Blackmailed, page 11
“The windows are boarded over, and I don’t see a door,” Timothy whispered. They’d stopped behind a shed that sat near one of the docks that stretched out into the bay.
“I don’t think the fellow slouched against the building is a drunk. I think he’s a watchman,” Phillip whispered back.
“Drunk or jealous. What’s the play?”
“We don’t stink enough to be drunk. I think we have to go with jealous.”
“It’s your turn to take a punch,” Timothy said, a smile in his voice, as he took a rag and a glass bottle from his coat pocket.
“I don’t suppose you can miss me and let me take a fall,” he said.
Timothy looked at him, smiling, he imagined, as he could not make out his friend’s face in the darkness they stood in.
“I can call on her if I want!” Timothy said as he walked briskly toward the watchman. “You don’t pay her any mind.”
“I said leave her alone. She’s mine!” Phillip said to his back, hurrying to catch up.
“Doris likes me better,” Timothy said with a laugh. “Especially in the bedroom.”
“I’m going to kill you!” Phillip said and threw a wild punch at Timothy that missed him completely. As he did, he got himself directly in front of the watchman, who was just now struggling to stand.
Timothy turned and hit Phillip with a roundhouse punch to the chin, making him stagger backward and land on top of the watchman, who was shouting and cursing now.
Phillip turned over quickly and grabbed the man from behind while Timothy tied his wrists and waved the rag soaked with ether under his nose. They quickly dragged him to the shed they’d hidden behind and closed the door as the man slumped unconscious.
The two men walked back to where the man had been sitting. Timothy watched the dock while Phillip felt for the doorway. “Here. There’s a latch here. Are you ready?” Phillip whispered.
Timothy nodded as Phillip moved the small brass bar, and the well-hidden door creaked open. They both stepped inside, taking time to let their eyes adjust to the darkness and acclimate themselves to the room they were in. There was little light, but Phillip could make out shapes, boxes and crates, mostly. Littleman would not want her stolen goods to be damp and decrease the value, Phillip thought as he realized the room was warm from a large coal stove spewing heat. There was no one else in the room, but someone would have to feed the coal to keep that stove burning. They had limited time.
Timothy pointed to a door by a set of steps. He tried to turn the knob, but it was locked. Just then they heard a door at the top of the stairs open and heard a man arguing with another one over who would be shoveling the coal. Timothy and Phillip crept to the stacked boxes and managed to get behind some sitting at an angle. They crouched and watched the massive man come down the steps, making each one groan under his weight. He walked right past them, opened the stove door with a rag, and shoveled coal inside. Phillip could see his face clearly and recognized him from his trip to the Water Tavern with Uncle Patrick. He held his breath and ducked his head when the man turned from the stove and dusted his hands.
The big man walked to the door to the dock and banged hard on the wood. “Stay awake, boy,” he said in a loud voice and turned to the steps, muttering to himself about the sorry state of young men in 1868.
He never glanced their direction and merely lumbered up the wooden steps, calling out when he got to the top, “Thomas! Let me up.”
As the man shouted to unlock the door at the top of the stairs, Phillip and Timothy heard rapping and a voice from the behind the locked door where they believed the Pinkerton men were held.
“Jesus and the saints,” the man said as he rumbled back down the steps. “What do you want now?”
“Medical attention. He needs help.”
Phillip and Timothy heard the quiet plea and glanced at each other, recognizing Lieutenant Randolph’s voice. Phillip wondered how badly injured the captain was, but they would know soon enough when they rescued them.
“Won’t matter to the fishies if he’s bloody or not when I pitch him in the bay. Unless, God forbid, there’s a shark nearby!” the man said and laughed heartily as he climbed the steps again. “A shark!” he repeated and laughed again. “Open up, Thomas!”
They waited more than thirty minutes after the door closed and the key turned, hearing the scrape of chairs against a wood floor and a clink of glass on glass. Hopefully, they’d drink enough to let them drift off to sleep. Phillip looked at Timothy and stood up slowly, his knees protesting the long, tense crouch.
Phillip knelt at the locked door and pulled a small leather case from his coat pocket. He picked two thin metal tools from the pouch and worked silently on the lock until it clicked open. He opened the door slowly, and Randolph hurried away from the door, fear written plainly on his face. Phillip held a finger to his mouth and shook his head as Timothy went past him to see the captain.
“Can you walk, Lieutenant?” Phillip whispered, noting the man’s arm hung at an odd angle.
He nodded. “Don’t think the captain can.”
Timothy pulled the unconscious man over his shoulder with a grunt and straightened. The captain groaned, and Timothy went straight out of the fetid room and toward the door to the dock. Phillip got Randolph to his feet and wrapped an arm about the man’s waist, hurrying him along. He stepped out onto the dock just as the watchman shouted to the second floor. Although the man staggered, not yet shed of the ether and its effects, and his hands were still tied, his shouts would wake the dead. Timothy walked as fast as the weight he carried allowed him as Phillip hurried past him to get the injured men on the horses.
Phillip heard shouts from behind them and helped Randolph on the horse, turning to the decrepit man who’d watched their horses and tossing him a coin. “You best get out of here.”
The man limped away to a space between the buildings, and Phillip hurried to Timothy, who was struggling to get the captain across the horse’s back. “Is he alive still?” Phillip asked.
“I think, but not sure. Let’s get out of here,” Timothy said and climbed on the horse’s back, holding the captain in place with one hand and hawing the horse with his other.
Phillip hurried to his horse and climbed up behind Randolph as shots were fired from behind. He reached around the lieutenant for the reins with one hand and pulled his pistol at the same time. He dug his heels into the horse’s sides and glanced over his shoulder, aiming as much as he could on a moving animal. He caught one of the big men in the shoulder by some miracle and raced his animal around the next corner and out of range of pistols.
He caught up with Timothy and slowed his horse, blowing great breaths in the night air. “Where to?”
“Marine Hospital. Let’s hope someone’s awake there.”
Phillip followed Timothy down the empty street at as fast a pace as they could while he held tight to Randolph, who’d slumped in his arms. The large brick building looked closed up tight, but Timothy pounded on the doors until an orderly opened it and glared out at him.
“Sweitzinger with the Baltimore Police Force. Got two injured men from the Pinkerton Detectives. One’s in bad shape. Needs attention right away,” Timothy said with a voice that did not invite disagreement.
The orderly looked at Phillip holding Randolph and Captain Reed slumped over Timothy’s horse. “Bring them in. I’ll get the doctor on overnight.”
Phillip and Timothy wrangled the men inside and into the capable hands of several men and women who’d come to assist. One stopped and touched Phillip’s shoulder, eliciting a hiss of pain.
“You’ve been shot, sir. Come this way,” she said as Phillip suddenly understood the words and their meaning and the pain he was feeling in his upper arm.
Phillip submitted to a woman in a dark blue dress covered with a starched white apron, her hair under a cap, who pulled off his jacket and stuck a finger through a hole.
“Don’t know if this can be salvaged,” she said.
Phillip pulled his shirt away from the long gash on his upper arm with a hiss. The nurse washed the wound with hot water and applied a foul-smelling ointment that burned enough to make him wince out loud. Timothy walked in the room and took a look at his arm.
“That’s going to leave a mark,” he said.
“I’m not worried. Women love a scar or two,” he said and glanced at the nurse who was wrapping his arm in gauze.
She shook her head. “I work in the Marine Hospital. Do you think that’s the first time I’ve heard something that ridiculous? Keep this clean and dry and change the bandage until it’s scabbed over.” She gathered her things and went out the door.
“She told you, didn’t she?” Timothy said, watching her as she made her way down the hallway.
“Have you heard anything about the Pinkertons?”
“The lieutenant will recover. Broken arm and several busted ribs as well as a fractured ankle.”
“Fractured ankle?” Phillip said. “I’ve got to give him credit; he was moving along out on that dock. Probably so afraid to go back to Littleman’s that he didn’t even feel the pain.”
“The captain may not make it. The doc said he’d know more if he’s alive in the morning, although the sun’s coming up now.”
Phillip pulled on his torn and bloody shirt. “I need some sleep.”
Timothy helped him stand up. “Are you able to ride?”
Phillip nodded. “As long as my horse follows yours, I’ll be fine. Don’t have to be at the cannery until noon.”
Chapter 12
Sarah Brown took the folded note from Dolly Irving.
“I think you shouldn’t be here anymore until this is straightened out,” the woman said, staring down at her hands.
“You’re firing me?”
“Read the note. I don’t know what choice I have. I’m a woman alone.”
Sarah opened the note. Don’t be talking to the Browns anymore. You’ll be sorry if you do.
“They’re trying to scare you, Dolly,” Sarah said. “But if you would feel better, I’ll stop coming here until Colfax’s killer is caught.”
“It won’t make me feel better. You manage to sell extras like gloves and stockings better than I’ve ever been able to. But you’ve got to understand,” Dolly said and took hold of Sarah’s hands. “I don’t sleep at night. I’m half-afraid to go to the grocer’s. I have trouble thinking about a new fashion or style to introduce because I don’t think I’m long for this world.”
Sarah turned as the bell tinkled over the door.
“Hello!” Colleen Hughes said.
“Hello, Colleen! I think your dresses are ready. Let me check. You may need to try them on for a final adjustment,” Sarah said and invited her into the back fitting room.
Virginia Wiest smiled at Dolly Irving. “Hello. Miss Hughes is in my employ, and I’ve been wanting to meet you ever since we heard about your troubles.” She glanced around the showroom’s mannequins and fabric displays, noting there were no other customers at the time. “You have a lovely store.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m Virginia Wiest, Mrs. Irving.”
“Sarah has mentioned you. You’ve helped her brother solve a mystery on occasion.”
“I have. Although I’ve not had anything to do with solving who shot that unfortunate Mr. Colfax.”
“I don’t know that he was unfortunate. I think rather he got caught cheating someone. I should have never gotten involved with his . . . activities. But you see—” She stopped herself short. “May I show you some trimmings I’ve just received?”
“Miss Hughes told me that you have a daughter,” she said and laid her hand on the woman’s. “I would never reveal anyone’s personal business. Miss Hughes only told me because I asked her if there was anything I could do to help you through these tumultuous times.”
“Do? What do you mean?”
“She said your brother and his wife care for your daughter and that he was hoping to get a new job as a bookkeeper.”
Mrs. Irving nodded. “He took the job when it was offered. But he has to leave his house before the sun is up, as it takes him that long to get there on his crutches. I don’t know what he’ll do in the winter weather.”
“Miss Hughes told me that as well. I spoke to my coachman about a situation such as this, and he said we have a gig he’d intended to get rid of. I thought your brother might be able use it. And one of our carriage horses he’d planned on sending out to a pasture farm. The horse is sound but getting too old to haul our family’s big carriage. He said he’d do fine for a jaunt with a small gig twice a day. I’d be happy to send them both to your brother if you’d give me his address.”
Virginia held her breath. The woman’s face was a misery of hope and pride. Virginia tried to make these sorts of gifts feel like the recipient was helping out the Wiest family instead of the other way around, but it didn’t always work. And Dolly Irving was no one’s fool, other than, perhaps, Cornelius Colfax’s.
“I can hardly believe it,” she whispered. “You would do that? I don’t have the money to pay you though for a gig, let alone a horse.”
Virginia shook her head. “You would be doing our coachman a favor as he needs the room in the carriage house and is always concerned how a horse will be treated at a pasture farm. This way he would know the horse would be with a family who would take care of it.”
“It is too good to be true.”
“Please, Mrs. Irving. Allow me to do this for our coachman and help you at the same time.”
Tears filled the woman’s eyes. “Let me write down his address.”
“That would be wonderful. My coachman will take care of everything. But you’d best mail your brother a letter so he knows to expect a visitor. “Do they have a barn or a stable of any kind?”
“They do, but it hasn’t been used since they began renting the house. He’ll have his work cut out for him to get it ready, but what a blessing,” she said.
Colleen appeared from the back room at that moment, box in hand.
“I can’t wait to see your new gowns,” Virginia said. She and Colleen bid Mrs. Irving and Sarah Brown good day and climbed into the Wiest coach with the help of Mr. Turnbull. She handed him the address. “You can deliver the gig and horse anytime, Mr. Turnbull. And please take enough money from the household account to buy feed and hay from the local grainer for the next several months.”
“Yes, miss. I’ll take care of it this week.”
Colleen looked at her once they were seated. “I thought she might refuse.”
Virginia smiled. “I think she almost did, but good sense prevailed.”
* * *
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Everly?” Phillip said shortly after arriving at work and being summoned to the upper floor where the cannery offices were.
“Come in. Hurry, Brown. Mr. Wiest is out with a prospective client.”
“What can I help you with, Mr. Everly?”
Everly motioned him closer and pointed at an open ledger book. “What is going on with your investigation of the thefts at my home?” he whispered.
“Still working on it.”
“Can’t you work faster?”
“I think we’ll have a break soon. Has something else happened?” Phillip asked and glanced at Everly.
“Whoever it is, they are getting bolder. A silver coffee service handed down in our family since it was purchased from the Revere Silver Shop of Boston with the maker’s mark on the bottom of each piece.”
Phillip stared at Everly. “Where in the house was that kept?”
“In the silver cupboard. The locked silver cupboard.”
“Who has a key?”
Everly looked at him and bared his teeth in a growl. “Jenkins, Mrs. Brandeis, myself, and my mother.”
Phillip nodded and stared at the man. “Is it possible a key could have found its way into another’s hands?”
Everly shook his head. “I don’t think so, but I can’t be certain. Jenkins and Mrs. Brandeis have been with us for years. Jenkins, in particular, has guarded the family’s name and reputation vigorously.”
“Let me make a few more inquiries, Mr. Everly, before we name any names.”
“You must get to the bottom of this, Brown. My household is in an uproar.”
* * *
Phillip received a note delivered by messenger to Wolfe Street from Mrs. Everly asking him to meet her at a coffee shop in her neighborhood. He wondered why she wanted to talk to him over the whole course of his work day.
Phillip left the cannery at his appointed time and went directly to the coffee shop Mrs. Everly had mentioned in her note. He found a corner table and waited only a few minutes until he saw her at the door. He stood as she looked around the busy shop haughtily. She saw him and turned in his direction, stopping in front of him.
“How in the world does anyone hear their own conversation in the midst of all this ridiculous chatter?” she said, not bothering to lower her voice.
A few nearby customers looked up at her, a few scowls but mostly amusement on their faces. He helped her into the chair across from his.
“Where is the waiter?” she said and waved her arm.
“There are no waiters here, Mrs. Everly. I’ll go up to the counter and get you whatever you want.”
“Coffee, young man. I want coffee and a cookie of some kind, if there’s anything decent.”
Phillip made his way to the counter and ordered two coffees and an assortment of sweets.
“I’ll bring them over to you and your grandmother, sir,” the clerk said. “It’s hard to navigate through the crowd with a hot drink.”
Phillip thought about correcting the young man but decided against it, thanked him, and turned back to the table, where Mrs. Everly was scanning the room with distaste.
“They let just about anyone in here, I see,” she said. “No discrimination at all.”
He shook his head. “This shop is near the Baltimore City College and gets students and professors alike as well as the local shopkeepers.”
