Edison Effect, The: A Professor Bradshaw Mystery (The Edison Effect)

by Bernadette Pajer

“I thought there might be some exception. A special dispensation. Mixed marriages are sometimes allowed.”

  “If she were of another Christian faith, and if she were to agree to raise any children in the Catholic faith, then a dispensation might be possible. Marriage to a heretic, Professor Bradshaw, is impossible.”

  “My son loves her, too.”

  “More’s the pity, Professor. And I must say I’m disappointed in you. It’s one thing to allow your affections to be inappropriately diverted, but to place your son in such a position is cruel.”

  “I didn’t, not intentionally. He’s been fond of her from the first moment he met her.” As had he. They’d both been entranced the moment he opened the door to her. “She’s been wonderful for him. He trusts her. He confides in her. Besides Mrs. Prouty, she’s the closest thing to a mother he’s ever known.”

  “Children are loving and trusting by nature, but it’s your job as a parent to protect him from things he can’t yet understand. A close relationship with a pagan cannot be healthy for a boy who has only recently entered the age of reason.”

  “I grant you her beliefs don’t have the structure of a religion, Father, but she’s not a pagan. And her influence on my son is only to the good. She teaches him about respect for nature, and about generosity, and kindness.”

  “Which makes it all the more difficult for the boy to understand that in turning away from God she is choosing to live a sinful life. Miss Fremont should be removed from the boy’s life as gently, and quickly, as possible.”

  A tightness gripped Bradshaw’s throat and chest. He tilted his head back, his eyes on the ceiling. He swallowed and tried to breathe. When he lowered his chin, he found the priest still watching him with pitying eyes, his fingers steepled.

  Bradshaw said firmly, “I cannot remove Miss Fremont from my son’s life. To do so would break his heart.”

  “Hearts are mortal, Professor. Souls are eternal and far more fragile.”

  Bradshaw got to his feet and marched to the window, clenching his fists.

  “Does she cause you to doubt your faith?”

  “Not my faith. But I admit I question some rules of the Church.”

  “Our rules were not chosen at random, Professor. They were given, or inspired, by a higher power, to help us stay true to our faith. We fast on Fridays not on a whim but because our natures tend toward greed and we require the regular habit of self-discipline. It is not sinful to eat meat on Fridays, it is sinful to show blatant disrespect to the Church. The rules established by the Church over the past nineteen hundred years provide the structure man needs to stay faithful and pure of heart. Our regimented ways, if you will, are not in themselves right or wrong, but they help us choose right from wrong. You are a father. I know you understand what I’m saying.”

  “I have always found comfort in the structure and traditions of the Church. But Miss Fremont doesn’t require it. She trusts an inner guidance. I trust her inner guidance. We both understand this difference between us, and if her approach to her spiritual life doesn’t alter mine, then what is the harm?”

  “The differences between your approaches, as you call it, already have you doubting and attempting to defy Church law, Professor. And there are other differences between you, are there not? She is younger, of course, but I don’t hold that as necessarily a barrier toward marital harmony. But is she conservative like you? A woman of routine? A woman who will find contentment in the home, nurturing her family? She is off studying homeopathy you say, and that she intends to have a career. Where does that leave you? What of future children? Is there anything you have in common, Professor?”

  “Besides our love for my son? No. We have little in common.” Yet as he said it, he didn’t wholly believe it. On the surface it was true, but there lurked the possibility that deep down they agreed on many things. Only—only he feared letting go of what he believed of the world to discover for sure. And she knew that. When he looked into her eyes, he felt understood. Not judged or pitied, but understood. She’d given him time. Two entire years before her patience with him wore thin. Her ultimatum at the ocean this summer had made him face at last not just the truth of his feelings for her but his feelings toward many things. Even his coming here now and speaking to Father McGuinness had as much to do about his coming to terms with himself than an attempt to find a way to marry Missouri. She was the excuse, but this self-evaluation was a long time coming. He didn’t know if such an admission would hurt or help his position with the priest, so he remained silent. But he loathed being silent. He’d been clinging to silence, to exclusion, to reticence as a form of protection for over a decade, and he was choking on it. Yet to open up now, completely, could eradicate any chance he had of convincing the priest to condone his marrying Missouri. And he wasn’t ready to abandon the Church.

  Father asked, “What is that common expression? Opposites attract? Do you believe that?”

  “Only when it comes to magnetism.”

  “Indeed! I recall that demonstration you gave, Professor, at the university. But when it comes to people, truly opposing beliefs cannot sustain a lasting relationship. Differences must be of the complementary sort, not the conflicting. If one of you is thrifty and the other a spendthrift, together you might find balance.”

  And if one of us clings to routine and tradition because it feels safe, yet is pulled by the free spirit of the other, wondering if maybe there were an entirely different way to see the world?

  “The opposing beliefs between you and Miss Fremont, I fear, will not lead to harmony but to you renouncing your faith and losing your way. You have your son to consider, Professor. He is downstairs now being educated, learning about mathematics and grammar and God. You’ve done well by him so far, giving him the guidance and structure all children need. In a few years, he will need such guidance all the more as he grows and begins to make decisions on his own, and to ask questions of the world. His mother abandoned him. I know you will never do so.”

  Of course he never would abandon Justin. Routine and tradition had been his salvation these past ten years, and it had provided Justin a secure home. And while he’d delayed this conversation about marriage with Father McGuinness, he had come to him upon his return from the ocean, where Justin had inadvertently learned about his mother’s suicide. Not the manner of her death, but the fact that she had caused it. Bradshaw had been concerned Justin would dwell on the thought. Father had offered to speak to Justin, to explain the sin of suicide, but Bradshaw had said no. He didn’t want the topic brought up; he simply wanted his teachers aware. He couldn’t stomach the idea of Justin being told his mother had committed a mortal sin and was now in Hell. He didn’t believe that himself, not anymore. At the ocean, he’d come to terms with what his wife had done, and he’d forgiven her.

  He sensed Father McGuinness was studying him.

  “If I’m not mistaken,” Father said, “you’ve lost weight.”

  “My appetite has been sporadic.”

  “A war wages within you, Professor, and you know it is not a battle I can determine for you. I would like to say ‘Go in peace,’ but it is more suiting that I say ‘Go toward peace.’ Find a place of solitude, be still within yourself, and pray. When you cease fighting and accept the right path, your appetite will return.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  He walked. His intention had been to find a quiet spot to do as the priest ordained, but once moving, he felt compelled onward. He paid little attention to where he was, following sidewalks and roads and paths around the city, up and down hills, skirting construction and ditches whenever he came upon them. He allowed himself just two thoughts, two scenarios, and he alternated between them, paying attention to his physical reaction.

  The first scenario, life without the Church, enveloped him with a feeling of disorientation akin to his intermittent vertigo. This knotted his gut, tightened his chest, and made hi
m feel as if the road were a tightrope.

  The second scenario, life without Missouri, enveloped him in melancholy. His energy vanished, panic vanished, all feeling vanished. His steps turned plodding, and he knew with certainty he became the definition of dour.

  One reaction was not sustainable, the other he had lived for a decade. It was familiar. Hated, but familiar. He looked up and around, and saw that he was on Broadway. His legs were taking him home. He arrived at 1204 Gallagher with aching feet and a decision. It was a relief to know what he was going to do. It was like coming home again, to himself, after a terrible bout of insanity. And perhaps that’s what it had been.

  He’d been insane to think he could traipse through life in blissful uncertainty. For him, uncertainty meant panic. He was a man who required structure to his day, to his thoughts, and to his beliefs. It was enough for him that he set a portion of his mind, the scientific portion, free to explore possibilities, disregarding presumptions, assumptions, and established facts, in order to delve into the future of invention and into his investigations. But to have his entire life be in such a state? No. Impossible. Not just for him, but for his son. Children needed guidance and structure, as the priest said. Someday, Justin might question certain aspects of life, perhaps even his religion, but he would do so from a position of stability. One step at a time. Not hurled off a cliff into an abyss.

  He had no appetite, but maybe the priest had forgotten to tell him he would experience a period of mourning upon his decision. He thought of the diamond ring locked away in his wall safe at the office. It would have to stay there for now as a reminder of his moment of giddy madness. The ghost of Vernon Doyle had much to answer for, but all of Seattle would not be seeing Bradshaw dancing down Broadway come Christmas morning.

  He opened his gate and marched up to his porch, determined to put his mind fully on his case. He would not crawl in a hole or go back to bed. He retrieved the sample of Mrs. Adkins’ sewing and brought it to the kitchen to show Mrs. Prouty. She was in the beginning stages of her holiday preparations. From now until Epiphany, when she wasn’t cleaning or decorating, she would be cooking and baking as if their household consisted of an army and their visitors far greater in number. He was always grateful that her skills with foods that were sweet or spiced were far better than her recipes for fresh vegetables, which she tended to boil to death. Anything that required delicacy lost tenderness and texture to her heavy touch, but Bradshaw never had the heart to complain. Today it was to be candy—butterscotch, molasses, and peanut, from the looks of the tins and jars on the table. She loved the season, frequently sang carols as she worked, and glowed as she presented her concoctions. She was now at the sink, washing up the large bowls she used for mixing while humming “I Saw Three Ships.”

  When Bradshaw asked for her opinion on Mrs. Adkins’ handiwork, she wiped her hands, put on her reading spectacles, and held the cuff in the light of the window.

  “Pshaw,” she said.

  “Not good?”

  “Well, not very good. Not bad enough for most men to notice, but it’s nothing to go boasting about.”

  “She has a reputation for inseams and cuffs, I’m told. Customers ask for her.”

  Mrs. Prouty lowered her spectacles to the tip of her nose and looked over them at him. “Male customers?”

  “Primarily, yes.”

  “Well, there you are.”

  “Where am I?”

  “She’s offering more than stitching.”

  “I thought that may be the case, but not in the usual way.”

  “If there’s a new way, I don’t care to hear about it.”

  “I mean, I believe money may not be the medium of exchange. She is known to enjoy going out to restaurants and theaters and the like.”

  “Where is Mr. Adkins?”

  “Often out on a fishing vessel. She has no children.”

  “Henry will likely get the sordid details. What has this to do with your case? Did she kill the electrician?” She handed him back the cuff, pocketed her spectacles, and returned to her washing.

  “She was seen with him at a hotel. She’s a suspect, but she claimed she was home alone the night Doyle died.”

  “You don’t sound too keen on her being your killer.”

  “I’m not keen on anybody. That’s the problem.”

  He sat at the table, staring at the patterns in the oak, unable to summon the energy to move. The sounds of Mrs. Prouty’s washing blended with the ticking of the wall clock and the soft simmering of the kettle on the stove.

  A steaming mug of Postum appeared before him, and Mrs. Prouty laid a firm hand on his shoulder. “You saw your priest this morning,” she said.

  He didn’t deny it.

  “And you didn’t get the news you’d hoped for. I’m sorry, Professor, but—”

  He silenced her with a look. He did not want to hear her say it was for the best, that it was not meant to be. He was not a proponent of difficulties being blessings in disguise or pain being part of some divine master plan or test of faith. And no, he’d not developed this attitude because of Missouri and her freethinking ways but from his own bitter experience with life. If it differed from the Catholic Church, so be it. Father McGuinness could not blame all of Bradshaw’s heretical ideas on Missouri Fremont.

  The telephone rang, and he got determinedly to his feet and marched down the hall.

  “Professor Bradshaw speaking.”

  “It’s O’Brien. Henry is here at the station. We have a lead on Tycoon Tommy, the second-story man. Meet us at Maddock’s office. We’re on our way.”

  ***

  He arrived at the Globe Building in time to see a pair of uniformed patrolmen emerge with a handcuffed auburn-haired man in a fine tailored suit. The patrolmen greeted him, and he asked if he might see the back of their prisoner’s hands. The cuffs were none too gently gripped, and a pair of freckled hands presented.

  Bradshaw lifted his gaze to the prisoner’s green eyes, which gleamed with amusement. He thought of Mrs. Doyle lying in Seattle General, fighting for her life. He thought of the look of fear on his son’s face when he realized a burglar had been in his room. He was not a proponent of police violence, but he did hope the cuffs hurt.

  “Thank you,” he said to the patrolmen, and they tugged on the cuffs, moving their prisoner down the street. The police possessed but one patrol wagon, and transporting a mobile prisoner was not a priority for its use. He would be walked the six blocks to the station.

  Detective O’Brien and Henry emerged with J. D. Maddock, who was not in cuffs, but was looking distinctly annoyed.

  “We’re heading down to headquarters for a chat,” O’Brien said lightly, but the look he gave Bradshaw told him events had not unfolded as he had hoped.

  Maddock didn’t argue. He held his mouth tight, practicing his Fifth Amendment right. His drooping eye looked to be plotting another lawsuit.

  O’Brien said, “Sorry you missed the excitement, Ben. Henry will give you the scoop.” He turned to Maddock and grinned. “Let’s catch this car.” He sprinted into the road to hop aboard the Madison cable car, forcing Maddock to scramble after him. O’Brien would likely be even more daring than usual as he hopped the cars, weaving them to Third and Yesler, in hopes of arriving at the police station with Maddock’s reserve sufficiently rattled.

  Bradshaw looked at Henry. “Well?”

  “I’ll tell you as we walk. You need to go to the Bon.” They turned north, eschewing the cars in order to talk more freely. “O’Brien wants you to nail down that shoe salesman. Neither of us can find a thing to back up his claim. We think he’s got something against Olafson. He could be bitter against getting passed over for promotion, but if he doesn’t recant or continues with the gossip, he’ll ruin Olafson and young Billy, too. If O’Brien challenges him, he says it’s got to go in his notebook and I take it that me
ans it becomes official police business. Do you want me with you? Help put the scare in him?”

  “No. I’ve got it.” He needed no help today finding sufficient anger. “Tell me about what just happened. Did Maddock hire Tycoon Tommy?”

  “Hard to tell. I told O’Brien about Tommy and he knew right away who he was, but hadn’t known about his habit of writing luring letters so hadn’t connected him to the burglary at your house and the Doyle place. I’d no sooner got to the station, when the patrolman on duty near the Considine made his regular report from the call box on Yesler and said he’d just spotted Tommy, dressed dapper as usual, whistling a tune and carrying a package, so O’Brien told the patrolman to follow him, and he did, to Maddock’s. That’s when O’Brien called you and we set out. I’ve got one of your microphones on me.” Henry patted his coat. “We were gonna try to listen in, but it was all over by the time we got there, Tommy was coming out and he still had the package.”

  “What was in it?”

  They found themselves unable to move, heading upstream against a tide of women intent on shopping, burdened with straggling young children, or baby buggies, or packages too precious to have delivered home. They stepped into the street, preferring to dodge horse droppings and freight wagons.

  Henry said, “Daulton’s journal was in that package, one of your cigar boxes with melted sulfur, and two lousy sketches that looked like a drunk did ’em. Figure those were Doyle’s.”

  “That’s all?”

  “What’s missing?”

  “One more cigar box and several of Doyle’s better drawings.”

  “Maddock let O’Brien search his office, and the patrolman said Tommy and Maddock never left it. It doesn’t look like a deal was made. Tommy claims he found the stuff in an alley behind the Considine, and being a businessman who keeps up with the news, he suspected the items might be of some value to Edison’s representative.”

  “And Maddock?”

  “He said he smelled a rat and refused to deal with him, declared that’s all he had to say, then called his lawyer. The secretary with the sourpuss and tight bun said Tommy refused to let Maddock examine anything without up-front payment, and Maddock refused to buy a pig in a poke.”