb the stairs. There were raised voices on the second floor—a woman and man yelling at each other in what sounded like Italian. If I could hear so easily through this closed door, what would happen if I cried out later? I hadn’t thought about the pain that might be involved. Now I did. I had seen women in childbirth screaming and crying and imploring the Blessed Virgin to take them out of their misery. I hesitated and took the next flight more slowly. I couldn’t turn back now, could I? After all, Mrs. Goodwin was risking her own career by getting involved on my behalf with something so horribly illegal.
