Peter came back. “I lost sight of the other rogue. We can’t stay here; he might return. I’ll carry Mrs. Thompson out of the woods. Run ahead for help.”

  As Brenda hurried toward Broadmore, anger nearly blinded her. Her father had carried out his threat. At this moment, she would have killed him if she could.

  When Pamela awoke, she was in her own bed. Her head felt twice its normal size. She was drowsy and suffered a low, dull pain. Brenda was at her side, pale and apprehensive.

  “What time is it?” Pamela asked.

  “It’s near six. You’ve been unconscious for at least fifteen minutes. A doctor was already in the house on a sick call and looked at you. Apparently you’ve suffered no lasting damage. Mrs. Jennings is asking about you. I’ve sent for her.”

  Lydia arrived shortly. “How are you, Pamela?” she asked, her eyes searching the patient anxiously.

  Pamela replied, “I’m fortunate. The blow could have been fatal. I’ll be well soon.” She went on to describe the incident.

  Lydia wrung her hands. “The tramps are likely to attack any of us. The police must drive them out of the area.”

  Pamela tried to ease her anxiety. “I’m sure that the police are looking into the problem.”

  Lydia left unconvinced.

  A couple of hours later, while Pamela was resting, Patrick O’Boyle arrived at the door in his coachman’s coat and boots. Brenda asked her, “Could you speak to him?”

  “Show him in.”

  Brenda led O’Boyle into the room. His face was flushed with exertion and triumph. He glanced at Pamela. “Hope you’ll heal soon, ma’am. Sorry for the beating you took, but we’ve caught the two rogues who did it.”

  “Who are they?” she asked. “I didn’t get a good look at them.”

  “They’re a couple of tramps, new to the area, desperate men.”

  Brenda asked, “How’d you catch the one who got away?”

  “You and my son Peter gave me a full description. I passed it on to all the other coachmen in Lenox—we’re a kind of fraternity, you see—and we mounted a search. We found the rogue near the railroad tracks, bound him hand and foot, and locked him in the basement. His comrade is also there, still unconscious. We’ve called the police to take them away.”

  “Why did they attack me?” Pamela asked.

  “With a little persuasion, the conscious tramp confessed fully. He and his comrade were former prison mates of Dennis Reilly. He gave himself an alibi and hired them for a pittance to kill you. Your death was to look like you slipped from the outcrop, fell to the creek below, and struck your head on a rock.”

  Pamela asked, “What can be done about Dennis Reilly? He will try again.”

  O’Boyle replied, “Of that I’m sure. Mrs. Jennings told me to telegraph Mr. Prescott. When he arrives tomorrow, we’ll discuss the question.”

  The following day, Pamela was beginning to feel better but remained in bed. In the afternoon, Prescott and O’Boyle came to her room. Prescott studied her with concern. “I’m happy that you’ve suffered no major injury. But you still must feel pain. So, we’ll be brief. We’re watching Reilly, but that’s only a temporary solution. We need to build a stronger case against him. He put nothing in writing and could deny that he hired the tramps. In a courtroom, it would be his word against theirs.”

  O’Boyle added, “We think that another person must be involved in the plot. The two tramps were unfamiliar with the estate and with your movements. Reilly must have paid someone to admit them to the grounds. Someone also must have told them about your custom of walking in the woods.”

  Prescott asked her, “Can you think of anyone in the household who hates you and would cooperate in Reilly’s scheme?”

  Pamela immediately thought of Maggie, but she didn’t sense malice in the maid. She should have the benefit of the doubt. “No,” Pamela replied, then mentioned Wilson. “He and Reilly are likely acquainted through gambling at Barney’s in New York. Still, I’m not aware that he hates me.”

  “Whether Wilson or someone else, the accomplice might not have realized what the tramps were up to,” suggested O’Boyle.

  “I can’t imagine such a person,” Pamela said. “He or she would have to be unusually naïve, even simple-minded. That would exclude Wilson.” Then she had an afterthought. “Agnes Jones, the simple maid I caught stealing a bracelet at Macy’s, is often in the village. Reilly might have contacted her. She certainly knows the path through the woods. I’ve occasionally taken her along on my walks. I doubt that she holds any malice toward me. But Reilly could easily have deceived her about his plan and bribed her with a few dollars or a trinket to cooperate.”

  “You should question her,” said Prescott. “We will have the cook send her with your supper tray. O’Boyle and I will listen in the parlor.”

  Agnes Jones entered the room with an awkward gait, her eyes glued to the tray, as if she feared dropping it. She placed it carefully on the bedside table and withdrew shyly toward the door. Pamela beckoned her back. “Sit down, Agnes. I’m bored to death lying here. Keep me company.”

  “I hope you feel better tomorrow,” the maid remarked.

  Pamela began to eat and turned the conversation toward seasonal visitors to Lenox. “Have you met any of them, Agnes? Mr. Reilly, for instance?”

  “Oh yes, ma’am,” the maid replied, smoothing her apron over her knees. “A kind and proper gentleman, he’s been good to me. Treats me to ice cream in the village shop.”

  “What do you talk about?” Pamela asked casually, and buttered a piece of bread.

  “Mostly about Broadmore Hall, such a grand place. He says I’m lucky to work here. He also speaks well of you. I’ve told him about our walks in the woods and the rocky place by the creek where we rest and listen to the birds sing. Once he asked, ‘Could I take a walk there with you?’ I said I’d like that. So he arranged things with Mr. Wilson—they know each other. Mr. Reilly and I spent an hour in the woods and rested by the creek. It was a lovely time.”

  “Did Mr. Reilly tell you not to mention that you were seeing him?” She laid a slice of cheese on the bread and took a bite, glancing sidewise at the maid, who seemed fully absorbed in her story.

  “Yes, he did. He knew that my mother would be upset. She says I shouldn’t speak to men unless I’m with a chaperone. I speak to men anyway, but I don’t tell her. With Mr. Reilly I needn’t worry. He’s polite and respectful. He wouldn’t hurt me.”

  Pamela had heard enough. “You needn’t wait any longer, Agnes. I’ll continue eating. You can pick up the tray later.”

  The maid bowed smartly and left the room. Prescott and O’Boyle entered.

  “We heard it all,” said Prescott to Pamela. “At Reilly’s request, Wilson probably hired the two villains without realizing that they were supposed to kill you. Likewise, Agnes probably didn’t know what Reilly intended to do with the information she gave him. But her mind is more complicated than I thought. She apparently still doesn’t understand that Reilly took advantage of her gullibility. Nonetheless, her testimony, together with that of the two tramps, should convince a jury that Reilly conspired to murder you. A judge will send him to a Massachusetts prison for a long time. You and Brenda can now rest easy.”

  Pamela hoped that was true.

  CHAPTER 20

  A Thief Uncovered

  19–22 June

  Over the next six days, while Reilly and his two confederates sat in the Pittsfield jail, Prescott made arrangements for their trial. Freed from her father’s threats, Brenda grew calmer, less fearful. And as summer approached in all its Berkshire glory, Pamela’s bruised head rapidly healed. She looked forward to preparing Broadmore for a magnificent celebration of the Fourth of July.

  So she was startled on Monday evening, the nineteenth of June, when Brenda brought her a sealed note from Prescott: “Come to the cabin. I have important news.”

  She again felt uneasy meeting him in the cabin. However, she would attract less attention than if he were to come uninvited to Broadmore. It was dusk, and he was outside chopping wood. As she approached, he laid down the ax and showed her into the cabin.

  “I apologize for such short notice,” he said. “But I wanted to tell you that Harry Miller sent me a report on Wilson. It confirms your observations back in April and offers credible estimates of his large gambling losses and other expenses. He also has no income in New York and no inheritance. His only income, legal or illegal, is from Broadmore Hall.”

  “Have you found a way to audit his accounts?”

  “Not yet. I assume that he keeps a secret register of his illicit earnings and his expenditures. Inform me the next time he goes to New York and his clerk takes his lunch at home in the village. Then with Lydia’s permission we could search Wilson’s rooms and find that register. What have you learned thus far?”

  “He usually keeps both his office and his own room locked. Recently, however, he left the key in the door when he was called out of the office. Brenda seized the opportunity to make a wax impression. I’ve had a metal copy made. We’ll see if it fits.”

  “If it doesn’t,” Prescott said, “I could try to pick the lock. What else do you have to report?”

  “My encounter with Maggie and Tom the tramp twelve days ago continues to occupy my mind. I hope they will heed the warning I gave them. Since then, I’ve wondered whether they had more serious mischief in mind than pilfering from the pantry. Tom appears to nurse a passionate grievance toward Mr. Jennings and might do him harm.”

  Prescott’s brow furrowed. “What would he do?”

  “Nothing public or foolish. He’s too cunning to put himself at any great risk of getting caught. But I can imagine him stealing something of great value to Jennings, or, less likely, even killing him.”

  Prescott nodded. “Your suspicion seems reasonable. He might have help from Maggie Rice. Her connection to Calumet, Michigan piques my curiosity. I’ll have Harry Miller gather more information. As we know from your husband’s failed investment, much of Henry Jennings’s fortune was made there in the copper mines of the Upper Peninsula.”

  “At great cost to others,” added Pamela, fighting back a surge of bitter feelings.

  The next day, Lydia asked Pamela to join her for a late afternoon walk through the garden. Earlier, the sun’s heat had kept her indoors. They sat on a shaded bench and silently gazed at a colorful carpet of flowers.

  “Is there any word yet on the Lizzie Borden case?” Lydia asked. “This morning, the jury was supposed to give its verdict. I imagine the entire world is eagerly waiting. I’m on pins and needles.”

  “We’ll soon know,” Pamela replied. “The Berkshire Eagle should have arrived by the time we return to the cottage.”

  For two weeks, she had conscientiously reported to Lydia on the progress of the trial. In the discussions between them, Pamela marveled at Lydia’s rapt interest. Even now she seemed more engaged with the trial than with the lush flower beds around her.

  “After considering all the arguments,” she said, “I’m more convinced than ever of Miss Borden’s innocence.”

  “Then who is guilty?” Pamela asked.

  “That’s what’s so frustrating,” Lydia replied. “The police haven’t identified a credible suspect. William Borden, Mr. Borden’s illegitimate son, had quarreled with his father over money. But so had many others. He was greedy and insensitive, a difficult man to deal with.”

  Pamela reflected that Lydia’s own husband had much in common with the murdered man.

  “Can you imagine,” Lydia continued, “how Lizzie must have felt when she found her pigeons lying slaughtered in the backyard and realized that her father had acted maliciously and without consulting her?” Lydia’s voice shuddered as she spoke.

  Pamela recalled the incident. Mr. Borden had claimed the birds were a nuisance, so he had cut off their heads. At that moment Lizzie could almost be excused if she had thought of murder.

  When the two women returned to the cottage, Brenda Reilly met them at the door. “Lizzie Borden is acquitted!” she exclaimed, and handed Lydia the newspaper.

  “I’m so relieved! I knew she was innocent,” exclaimed Lydia, glancing at the headline. “Thank God, justice prevailed.” She paused, lines of anxiety gathering on her brow. “Still, it was a heinous crime. The nameless killer is free to strike again.” She raised a warning finger. “Pamela, we must be alert or risk suffering the Bordens’ fate. Tell the servants to keep tramps from sneaking onto the estate. Report them immediately to the police.”

  The next day, Pamela duly reminded the servants of the rule on tramps, though she personally believed that Broadmore Hall, or at least its master, Henry Jennings, faced threats to his life and property from within the household. She and Brenda kept looking for an opportunity to search Wilson’s office.

  Finally, early on Thursday morning, Brenda reported that the steward had left for New York on the early morning train. His clerk was at home, and the office closed until the afternoon.

  Pamela went immediately to Prescott’s cabin and told him, “Now is the time.”

  “You must help me,” he said. “Four hands are better than two. We’ll be in and out of the rooms quicker.” He hesitated. “Has Lydia approved of this search?”

  “Yes,” Pamela replied. “I asked her before coming here. Now I’ll contact Brenda. She’ll stand guard and warn us if need be.”

  Wilson’s office and his private room were in the basement at a safe distance from the servants’ dining room and prying eyes. At ten in the morning, Prescott entered the basement, unobserved. Pamela came down from her room at the same time. Brenda was alert, watching in the hallway.

  Prescott tried the copied key to the office. It fit snugly. Pamela followed him inside. She knew the room from previous visits with Wilson. Two high window wells faced east, allowing the morning sun to cast a strong light into the room. Carefully organized file boxes lined its whitewashed walls. The papers on his desk were neatly stacked.

  “Any secret accounts should be close to his desk,” she said. Prescott checked the floorboards. They were secure. He couldn’t find any other hiding place.

  Meanwhile, Pamela searched through file boxes on shelves behind the desk. One of the boxes was labeled “old accounts.” On a hunch, she fingered through several account books filed by dates. On the outside they looked alike, except for one that had no dates on the cover. She checked it closely. “Eureka,” she cried and handed it to Prescott, who quickly scanned it. “I see gambling losses and brothel visits.” He smiled broadly. “We’ll take the book with us, examine it carefully, then decide what to do with it.”

  While searching these rooms, Pamela also hoped to find evidence of the anonymous messages that had upset Lydia Jennings and George Allen. Wilson was chief among the suspects in Pamela’s mind. She searched the drawer of his table. Among his writing materials were sheets of the cheap paper and the same color of ink used in the messages. That wouldn’t be enough to convict him, but it increased the likelihood of his guilt. A few minutes later, in a file of his correspondence, she found a dated copy of each letter, identical to the originals, even down to their crude script and barely literate grammar. Lydia should be pleased.

  “How much should we show to Mrs. Jennings?” Pamela asked her companion. They had retreated to her parlor. Even a hurried examination of the secret accounts yielded evidence of embezzlement.

  “Everything, including Wilson’s financial crime,” he replied. “She asked you to find the source of her anonymous message and any other problems afflicting Broadmore. You’ve completed your mission. She can decide how to present the results to her husband.”

  “Henry Jennings should be grateful to us for saving his money,” Pamela said firmly.

  “But he might also resent that we, rather than he, discovered the crime. His peers might think he was a poor judge of men for leaving the management of his money in the hands of a person who was an addicted gambler, a whoremonger, and a thief.”

  Later in the morning, Pamela and Prescott visited Lydia’s apartment. Still in her morning robe and reading by an open window, she met them with an unfocused expression. A moment later, she put down the book and took off her reading glasses. “Pardon my distraction,” she said. “Henry James’s Portrait of a Lady has transported me to a distant place. I fancied myself Isabel Archer in Britain beset by rascals after my money, or at least my cottage.”

  She studied their faces. “Do you two have something to report? Your expressions give you away.”

  Pamela spoke first. “We have solved the mystery of that threatening message you showed me back in April.” Pamela had decided to hold back the one sent to Mr. Allen.

  Lydia grew instantly alert. “And who was responsible for it?”

  “Mr. Wilson. Here’s the evidence.” Pamela handed over the copy that she had taken from his correspondence as well as the cheap paper he had used. “The ink also matches.”

  Lydia studied the materials closely, shaking her head as she read. Finally, she looked up and asked incredulously, “Did you find these things in Wilson’s office?”

  Pamela replied, “Yes, with your permission we searched after he left early this morning for New York.” She went on to describe getting the key and finding the message hidden among other correspondence.

  Lydia breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m pleased to know who did it. I suppose he simply wanted to vex me. He seems more pathetic than evil or malicious.”

 

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