by Karen Kelly
Midblock they found the building number they were looking for, 135. Two five-story brick buildings stood close enough to allow just a metal fire escape between them. “Look!” Alice pointed to a rectangular, light-color stone set into the brickwork; the year 1883 was carved into it. “The building was definitely around in the 1920s.”
“Well, that answers your question, Alice,” said Ian. “Bianco lived quite close to the train station. And I can’t see any reason for believing he was at Widgery Wharf, can you?”
“Not after examining all of William’s notations and the verses,” said Annie. “Suppose for a minute that Bianco was paid to sabotage the ship. Why was he still around for the trial? Why didn’t he relocate since he would have had at least a little more money? He could have lost himself in Boston or New York City.” She looked at the building before them, boards nailed over the windows of the bottom two floors. “Let’s head to the last place. We’ll want to get there before the sun sets.”
They turned and walked away from the tenement building, but an echo of the dashed hopes of a young Italian family followed them.
21
“This is it.” Ian pulled over to the curb and parked in front of 127 High Street.
“Quite a contrast from the last residence,” said Annie, gazing up at the three-story Italianate mansion rising behind an intricate wrought-iron fence.
“Annie, do you have any idea why this house is included in William’s Bible?” asked Peggy. “What verse was it connected to?”
Annie consulted the spreadsheet. “It’s actually attached to two different verses.” She read out, “‘He sitteth in the lurking places of the villages: in the secret places doth he murder the innocent: his eyes are privily set against the poor.’” She paused to let the meaning sink into everyone’s mind. “And the other one is 2 Timothy 2:20, the one about a great house having vessels of honor and dishonor. I’d guess this was the home of whoever framed Bianco.”
“Well, if you have to lurk, sure is a nice place to do it,” said Peggy. “How do we find out who lives here now, and more importantly, in 1929?”
Alice opened the car door. “I’m going to get a closer look. Maybe there’s a name on the mailbox or something.” After getting out, she walked up to the gate. Locked. She peered through the iron rungs at the gracious front porch supported by two pairs of Ionic columns.
Peggy followed Alice out of the car. When Annie and Ian joined them by the fence, Alice shook her head in frustration. “No name anywhere, just the number. Now what do we do?”
Annie examined the length of fence. “There’s a call box over there. Shall we see if anyone will respond to a call?”
“I have a friend in Portland city government,” Ian said. “Let me give him a quick call first and see if he recognizes the house.” He unlocked his phone again. “Might be helpful to know who we’re buzzing, if we can.” He found the contact number and took a couple steps away from the group so the others could be free to talk.
Peggy was staring at the house, when she saw a curtain on the first floor move and then a face appear. “Alice!” she hissed. “Look at the left first-floor window. I think it’s Mr. Gerrish!”
Alice pivoted her head toward the window just in time to see the curtain fall back into place, swinging gently before hanging still. “Arg! I missed him.”
Ian finished his call and joined the group by the fence. “My friend knows the address well. It is the Gerrish mansion and has been since it was built in the 1860s.
“I was right, then,” said Peggy. “That was Mr. Gerrish I saw at the window.”
Annie gestured at the call box. “Let’s try buzzing, then. Maybe if you remind him who you are, he’ll talk to us.”
Before anyone could take a single step toward the box, the front door swung open, and Mr. Gerrish stomped to the edge of the porch, shouting, “No soliciting or loitering is allowed in front of my home! Go away!”
Peggy waved at the man as though he had just wished them a good day instead of yelling at them. She called out, “Hi, Mr. Gerrish! Do you remember us? You were so helpful at the research library when we met you a few weeks ago.”
Alice added, “We just want to thank you. May we come inside the gate so we don’t have to shout?”
The frown on the man’s face remained as he first stared at the four of them, and then up and down High Street.
“Mr. Gerrish, we’ve brought our friend who owns the old judge’s Bible that interested you so,” Peggy called out, trying again. There was still no response.
Alice made a last-ditch effort. “Even the mayor of our town has accompanied us.”
The man darted another look around him and hurried back into the house. Alice’s shoulders slumped. “I guess I pushed a little too hard. We may as well go.”
“Wait!” Annie put a finger to her lips and listened. She heard a metallic click. “He unlocked the gate!”
Peggy urged Alice, who was the nearest to the latch, “Hurry before he changes his mind!” Relief radiated from Alice as she rushed to open the gate.
Ian closed the gate behind him after everyone had passed through. “For a minute there I thought I was the final nail in the mystery coffin,” he said.
“I figured he wouldn’t want a government official wondering why he was being so antagonistic,” said Alice. “After all, his family obviously understood the power of connections.”
As the four climbed the front steps of the brownstone mansion, one side of the arched double door opened and a butler appeared. A slight bow accompanied his words. “Mr. Gerrish awaits you in the parlor. Allow me to take your coats.”
After shedding their outerwear, the visitors were escorted across the wide front entry covered in a geometric-patterned floor cloth. “Someone in this family had exquisite taste,” Alice murmured to Annie.
They entered the spacious parlor, the tall windows keeping the room filled with light, even with green paint on the walls and a dark carpet. A fire in the large fireplace added pleasant warmth. Mr. Gerrish stood by it, looking nervous.
Ian strode across the room to their host, holding out his hand. “Mr. Gerrish, I am Ian Butler. We appreciate you opening your home to us.”
A smile made a tentative appearance on the man’s gaunt face as he shook the mayor’s hand. “Please, call me Timothy.” He shifted to include everyone. “I apologize for shouting at you all. In the past, environmental groups occasionally targeted my family. They would start with a few people gathering at a time on the sidewalk, and then the group would grow into a mobbish scene. It can make one rather suspicious in nature.”
“We can have a mobbish look about us at times,” Peggy said, grinning. “You should see our needlecraft group. Downright scary, we are.”
The man’s smile deepened, losing its timidity. “All those sharp instruments don’t help, I’m sure.” He waved at the couches and chairs. “Please make yourselves comfortable.”
“Mr. Gerrish, this is Annie Dawson,” Ian made the second introduction before seating himself.
“I’m so pleased to meet you,” Annie said, smiling into the man’s light blue eyes. “Thank you for helping my friends with our research. Illness is rarely well-timed, and I was so relieved you were able to give them such expert help.”
A shadow fell over the man’s eyes as he shifted on his feet. Two portraits flanked the fireplace, and his eyes moved between them in contemplation. One was a woman, her light brown hair gathered in a smooth chignon and wearing a smile that could only be described as mischievous. The other canvas revealed a man whose face mirrored their host’s but was framed with thinning black hair, rather than the almost luxurious fullness of Timothy’s salt and pepper waves.
Finally he spoke. “Mrs. Dawson, I gave them more of an expert dodge than expert help, as I suspect you have figured out.” He gestured once more at the seating. “Please do sit down. This might take a while.”
Annie gave Timothy an encouraging smile and sat down next to Peggy on a couch
she was surprised to find comfortable, in spite of its formal style. Timothy stepped over by the door and pressed a button on an intercom panel mounted in the wall. “Pierson, tea for five, please.”
“The water is boiling, sir,” came the quick reply.
“Thank you.” Timothy returned to the others and sat down in the chair opposite Ian. “Where do I begin?” He took another quick glance at the portraits, and then nodded at them. “Those are portraits of my parents. Unlike many couples in their social circles, they were a match of love, not just assets.”
Ian smiled, poignancy hovering. “Rare, indeed.” The women wondered if he was thinking of his own parents or his own wife, Arianna, who had died much too young.
“They taught me to find what I loved to do and do it to the fullest. It wasn’t long before I knew I wanted to study history and learn from the past.” His eyes dropped as he picked at the cuff of his shirtsleeve. “My grandfather did not share my parents’ philosophy. He was furious that I was not being forced to assume the leadership of the family business.”
Peggy inserted like an eager student, “Wood pulp?”
“Yes, wood pulp,” he confirmed. “Briggs & Gerrish.” His hand and gaze indicated the opulence around them. “This is the house that wood pulp built. Wood pulp and greed.” Before he could continue, the door opened, and the butler wheeled in a tea cart laden with food and drink.
Once the refreshments were distributed, Pierson exited the room and their conversation resumed. “Now, where were we?” muttered their host, stirring his tea and setting the tiny spoon on the saucer. No one wanted to remind him the stopping point had been “wood pulp and greed” so they all concentrated on their tea and cake.
“Oh yes. That was it,” Timothy said to himself; then he addressed the others. “Greed. My grandfather was consumed with it, as his father had been before him. I don’t know how my father kept from being contaminated by it too, but he did.” He paused to take a sip of tea.
“Was your grandfather so obvious about it?” asked Annie. She was used to people trying harder to hide their less flattering ways.
Timothy set his teacup on the table in front of him. “Grandfather was adept at wearing whatever mask he needed at any given moment in order to get what he wanted. But when he realized my future was not in the business, I became like the family dog. He didn’t notice me unless I made a mess.”
Annie’s heart went out to the man beside her. She hated the thought of a grandchild being treated so thoughtlessly.
“As I entered my teens, I’d occasionally overhear my grandfather in his office.” A hint of a smile like his mother’s in the portrait touched his lips. “There was a secret passage leading from the wine cellar to his office. I discovered it after reading a book on Portland historical houses when I was ten. If I’d had the stomach for it, I could have listened for hours on end.” He sighed. “That’s how I first heard the name of the Baltic ship. I was fifteen and did what any good historian would do. Research.”
Ian swallowed his bite of cake and asked, “What did you find?”
Timothy stared down at his hands. “Evil. That’s what I found.” Then he looked up into the faces of his four visitors. “My grandfather wasn’t happy sharing the wood-pulp business with anyone, but especially not foreign companies. When production had dipped enough to open the way for importation of pulp into Portland, he took matters into his own hands.”
“When you say he took matters into his own hands, you don’t mean …” Alice paused. “Did he set the fire on the ship at Widgery Wharf?”
Timothy gave a quick shake of his head. “No, Grandfather never got his own hands dirty. But he might as well have, as far as guilt goes. He paid the men who did, and a sailor died for his greed. And that was just the beginning.” He lowered his face into his hands, as though the memory of what his grandfather had done was too heavy to bear.
Annie reached over to put a reassuring hand on the stricken man’s shoulder. “Such a heavy burden of knowledge for a teenager. How difficult it must have been for you.”
“It took me more than a decade to piece it all together.” He raised his head. “And I was filled with doubt, not truly knowing if I was interpreting the clues correctly until my grandfather’s death. Sometimes it takes nothing less than imminent death to put things into perspective for a stubborn man.”
Ian leaned forward toward Timothy. “My father always told me to keep short accounts before God and others because you don’t always know when death will come. Did your grandfather show true remorse?”
“In all honesty, I don’t really know,” the man answered. “It was a numb time for me. I was twenty-seven when he died and I’d never seen him as anything but tough and arrogant unless he was manipulating someone. What does sincerity look like on a person like that?” He drew in a deep breath. “But—near the end—he did tell me about the watch of that poor immigrant. It couldn’t have been easy for him to reveal what he did. How he’d noticed him at the train station when he’d met some business associates there, shuffling around looking for hire. The man had pulled out the watch to check the time. It was an unusual piece for a poor man to own, distinctive. So Grandfather paid a man to pickpocket it and place it near the ship.”
Peggy shifted the cake crumbs on her plate with the dainty dessert fork. “I wondered if someone had planted the watch on the wharf, especially when we found out the Biancos lived near India Street and nowhere near Widgery.”
“I suspected it for years,” said Timothy. “I just couldn’t prove it. Thankfully, forensics has come a long way since then, but that doesn’t help that sailor or the family that Grandfather destroyed.”
“It must have been a shock when my friends showed up asking about Song of Laima,” said Annie.
Alice flashed a wry grin at their host. “All things considered, you were quite the artful dodger.”
“Something I’m not proud of, I can assure you,” said their host. “It had been so long since I’d heard anything about the ship. My father sold the business in the early 1990s before he died.”
“To Oxford Fiber Industries,” Ian said as he nodded.
“Yes. Dad led the company admirably over the years, basing his decisions on solid—and honest—business principles. The sale was quite successful. But I was relieved to see the Briggs & Gerrish name retired forever. When you asked for research materials on the ship and wood-pulp industries, it was like I was a fifteen-year-old again; I panicked when I thought you might learn the truth.” He jabbed a forefinger into his chest. “Me! A historian—we’re not supposed to be afraid of truth.”
Annie and everyone else could see his sincerity. “Timothy, one of the Scripture verses William underlined seems to fit this situation well, and I hope it will be an encouragement to you. It’s Psalms 89:14 which says, ‘Justice and judgment are the habitation of thy throne; mercy and truth shall go before thy face.’ Both truth and mercy. Because he is a God of truth, he must also be a God of mercy. He knows us too well! All of us.”
Timothy turned to look at his parents again. “I never told them about what I discovered.”
“That’s a heavy burden to shoulder alone,” said Alice. “I hope you’ll be able to set it down now.”
“If I only knew what happened to the family of the man who Grandfather framed,” Timothy replied. “Then, maybe I could. But the trail was short and cold by the time I stumbled on any information on the family.”
Annie said, “If it’s any consolation, I found receipts of monies wired by William to the prisoner’s wife. While not a large amount for a judge, I’m sure it was much more than what Dante Bianco had been able to earn at the railroad station.”
Timothy looked eagerly into Annie’s eyes. “If you ever find out more about the immigrant family, will you please let me know?”
“I’d be happy to.” The four guests all jumped as the lighting in the room suddenly switched on, set on a timer. They’d been so intent on the conversation, they had not noticed t
he arrival of twilight. “We should be heading back to Stony Point. Thank you for your hospitality—and your honesty.”
A genuine smile softened the gaunt lines of their host’s face. “Thank you for not leaving when I shouted at you. I hope to see all of you again, either here or at the library.”
“Or come visit us in Stony Point,” said Peggy, standing. “I know where you can get a strong cup of coffee.”
They moved across the parlor and into the entryway. Pierson met them with their coats. After saying their goodbyes, as they walked down the cheerfully lit path to the gate, Alice asked, “Does anyone else feel as though Christmas has already come?”
22
Four days later, on Christmas Eve, Annie carried a cake into the dining room of Grey Gables and set it in the middle of the table. Alice followed her with a vessel resembling a gravy boat.
Elsa Atwater clapped her hands together, anticipation brightening even her normally enthusiastic demeanor. “Annie, this looks scrumptious!”
“English toffee cake beats fruitcake hands down in my book,” Alice declared, placing her contribution next to the cake platter. “Especially with extra toffee topping.” She sat down as Annie served them each a slice, noticing the piece her friend placed before Ron was particularly hearty.
The reticent man nodded his thanks and took a bite of the moist dessert.
“Would you like a drizzle of topping?” Alice asked him. Having observed him during dinner and having added the experience to what Annie had already told her about Ron’s personality, she felt comfortable with her new acquaintance’s manner.
“Doesn’t need it,” was the reply, Ron’s fork already nipping off another sliver of cake.
As Annie basked in the triumph of Ron’s answer, Elsa winked at Alice. “I’ll take his portion of topping, please.” She pushed her plate closer to Alice, who poured on a generous amount.
After taking a bite, and enjoying it more slowly than her husband, Elsa smiled at the three sitting around her. “Annie, this has been a delightful meal! How thankful I am you tracked down our phone number.”
