Then there was the schoolteacher who weren’t no schoolteacher. Emmy didn’t know what she was. She wasn’t a loose woman. No, it was some kind of hardness about her, a powerful sharp edge most folks didn’t seem to notice. She suspicioned that Johnny saw it, but she also suspicioned he was sweet on that Miss Duniway. Emmy didn’t like it, not at all.
Finding that letter under Miss Duniway’s bed seemed providential. Whoever this Daniel was, Miss Duniway was in a bad way over him. How would Johnny take that? If those two kept making eyes at one another, Emmy was of the opinion she’d find out.
Episode 24: On Fair Authority
Sunday evening, it rained, the first of the chill drenchings that usually began in late autumn and lasted until it turned to snow around Thanksgiving. “You sure you wanna go out in this, brother?” said Rabbit, toasting his feet on the parlor woodstove fender.
Mrs Smith clicked her darning needle against the wooden egg inside the stocking she was mending. “Take your oilskin, Mr John,” she murmured.
“I’m only going next door, Minnie,” he said affectionately, then turned to his son. “I wish to speak with you particularly when I return, Jamie.”
Jamie looked up from his tin soldiers. “What for?”
“I think you know,” said John as he headed out the door. Jamie scowled and killed a regiment with the back of his hand.
John shook his head as he walked to the Prakes’ house. Jamie worried him. The boy was understandably upset about his mother, but John had been hoping the pain would wear off in a year or so. Not that he himself no longer felt it, he allowed. This ore thing had to be addressed; he had to get Miss Duniway to tell him everything. If he believed in blessings, he’d say it was one that the jail was empty tonight. Lots to take care of at home.
Amelia Prake answered his knock. “Oh, you’re not here to arrest Georgie again, are you?” she exclaimed, her eyes wide.
“No,” said John. “I’m here to talk to your pa. Will you go see if he’s home to company?”
“I forget my manners,” said Amelia, recovering herself and adding formally, “Good evening, Sheriff Runnels, how d’ya do.”
“Good evening, Miss Amelia, and I do well, thank you,” he answered in kind, taking off his hat with a slight inclination.
She giggled, forgot her manners again and rushed off, hollering, “Papa! Mama! Sheriff’s at the door!”
Her mother bustled into the front hall. “This isn’t a madhouse, Amelia, hush. Sheriff, do come in, don’t stand there in the cold. Please, come warm yourself in the back parlor. I’m afraid we haven’t a fire in the front one, but if you don’t mind taking pot-luck...” She ushered him into the warmth of the back parlor, where Anatole Prake sat by the stove in a once majestic, now homey and broken-in armchair, reading Henderson’s Monthly Magazine aloud to his family. Simon looked up from carving a little toy horse, and nodded. Georgie was hanging over his brother’s shoulder, but at the sight of the Sheriff, his face turned flannel red and he dashed out of the room. “Oh, now, Georgie,” murmured his mother.
“Well, now, Runnels, out on a night like this!” said Mayor Prake, rising from his chair. “Is there cause for alarm? Amelia, fill the kettle please, perhaps the Sheriff might like some tea. Perhaps a wee bit of bourbon in the cup?” he added in an undertone.
Amelia lugged the kettle in, put it on the stove, and took her reluctant leave. “I’m not sleepy!” she insisted as her mother shooed her up the stairs.
Once they were alone, John settled back in his chair, a comfortable shot of bourbon in his tea. “No cause for immediate alarm, Anatole, though things are stranger than usual in this town. To begin with, I believe Georgie is innocent. You should let him go back to school.”
“Innocent!” exclaimed Prake. “Why, his own brother believes he did it! You amaze me. What did Miss Duniway say to convince you?”
“Miss Duniway? How did you know we’d spoken?”
“Oh, she stopped me on the street not long ago, said Georgie was innocent. I said I’d believe it when I heard it from you, and here you are.”
“I did speak with her this morning, after church let out. Did you know she was Enthusiast when you hired her?”
“Oh, yes,” nodded Prake. “I myself believe in the Method, but I also believe that we all come to the truth in our own way. If that’s Miss Duniway’s way, well, then, good for her. Just make sure they build their church out of earshot, is all I ask. Besides, there’s a nasty strain of anti-immigrant bias in prejudice against Enthusiasm, and I don’t cotton to it.”
“Church is all the same to me, Anatole,” said John. “This”--he gestured with his cup--”is about as close to the Mother or the Prophet as I’ll ever get. But yes, we spoke after church, and she argued very convincingly in favor of Georgie’s innocence. Made me promise to get him back in school.”
Prake appraised John over his teacup, then took a leisurely pull from it. “She’s an...unusual young woman. I can tell you think it.” John flattened his lips and said nothing. Prake continued in his steady voice, “What do you think her game is, John? Do we need to be concerned? I worry about that snake Bonham getting up to something, calling in people of his own. She’s not a Brinkerton, is she?”
“No, no, I don’t think so. She’s not the type, she’s not acting like a Brinkie girl.” He contemplated his teacup as the contents sent a warm golden brown all the way through him, and thought about Annabelle. He was beginning to narrow down what she might be in a number of ways, some of them pleasant. He woolgathered, sipping at the tea. Woolgathering more than he realized: Prake started him out of his thoughts with a half-heard question. “I’m sorry, sir?”
Prake smiled. “I said, do you have any idea what she is?”
“Law-abiding, I’m fairly sure, and I do believe she cares a great deal for the children. Our conversation convinced me of it, for if she’s more than she seems, she told me a great deal more than she should have, and all for Georgie’s sake.”
“Are you saying she is our vandal? Or that she’s been protecting him?”
John flushed; in a way, she had been protecting Jamie, but then, what was he doing? “She’s not the vandal, but neither is Georgie. I’m still unsure who the vandal is, but I have it on fair authority that whoever he is, he is unaware of his actions.”
“‘Fair authority,’” chuckled Anatole. “And how did the fair authority convince you of this? John, I never counted you among those men dazzled by winsome dimples.”
John drained his cup. “I like to think I’m not.”
“How could this man, or boy, not know what he was doing?”
“That’s the part that frightens me, Anatole.” John stood up. “Come by the jail in the morning. When we’re more alone,” he said, cocking his head at the sound of a little boy on the stairs trying hard not to breathe, “I’ll finish the story. For now, I ask you to allow Georgie to go back to school tomorrow. It’s the right thing to do. We’re all presumed innocent until proven guilty, aren’t we?”
“So we are,” said Anatole.
Episode 25: Powerful Stuff
When John returned to his own back parlor, Rabbit was gone, off to make a final round before bed; Mrs Smith dozed in her chair, her darning still in her lap; and Jamie fidgeted anxiously on the hearth rug with his soldiers. John woke Mrs Smith with a gentle, “Now, Minnie, it’s past your bedtime, go on up, I’m home now.”
Once alone, Jamie and his father avoided looking at one another, John preferring the flicker of the lamp flame, Jamie the pile of deceased tin men he stirred with one finger. “I hear,” John began, “that you picked up something maybe you shouldn’t have, son.”
“Like what?” said Jamie, giving him a brief sideways glance.
“Like a nugget of hermetauxite.”
Jamie drew his eyebrows down in a way that reminded John of the boy’s mother. “I ain’t picked up any nugget, Pa.” John said nothing in response. He kept a steady gaze on the boy, waiting him out; Jamie was an honest
kid. Sure enough, when he couldn’t stand it any more, he burst out, “Aw, Aloysius peached on me!”
“He did no such thing. Silent as the grave, or silent as the grave should be for once. Jamie, where did you get it? You’re not in trouble, now, tell me the truth.”
“I found it in the street by the ethergraph office,” he mumbled. “Can I have it back? It don’t belong to anyone, it was just lyin there in the street, so now it’s mine.”
“How long ago?”
“I dunno. Just before school started, I guess. Can I have it back?”
John leaned over and put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “James, this is important.” The boy blinked, somber and troubled at the sound of his full name. “I want you to think. Do you...have you fallen asleep and woken up some place else, ever?”
Jamie looked at the little soldier in his hand. “Maybe.”
“Tell me, son.”
“I was...I fell asleep in the hayloft down to Mr Parson’s...”
“And?”
“I woke up in my room.”
John nodded, and let out a breath; it was just as Annabelle Duniway had said. “This was the day of the schoolhouse vandalism, wasn’t it?”
“Did Georgie Prake say I done it? Because I didn’t, Pa! I swear I didn’t!”
“No, Georgie hasn’t said a word. You know that hermetauxite is powerful stuff in some hands, don’t you?”
“You sound like Miss Duniway,” glowered Jamie.
“You’d do yourself a good turn to listen to her,” said his father. “She knows a thing or two, I do believe. It’s powerful stuff, hermetauxite. I think that nugget...” He trailed off, unsure how to explain it to the boy. “Let me just say this, Jamie. That nugget is not a toy. It’s not even a proper nugget of hermetauxite.”
“It looked like one.”
“Well, it isn’t.” John took the soldier out of the boy’s hand, gaining his complete attention. “Listen, son. You can’t have that nugget ever again. No one can. It’s dangerous. You can’t tell anyone about it, or whether you had it or not, or what it might have made you do. Not even Aloysius. The only person you can talk to about it is me, and Miss Duniway, and then only in private. You hear?”
“Yes, sir,” said Jamie, eyes wide. “You...you think it made me do that to the schoolhouse?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps. If you did, we’ll deal with it later. Now you go on up to bed. Skedaddle.”
John watched his son climb the stairs and returned to his pondering. Annabelle was on to something, and he was on to her. He’d said more than he probably should have said to Anatole Prake; he’d certainly gone beyond the bounds of what he’d promised Annabelle. What would John tell Prake in the morning?
John decided to tell the Mayor nothing more, and sent Jamie to the Prakes with his excuse. On the way to the Prakes’ front door, the boy met Amelia and Georgie, heading off to his first day of school since his disgrace. “Hey, Georgie--” Jamie began, but the other boy turned his stolid back and stomped off to school without a word; Amelia shrugged apologetically and trailed after her twin. Jamie sighed, knocked on the Prakes’ door, and delivered the message to their housekeeper, Mrs Jenkins. He continued on to the schoolhouse.
After his conversation with his pa, Jamie didn’t know what to think. Had he vandalized the school? How could he have done it and not remember? And here Georgie hadn’t said a word against him, and had gotten the punishment to boot--if you could call being kept out of school “punishment.”
“I’d surely like that for a punishment,” he muttered to himself as he entered the schoolhouse just in time for class. He sat down on his usual bench next to Georgie, who again pointedly turned away. “Aw, come on, Georgie!” he whispered.
Miss Duniway cut him off; the school day began.
Annabelle decided not to mention Georgie’s return to class, a decision that seemed to relieve him. She’d expected that he might be belligerent or intimidated, but to her own relief, Georgie quickly reverted to winking and making faces at Lily Bonham. He completely ignored his bench mate.
The real change had come over Jamie Runnels. He sat beside Georgie, subdued but not surly, sending both her and Georgie anxious, guilty looks. John must have told him, she thought, but how much? Another visit to the jail was in order. When the school day ended and Lily Bonham finished cleaning the erasers, that’s just where Annabelle headed.
Through the window she could see Simon Prake in earnest conversation with an angry Sheriff. The bell over the door jangled sharply as she entered, but didn’t drown out Simon’s final remark: “--continue giving you her ethergrams in good conscience!”
Episode 26: Private Matters
John met Annabelle’s eyes over Simon’s dark head; at first, he looked shocked and appalled, but his mien hardened quickly. “Miss Duniway,” Simon began, taking a step toward her.
“We’re discussing a private matter, Miss Duniway,” interrupted John.
“I should say it’s a private matter,” said Simon. “It’s her privacy. She deserves to know. She deserves my apology.”
Annabelle folded her arms and studied them both: John’s guarded expression, his arms crossed like her own; Simon’s remorseful one, hands open before him. “I think I might know the matter in question,” she said. “Sheriff Runnels, I cannot guess at a reason why you might feel compelled to read my private correspondence.” Simon’s shoulders crumpled minutely, and she knew she’d guessed correctly. “And Mr Prake, I confess I am beyond surprised. I thought better of you.”
Simon wilted further. “I thought better of me, too, miss. The whole thing has me wretched.”
“An explanation, please,” she said.
“The Sheriff asked me to--”
Annabelle exhaled in exasperation. “Not from you, Mr Prake, from Mr Runnels!” Simon straightened in embarrassment and blushed.
“Perhaps we had best discuss this just between us, Miss Duniway,” said John. He raised his chin slightly, his mouth set in a careful line, his eyes full of questions and a smidgeon of regret.
Annabelle glanced over at the still-wincing Simon; he looked so much like a guilty schoolboy that in a less dangerous situation she would have laughed. “Perhaps we should, Mr Runnels. Mr Prake, I will come by the ethergraph office another time.”
“Oh, Miss Duniway, I am so very sorry--”
“Another time, Mr Prake,” she said. “I’m fairly convinced the Sheriff had more of a hand in it than you, and I should like a few moments alone with him.”
“It’s all right, Simon,” said John with a half-smile. “She’s small. I’m fairly convinced I can do without your protection.” He nodded toward the door.
“Oh, but I didn’t think--I mean...” The younger man’s hands grasped at an invisible support for a moment. “I’ll take my leave. Miss Duniway, do please come to my office so that I might express my regret in person.”
The bell over the door rang as Simon left. Annabelle let the sound fade into silence and waited. John seemed to be content to wait himself, meeting her gaze without flinching until she raised one blonde brow minutely. He dropped his eyes. “I am sorry you had to find out about it that way,” he said to the floor.
“You’re sorry I had to find out about it at all.”
“True,” he said, nodding.
“What were you hoping to discover?”
“Why you’re here.”
“And what did you in fact discover?”
“That your grandfather’s business is doing very well, and please to use the mail instead of expensive ethergrams.”
Annabelle snorted. “And on this weighty evidence you have decided I am some sort of...I don’t know, spy?”
“I thought you were a Brinkie girl, is what I thought,” he said, bringing his eyes up from his boots.
Before she could stop herself, Annabelle gasped in fury. A Brinkerton? Her--a Brinkie girl? May as well call her a prostitute! Brinkerton’s female agents did whatever they had to, up to and including sle
eping with the agency’s targets and clients. Annabelle Duniway, Treasury Agent, had done some morally dodgy things in her work, but always in the name of national security, and never in bed.
But Annabelle Duniway, Schoolteacher, wasn’t supposed to know what a Brinkie girl was.
John smiled in satisfaction. “But obviously, you’re not a Brinkie. What are you, Annabelle? Come clean with me, and I’ll come clean with you.”
“You’re the Brinkie, then, are you?” she said, feeling her unfortunate temper crumple her forehead into deep, furious lines.
“Oh, far from it. I hate Brinkertons. They’re lying, cheating, violent thugs. Even the girls. That’s why I can’t figure you. You’re not a Brinkie, but you’re head and shoulders above the average schoolteacher. You’re investigating something no schoolteacher would stick her nose in. You’re sending encoded ethergrams--put that fist down, we’ll talk about that, I promise. But first you have to tell me: what are you?”
“Why I should trust you with my hatbox let alone anything else is far from clear, sir!” she spat. “Are you reading my letters, too, or just my ethergrams?”
“I am this town’s sheriff,” he said. “If something looks like a threat to this town’s peace and security, it is incumbent upon me to take whatever steps, however distasteful, to discover what they might be.” He planted himself more firmly on the ground before her. “I am alone here, Miss Duniway. I have no one to fall back on but Rabbit, and he has his own challenges. If I have to read someone’s correspondence to clear my mind, I will, though I admit yours was the first set of ethergrams I’ve ever requested. The last, too, unless we get a different operator.”
Annabelle considered. In her own reading of John’s character, she found much to recommend him. If she had to, she’d read someone else’s ethergrams, too, though she would have cracked the code, she sniffed. “You first,” she said.
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