A Dangerous Legacy

by Elizabeth Camden

  It was easy to get lost down here. Signage was minimal, and most of the tunnels looked alike. Some led to freshwater supply pipes while others connected to the sewer system that carried wastewater to the filtering stations and then out to the river. Thousands of men earned a living in this underground world, and even vagrants managed to slip down via the manhole covers to seek shelter. It was hard to imagine that life could be so bad that people chose to make their home in this dank, gaslit world, but Nick swore that anytime he ventured too far away from a work site, he’d see tramps and vagabonds scavenging for coins or other treasures that rolled down into the sewers.

  It was summer, but things always felt chilly in the clammy air down here. A little water pooled along the concrete floor of the tunnel as she followed it back to where Nick worked, installing a new water regulator. Sandhogs and plumbers sent her curious stares as she passed but made no effort to interfere as she headed to Nick’s station.

  Nick had his flashlight pointing at the valve he was adjusting. His back was to her as he squatted to work at the base of the regulator, but a plumber on the other side looked at her quizzically. Nick noticed and swiveled. Maybe it was only the dim gaslight that made the planes of his face look grim when he saw her.

  “You look a little out of place down here, Luce.” His voice was as stern as his expression.

  It was too much. Against her will, the muscles of her face screwed up, and tears pooled, threatening to spill over.

  Nick dropped his wrench and stood. “What’s wrong?”

  “Samuel Ballard got married.”

  “Aw, Luce . . .”

  He tugged her into his arms, and she buried her face against his shoulder, but she held on and didn’t cry. It wasn’t that she loved Samuel anymore, but sometimes things just got so hard.

  “I saw her,” she mumbled against his shoulder. “The woman he married. She’s got a big nose and a long face.” Even so, Samuel’s wife was pretty. She looked happy and healthy and like a good match for him.

  “I pity their children,” Nick said. “If she’s got a snout as big as his, it’s bound to get passed down. Poor kid won’t even be able to lift his head.”

  A watery gulp of laughter escaped her. “Thanks, Nick,” she managed to say. They shouldn’t be teasing like this, but it helped put a little salve on her battered heart.

  Nick extracted himself. “How did you find out?”

  “I ran into them at the lawyer’s office.” An infinitesimal flash of tension crossed Nick’s face, but she continued. “I went by to pay the bill and discuss what happens next. We can get the motion to delay on bad faith dismissed, I know—”

  “I’m done, Luce.”

  “You can’t be done. This is bigger than just us.”

  “I’m done. I don’t care anymore.” He glanced at the water regulator he’d been working on, a giant, complex piece of machinery only a skilled plumber could maintain. “I’ve got a good job, and I don’t want to go through the rest of my life paying lawyers for the privilege of getting kicked in the face year after year.”

  “So you’re going to let Uncle Thomas win?” Her voice echoed off the wet brick of the tunnel.

  “I don’t care what word you give it,” Nick said, his voice tired but not angry. “I’m done. I want more from life than what we’ve had so far.”

  If it weren’t for this lawsuit, Nick would have probably found some good woman and be settled by now. Certainly, she and Samuel would be married. A chill raced through her, and she tightened her arms around her middle. It was always so cold down here.

  It was embarrassing to have collapsed like this, and it was time to pull herself back together. She was a Drake. A survivor. If she got knocked down ten times, she would stand up eleven. She needed Nick back in the fight, for the consequences were growing dangerous.

  “I intercepted another message,” she said in a low tone. “I’ve got more details about the plot, and it sounds like they are aiming at anyone involved with the Panama Canal. Maybe even the president.”

  Nick shook his head. “I think your imagination is out of control. I think you’re so wrapped up in believing the worst of Uncle Thomas that you can’t see straight anymore.”

  “I showed both notes to Colin Beckwith at Reuters, and he believes me.”

  Nick nearly exploded. “You told some limey we don’t even know about that wire?” His voice echoed off the brick walls, and everyone in the tunnel turned to gape at them.

  “Yes, Colin knows. He is an unbiased observer of everything that’s been happening, and he thinks it warrants looking into. I’m not letting Uncle Thomas get away with anything. I’ll keep fighting however long it takes, and I’ll do it with or without you. I’m not a quitter.”

  Nick’s glare was smoldering as she left him standing in the tunnel.

  Worries plagued her all day as she listened to the cascade of furious clicking coming across her sounder. She transcribed stories of a new steamship christened in the docks of Liverpool, of a royal wedding in Austria, and the discovery of oil in a Texas cow patch. There was a huge world of opportunity out there, but she wasn’t part of it. She sat at a tiny workstation on the sixth floor of the Western Union building and listened to the rest of the world venturing into the future while she was mired in legal bills and a forty-year-old court case.

  Maybe Nick was right.

  To make it worse, as she walked into her apartment, she smelled cigarette smoke again. Nick was already home, his nose buried in the evening newspaper. The frostiness from their afternoon spat continued, for he didn’t even bother to look up as she entered.

  “Don’t tell me you can’t smell that,” she said as she tossed her bag down.

  “Smell what?”

  “Cigarettes. Doesn’t it bother you that this is the third time in a month our home has reeked of tobacco after no one was home all day?”

  Nick jerked the newspaper shut and threw it on the table. He stalked to the hall closet and banged it open. “Come on. I’m blocking off the ceiling vent. It means we’ll have stale air, but at least you can quit carping about the neighbor lady’s cigarettes.”

  It was a good idea. At this time of year, they could leave the window open for fresh air. If they blocked the vent, she could learn for certain if someone was sneaking into their apartment or if Nick was right and the stink was all from the lady upstairs.

  “I’ll get the toolbox,” she said. She also grabbed an old pillow small enough to fit into the vent.

  She held the ladder while Nick unscrewed the plate on the ceiling. Clumps of dust fell as he pulled it away and handed it down to her. Her nose twitched, and she fought the impulse to sneeze. She was about to hand the pillow up to Nick when he stopped her.

  “There’s something up here,” he said, twisting to reach inside. More clumps of dust fell as he dragged out a maroon canvas bag.

  It was her father’s missing satchel.

  Her mouth went dry. How many times had they searched the apartment for that bag and come up empty? She met Nick’s gaze, his somber face indicating he knew exactly what he held.

  “Let’s open it,” he said grimly. They’d been looking for this satchel since the week her father died, but they both dreaded knowing its contents. The memory of her father’s face, white with fear as he clutched the satchel, was still etched in her mind.

  Nick lifted the flap and withdrew a photograph. It was a picture of her father, staring at the camera, all the sorrow in the world etched on his face. He was strapped into a chair and wearing a straitjacket.

  Nick dropped the picture. “What is that?” he snarled.

  Lucy didn’t even want to touch it, but she needed to know. She picked up the photograph and drew it closer. Her father’s eyes were frantic, pleading. She could make out nothing of the room, but lettering at the bottom of the photograph indicated where it was taken.

  The Ridgemoor Insane Asylum.

  Ridgemoor was north of the city, an ominous building surrounded by a wroug
ht-iron fence and overgrown hedges to keep curious onlookers away. Schoolchildren were threatened with it if they did not behave. And her father had been in that horrible place? Her father?

  An envelope peeked out from the satchel. She grabbed it and unfolded the letter inside. She read quickly:

  Warren,

  It pains me to learn you are suffering from the same insanity which affected your father, but I understand such conditions are often passed from one generation to the next. I hope your brief stay at Ridgemoor was of benefit to you. We can arrange additional visits if necessary. Furthermore, perhaps your children should be evaluated by a competent physician, for if either Nick or Lucy shows signs of mental volatility, it is best they receive treatment early, and the Ridgemoor Asylum is happy to accommodate children.

  On another matter, I hope we can reach a speedy conclusion to the lawsuit over the valve. I fear the protracted lawsuit may have exacerbated your mental instability and your intransigence is a sign of continuing mental illness. Perhaps the judge would be interested in the attached photograph. I have many copies.

  Sincerely,

  Thomas Drake

  She tamped down a wave of nausea and glanced at the date on the letter. It was written in 1891, the same time her father had visited Oakmonte and did not return for a solid month. No wonder her father had been terrified of Uncle Thomas.

  She passed the letter to Nick, too sickened to even speak. His face soured with revulsion as he read.

  “How could Uncle Thomas have gotten away with this?” he demanded. “Dad suffered from moods, but he wasn’t crazy.”

  “If you have enough money, you can buy anything,” she said faintly. Including paying a physician to commit her father to an insane asylum. How could a man prove he was not insane? The frantic expression on her father’s face certainly looked like a mentally unbalanced man. Anyone forced into a straitjacket and ripped away from his family would be frantic.

  “I’m going to kill him,” Nick said, his voice vibrating with anger. “Next time I see Thomas Drake, my hand to God, I’m going to kill him.”

  “Stop it,” she said. “We have to be smart about this. Maybe there’s some way we can use this letter. It’s a clear case of blackmail.” Not only did Uncle Thomas threaten to have her father committed if he failed to drop the lawsuit, he’d threatened to go after children.

  Nick’s hands curled into fists, and he took a series of long, slow breaths. “Uncle Thomas has no idea what kind of dragon he just awakened,” he said, his voice vibrating with suppressed fury. “I’m back in the fight.”

  Chapter

  Fourteen

  The first evening’s dinner at Oakmonte was an informal affair, with only the Drakes, Dr. Schroeder and his wife, and Colin. Aperitifs were served on the outdoor terrace, where fresh flowers graced the table and a gentle breeze cooled the June evening. Although Colin had come in search of information on Lucy’s ominous telegrams, his entire focus had shifted to the chance to delve into Dr. Schroeder’s fascinating research about the human brain and what triggered its behavior.

  The topic had to be handled gently, and he started with the wives, who were usually willing to follow his lead in answering meandering questions that ultimately led to his prime objective. Despite her age, Mrs. Schroeder had a willowy elegance that was probably the envy of women half her age.

  He smiled as he approached her in the rose garden. “What is it like to be married to a doctor of psychology? Do you fear he is secretly scrutinizing your every move?”

  “Fear it?” she asked with a smile. “After forty years of marriage, I am delighted that he still has the interest to be scrutinizing me at all.”

  Colin grinned, and Dr. Schroeder joined the conversation.

  “Henrietta Schroeder, you shall have me spellbound until my dying breath,” the old doctor said fondly. “An involuntary reaction, but I am helpless to resist.”

  Colin watched the pair interact. They were both vibrant and lively despite their age, but he wasn’t here to enjoy the sight of a healthy marriage. He wanted access to Dr. Schroeder’s knowledge.

  “Tell me more about involuntary reactions,” he said. “Do you truly believe there are parts of our brain we are powerless to control?”

  “I don’t believe so,” the doctor quickly replied. “I think it is just a matter of willpower.” He proceeded to outline the factors of self-discipline, a combination of suppressing instinctive urges, delayed gratification, and commitment to improving the mind through training. Colin hung on every word, wondering how he could put these principles into practice. He was about to ask when Tom Jr. and his companion arrived back home.

  The entire dynamic of the conversation altered. Colin swallowed his frustration as Thomas stepped forward to offer formal introductions.

  “Sir Beckwith, this is Felix Moreno, an attorney from Manhattan.”

  Centuries of inbred training helped Colin mask the shock from his face. This was the lawyer whose office was on the other end of Lucy’s illegal wire.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said as he shook the lawyer’s hand. This was excellent. Apparently Tom Jr. and Mr. Moreno were thick as thieves . . . perhaps literally. He’d assumed it was the elder Drake who was behind the messages Lucy intercepted, but perhaps it was Tom Jr.

  The group went in to dinner, and Colin smoothly ignored Margaret’s attempt to steer him into the chair beside her, heading toward Felix Moreno instead. It was time to start honing in on the enigmatic messages Lucy overheard.

  “How’s the law business in Manhattan these days?” he asked as soon as they were seated.

  Felix sawed into his beef cutlet. “Aside from Mr. Drake, I’ve turned most of the firm’s business over to junior members of the firm. I’m much more interested in politics these days.”

  Mrs. Schroeder joined the conversation. “Do you really think Tom has a chance at Congress?”

  “I know it,” Felix said. “Youth is no obstacle. What’s needed is resolve, confidence, and vision. Tom has all three.”

  Colin turned to Tom. “And your vision is?”

  Tom set down his fork, straightened, and recited an obviously prepared statement. “The president is overstepping, and we need strong men in Congress who can serve as the foundation of our government. Even after Roosevelt is defeated in the next election, we need to ensure this sort of roughshod treatment he is delivering can never happen again. Brave men in Congress are the first step.”

  “Well said,” his mother murmured, approval glowing in her eyes. Even Tom’s father had a proud smile as he listened to his son, but wasn’t it natural for parents to dote on their children? Colin remembered his own father’s pride when his newly born sister Mary was only a few hours old and she sneezed. Sneezed! And his father beamed like she had just discovered the secrets for harnessing electricity. Colin was four years old, and it was his first lesson in realizing that parents could be irrational about their children.

  Less understandable was Mr. Moreno’s overgenerous opinion of Tom Jr.’s natural brilliance for political office.

  Although Colin thought he might have to finesse the discussion into something relating to the intercepted messages, the opportunity happened naturally the moment Felix learned Colin worked for Reuters.

  “What do you think of all this Panama Canal hullabaloo?” Mr. Moreno asked. Before Colin could reply, Mr. Moreno answered his own question. “I think it’s all nonsense. Everyone acts as if it’s a done deal, when it is far from reality. There are other options for a canal rather than going through Panama. The Nicaraguan route makes more sense, but why do I rarely see it reported in the newspapers?”

  Colin didn’t even have time to open his mouth before Tom Jr. joined the fray. “Anytime that much money is wrapped up in a deal, someone is getting paid off. Half the congressmen in Washington couldn’t even find Panama on a map, and they act as if it’s the only route for a canal.”

  Colin parsed his words carefully. “Now that the president a
nd the independent commission have both endorsed the Panama route, it seems to be the natural focus of scrutiny.”

  The statement caused Mr. Moreno to lower his chin and raise his voice. “That’s because the press isn’t doing its job. You are at the helm of Reuters. Why don’t you do something about it?”

  It seemed neither Tom nor his lawyer friend understood how a news agency worked. Reuters and the AP produced thousands of stories, but it was up to individual newspapers to select the handful they wanted to print.

  “I merely manage a news agency,” he said. “I’m paid to be politically neutral.”

  Tom Jr. smirked. “Neutral is just another word for ‘neutered.’ I’d rather die than suffer political castration. A real man must be permitted to make his mark on the world.”

  Both ladies at the table winced in embarrassment, but Colin had lived through far worse than potshots from a spoiled boy.

  “Benjamin Franklin once said the pen is mightier than the sword, but he never met you, Tom. The world awaits your debut on the stage of history with breathless anticipation.”

  Margaret missed the irony in his voice. “Here, here,” she said warmly.

  Colin was coming to understand why Tom Jr. had such a high opinion of himself. As much as he longed to knock a bit of the smug off Tom, he needed to play this game carefully and wait.

  The sun had set by the time Colin returned to his room and stepped onto the balcony. To his delight, Beatrice had returned from the city. He found her beside the birdcage, happily gorging on suet and dried peas.

  Lucy had attached a note to Beatrice’s leg:

  Your birds are valiant, tireless, and steadfast. They are female, so it comes with the territory.