“We have little. But you are welcome.” Heinrich’s mother introduced herself as Magda Schuller. “I have prepared a bed for the lady, and some food.”
“We have caused you too much trouble,” Jocelyn began, miserably aware that this woman was endangering herself and her children for them.
“It is no trouble.” Sadness clung to her like gray soot. “I am sorry I have not much to offer.”
Micah carefully lifted her from the cart, and Jocelyn briefly surveyed Magda Schuller’s home. Scarcely larger than a gardener’s shed, the structure was pieced together with mismatched boards, rough-cut logs and a tar-paper roof held in place by thin slats. A narrow length of pipe protruded from the roof, functioning as a chimney. Jocelyn ended her survey with Magda, a slight woman wearing a scarf on her head and a faded shawl tied in a knot at her waist. She stood in the open doorway, her expression carefully blank. “You are offering everything you have,” Jocelyn told her, fighting to keep her voice steady. “Mr. MacKenzie and I are honored.”
“See, Moeder?” Heinrich grabbed his mother’s hand and tugged her over to them. “They are not like those hoechnawsyich you clean houses for—”
“Heinrich!” She cuffed the back of his head, then smashed him against her side. “I can see myself, these people. Now, go. I have laid a fire. You will please light it? The lady is injured, and needs warmth.” Almost shyly, she nodded to Micah. “My son says you are in danger, with the police. They will not look for you here, I think.”
“We won’t be in danger much longer, Mrs. Schuller, thanks to you and your son,” Micah said. “I appreciate more than you’ll ever know, your taking in two fugitives.”
His arms tightened around Jocelyn. “I’m not setting you down, so please stop wriggling. In my current state, I might drop you.”
The night sky had faded to smudged gray, so she could clearly see that fatigue had carved deep lines on his brow, and either side of his mustache. His hair was disheveled, matted with perspiration, his collarless shirt streaked with dirt and dried blood. Equally concerned for him, Jocelyn murmured into his ear, “You’re exhausted. I can feel you trembling.”
His mouth curved in a breathtaking smile. “I can still carry the woman I love over the threshold. Look on it as a dress rehearsal.”
Silenced, Jocelyn ducked her head, and gave herself into his keeping.
The New York office of the Secret Service was located in the post office building, in a large room divided by makeshift partitions into three cubicles. Within moments of Micah’s appearance, at a little before eight o’clock in the morning, messenger boys were summoned, telegrams sent, and telephone operators were making dozens of calls—though none of them were to the police department.
Until Portia and Virgil Brock were arrested, Micah insisted on maintaining the illusion that he and Jocelyn were fugitives and that Jocelyn’s surname was “Bingham.” “Too many police lackeys on the Brock payroll,” he said, his voice gravelly. He was beyond exhausted, buoyed only by elation, and determination.
“Don’t like it,” Operative-in-Charge Bagg, chief official of the New York office, admitted. “Superintendent Byrnes resigned recently, you know. Had to—reformers created themselves a committee to investigate police corruption. So I see your point about the police, Operative MacKenzie. We certainly don’t want to alert the wrong people. Until the charges against you and Mrs. Bingham are formally dropped, however, you will need to be accompanied by one of my operatives at all times, and stay out of sight.”
“I agree.” Micah’s thoughts drifted back to Jocelyn, asleep when he’d left, guarded by a devoted Heinrich and the briskly efficient Magda Schuller. Heinrich’s sister, Elfie, bright-eyed as a cricket, was enthralled with Jocelyn’s hair, but when her mother instructed her not to touch it, Elfie obediently perched on a three-legged stool to maintain a silent vigil with her big brother.
For the moment, Micah could best protect them all through his absence.
“Back in October I brought an assistant with me from Washington,” he said. “Jonathan Tanner. I’ve sent him a wire to one of our prearranged addresses. He’s young, but a crackerjack bodyguard. So if you’ve no objections, I’d like him to resume duties as my nanny.”
Operative Bagg regarded him for a long moment, his clean-shaven, youthful appearance turning sober. “The telegrapher approached me with your message, which I did not send, because your Mr. Tanner wired us late last night. His aunt was murdered in her home, the same night you were abducted. Made to look like robbery. Mr. Tanner claims the foul deed’s a ringer for the one that happened in Richmond.” After pondering the ceiling for a moment, he added, “Mr. Tanner further claims that there has been no police investigation whatsoever. You may well imagine his opinion of our city’s police department is not…salutary?”
Dear God, how many more innocent people must suffer before You allow justice to be done? “Do you know Mr. Tanner’s whereabouts?”
“He’s a mysterious fellow, plays cards close to the vest. I don’t frankly know where he is, only that he promised to be here by—” he glanced at a large wall clock “—half past eight. He, um, also promised to bring you a change of clothes.”
“Efficient as always. I know I reek worse than a wet goat. Sorry. As soon as Mr. Tanner arrives, we’ll take ourselves off to that hotel. While we’re waiting…” He dug into his wrinkled, bloodstained trousers and produced a silver dollar coin, which he studied for a long moment before handing it to Bagg. “Mrs. Schuller pressed this into my hand as I was leaving. Probably her entire savings, but she knew it would be safer for me to hire a hansom, and neither Mrs. Bingham nor I had any change.” He adamantly refused to take Mr. Schuller’s Sunday suit, which Magda had unpacked from a dented steamer trunk. She was, Micah knew without her saying a word, hoping to have saved it for Heinrich, yet willingly offered it to a stranger.
“You can see why I risked my neck to walk a few miles instead. If we can find out how long Mrs. Schuller has had this coin, and where it came from, you might discover a trail to follow.”
Operative Bagg picked up a magnifying glass from his desk. “Mmm. Looks like the work of a gang we’ve been trying to arrest for several years. They passed a lot of coinage. Horse Market gang, they call themselves. Either tin or copper on the inside, most likely. Decent engraving, but notice the surface isn’t quite as sharp as the real thing. We’ve found a number of these spurious goods in the last two months, mostly turned in by shop-and saloon keepers in the Seventh Ward.”
“Yessir. I’d like to replace that, if we can arrange it, with a real one, for Mrs. Schuller. It’s the least she deserves.” He blinked, fighting a wave of dizziness. “There’s more.” A plain oak straight chair had been shoved against the partition. Micah sat, then with the exaggerated care of a drunk removed his right shoe, fumbled inside the toe and at last produced the folded bills Jocelyn had given to him before she fell asleep. “Here’s the proof we’ve been trying to unearth for eight years, courtesy of the most courageous woman I’ve ever known.”
His face screwed up in distaste, Bagg gingerly accepted the bills and spread them open on top of his desk. He gave a low whistle. “Amazing. Some of the best counterfeits I’ve ever seen. Very disturbing.”
“Mmm. Probably some of Benny Foggarty’s finest work. But as soon as we arrest him and the Brocks, that ought to finally dry up the last of the manufacturing and wholesaling of counterfeit notes from out of New York City.” He wriggled his foot back into his shoe. “Those notes, however, are my primary motivation for not alerting the police. Yes, we have proof to cut off at least two snake heads in this nest of vipers. But to cripple them beyond recovery, we’re also going to need the molds and the plating apparatus…” His brain was shutting down, he realized groggily. He couldn’t think of the words. “Without the identities of all their wholesalers…”
“Operative MacKenzie! Sir…” Bulging valise in one hand, Jonathan Tanner burst into the cubicle and rushed across the floor, skidding t
o a halt in front of Micah. The flat cap he wore was slipping, his hair beneath it ill-kempt; a streak of dirt blackened one of his cheekbones. “So it wasn’t a lie. You are here. I wasn’t sure, I’ve been trying to—I…” He lifted his spare hand to momentarily cover his face. “I came as fast as I could, sir,” he continued, all the emotion throttled. “I’m relieved to see you’re alive.”
Micah scraped together what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Yes, I’m alive, looks notwithstanding.” He hesitated, then added heavily, “I wish I could think of what to say, about your aunt. I feel responsible.”
The younger man shook his head with a violence that belied his subdued voice. “Maybe so. Maybe we’re both responsible, for using her house. But if I’d been there, she wouldn’t be dead.”
Without warning he hurled the valise on the floor at Micah’s feet. His hands clenched into fists. “I saw him leave. I saw him, but I was so concerned about my aunt I didn’t follow him. And she was already dead. She never hurt anybody in her life. If I hadn’t been staying with her—”
“Don’t, Jon.” Micah heaved himself to his feet and wrapped a bracing arm around his assistant. Jonathan shoved him away, but when Micah staggered, almost taking them both to the floor, the younger man clutched his arm in a steadying grip.
“M-Mr. MacKenzie…she’s dead, and the murdering dog who killed her escaped. I let him escape.” With a hoarse groan, Jonathan ceased resisting Micah’s comfort and stood, shoulders shaking, while he unleashed a storm of grief.
Operative-in-Charge Bagg discreetly left the room, returning some moments later with a parcel wrapped in butcher paper tied with a string—and a bemused expression on his face. “There’s a vendor on the street corner,” he explained absently, glancing sideways at Jonathan, who was now sitting hunched over in the chair Micah had vacated. His eyes were red, but he was calm. “Best pretzels in the City. Thought you gentlemen could use some food.”
Bagg thrust the parcel at Micah. “Hansom’s waiting, manned by a driver we trust, to transport you and Mr. Tanner to the hotel. Ah…before you leave, thought you should know about a rather disheveled young woman, a servant from her dress, I encountered outside. I’ve detailed Operative Raynor to interrogate her. She’s a mute, but literate. I tripped over her brogans just now, on the post office steps. She’d apparently been hunkered down behind one of the columns since dawn. I was set to arrest her for loitering when she caught sight of my badge, at which point she shoved a writing tablet in front of my face.”
“Katya!” Gladness bounded through Micah. “She’s Mrs. Bingham’s maid! Is she all right? Did she give you the other two bogus bills from Virgil Brock’s room?”
“Girl’s stubborn, and unharmed.” He unbent enough to smile a little. “And yes, the counterfeit bills have been added to the two Mrs. Tremayne gave you. Though plainly distraught over her mistress, she is being treated with all due civility. I have assured her—repeatedly—that both you and Mrs. Bingham are alive, and reasonably healthy.”
Along with the smile, a twinkle appeared in his eyes. “She might not talk, but she manages to convey her thoughts adequately through pencil and tablet. She also knows how to stomp her foot to great effect. You needn’t fret over the matter, Mr. MacKenzie. I have everything well in hand.”
Light-headed with relief, Micah nodded. “Of course. In that case, I leave her in your capable hands.” He stooped to pick up the valise, desisted when Jonathan whipped out a hand as he rose, hefting the valise with him. “One other matter,” he said, looking at his assistant. “If possible, I’d like to borrow your best artist. While I clean up, Mr. Tanner can provide a description of his aunt’s murderer. I’ll be interested to know whether it matches the description of the man who abducted—and was returning to murder—me last night.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
When Jocelyn awakened, she lay for a long time with her eyes closed, soaking in the soft sounds around her until her conscious mind accepted that she was truly safe. Blinking, she fumbled to push a dangling strand of hair off her face, and languidly studied the interior of the crude shanty.
The door was open, washing the room in fresh air and the peach-hued glow of late afternoon. A length of clothesline had been fastened with a nail to a board in the tilted wall and a rough support beam at the foot of the cot where Jocelyn lay. Pinned to the clothesline, a curtain made from a hodge-podge of stitched-together fabrics afforded her a small measure of privacy.
The scent of coal mingled with a faint medicinal aroma that she gradually realized emanated from the vicinity of her wounded leg. Experimentally she tried to move it, then lay very still, biting her lip until the shock of pain subsided.
A small scrubbed face peeked around the makeshift curtain.
“Moeder! The lady…she iss awake.” A little girl with red cheeks and Heinrich’s dark eyes hurried over to the cot, her wide-eyed gaze never leaving Jocelyn. “Can I to touch her hair now?”
The woman Jocelyn remembered only vaguely appeared beside her daughter. “Hello. Do not be afraid. I am Magda Schuller, Heinrich’s mother.” Today the head scarf was gone, her hair scraped back in a bun. “This is my daughter, Elfie.” Calmly, she nudged the girl aside to rest a red, chapped hand against Jocelyn’s forehead and cheek. “Is good. No fever. Does your leg pain you? While you sleep, Mr. MacKenzie and I change the bandage. Is bad cut, but no sign of infection. I rub with witch hazel, to help the pain.”
“Moeder! Can I touch her hair? You will ask her, you promised.”
Magda grimaced. “Please forgive. She has not seen a person with red hair. I will not let her bother you. Elfie! You will go and stir the soup, then we will see. Do not to touch the griddle.” Without fuss she removed the curtain in order to monitor her daughter.
Elfie’s lower lip protruded in a pout, but without another word she trudged across the tiny room to a two-burner laundry stove, where the soup simmered in a large round pot. Jocelyn watched in amazement as the little girl, who couldn’t have been more than four years old, picked up a long spoon and deftly stirred the contents.
When Jocelyn’s sister, Hannah, had been four, she spent her days playing with her collection of elegantly dressed dolls and a toy china tea set from England. Jocelyn swallowed the lump congealing in her throat. “If you like, I’ll teach Elfie how to braid my hair. The lesson should keep her happily occupied for hours! Um…can you tell me how long I’ve been sleeping, and where Mr. MacKenzie is?”
“You haf slept much. Is late afternoon, near to sunset. Mr. MacKenzie promise to return before dark. I do not know where he went. Only that he also promise to bring a doctor, and a carriage.”
Smiling, Jocelyn thanked Magda for taking such good care of her. “Mr. MacKenzie and I could not have landed in more capable hands.”
The other woman shrugged, looking uncomfortable. She pressed her hands over her apron, straightened Jocelyn’s cape, which was serving as an extra blanket, smoothed the makeshift curtain, then finally waved her hand jerkily in the air.
“We do not always live here, like this.”
“I know,” Jocelyn said, her heart going out to the stoic woman. “Heinrich told us. You lost your home, and your husband, didn’t you?”
With a long-suffering sigh, Magda dabbed her face with a corner of her apron. “Jah.” She smiled sadly. “My husband was a shoemaker, very skilled. But last year, and the year before, times are bad. Nobody could buy shoes. He went to a bank to borrow money. Then…the bank close. Some people come, say we must pay for our house, or we haf to leave. And so…we come to here. One day my Kurt goes to look for work. He never comes home. I take da kinderen, and we look…”
Her throat muscles quivered, but after a moment she continued steadily, “We never find him. So Heinrich say to me ‘Moeder, I am the man of our family now.’”
“Heinrich is a good son.”
“He sees too much, too young. He is…not gentle, like his father was. He does not trust people.”
“I’m so s
orry, Mrs. Schuller.”
“Is strange. He trust you, and Mr. MacKenzie.” While she talked, Magda picked up a battered pan with a scattering of half-peeled root vegetables. “Heinrich tells me Mr. MacKenzie say God used him, to help.” She kept her gaze on the vegetables. “I do not know what to tell my son. God would not to use a boy who is become a thief, and a beggar. Heinrich does not think I know. But I do. God does not visit people who live in places like this, or behave like my son.”
Jocelyn felt Magda’s bitterness as though it were a live coal, handed to her by a woman who could not have been more different from Jocelyn than a princess from a scullery maid. Yet in that moment, she knew they were sisters, joined not by the heritage of blood, but by the heritage of grief and disillusionment.
“Until lately,” she said, groping for words, “I believed that God didn’t visit anybody—poor or wealthy. But I’m beginning to see Him differently now.” An almost-urgent compulsion nudged her hand to slide across the soft wool cloak that covered her until her fingertips brushed Magda’s frayed sleeve. “Magda? God’s Son was born in a place like this. And He ate a lot of meals with thieves and beggars. Please don’t be ashamed of your home. There is more warmth and welcome here than I’ve found in the stone mansions where I lived for five years.”
“You are a good woman, Mrs. Tremayne. And a kind one.” In the gauzy light streaming through the door, her troubled countenance softened. “I will remember what you say to me.”
“Then I hope you’ll remember one more thing,” Jocelyn murmured, though sleep weighed her eyelids down until she had no recourse but to close them, “Heinrich…is taking care of his family as best he can. I believe God understands.” She could feel a smile curving her lips. “If I recall correctly, Jesus forgave a robber from the cross. And…He adored…children.”
As she drifted back into sleep, somewhere she heard the faintest echo of what sounded like a heavenly chuckle.
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