Cupboards All Bared, page 17
Thomas quirked a brow at his sister-in-law. She’d never been one for napping after a meal before. If he didn’t know better, he’d guess she was attempting to allow him and Marian some time alone.
Roslyn turned to Marian. “When Signora Magro is finished cleaning the kitchen I asked her to come to the parlor to discuss her future. Please inform her we’d love for her to remain as a part of the household, and she and I can discuss the details after I wake.”
“Rest well, Roz,” Thomas called out as she wheeled herself to her bedroom.
Marian sighed as she seated herself across from him on the edge of the large armchair with wooden bears climbing up the legs. “She really is quite marvelous.”
“Who? Roz?” Thomas followed her gaze where she’d been watching her employer maneuver herself without assistance.
“I’m sure you take it for granted by now, but it really is wonderful how she’s able to do most things herself with that chair of hers.”
“It hasn’t been that long since she’s had the wheelchair, really. It was a donation from the church. Before that she was simply carried by Bernard in the mornings and evenings out to this parlor, and then she spent her days in this room with her companion doing all the fetching she required.”
“How long has she been...” Marian left the delicate question hanging.
Thomas looked up as he calculated. “It’s been about eight years, I think.” Eight years. Had it really been that long? Thirty-two only ever felt old when he looked back. They were so young then.
Marian’s eyes widened. “Eight years in a chair?”
Thomas nodded. “The doctors still aren’t quite sure what it is. Some form of muscle paralysis. She and Bernard were married a year after she became permanently wheelchair-bound.”
Even then, Bernard had had to propose six or seven times before she’d finally accepted him. Roslyn had been quite a stubborn young woman. When she’d found out she’d probably never be able to walk, much less bear children... She hadn’t wanted to take that away from him. From either of them, since Thomas himself had also pursued her. The discovery had been enough for him to look elsewhere, since one of the things he still yearned for was children of his own. He hoped he wasn’t getting too old for such things. Of course, if he found a young wife—he glanced at Marian across from him—then there was a much higher chance of his dreams coming to fruition.
“It hasn’t taken the edge off her intelligence, though.” He whistled. “That woman is a voracious reader. Sometimes I envy the time she has to read. Makes me wish I could be her companion.”
Marian laughed. “I certainly have had more time to read in the past month than I’ve had since I was a child. It’s been wonderful, I admit!” She smiled and her eyes twinkled at the thought. “‘I like good strong words that mean something.’”
“Nain?” Thomas asked.
Marian laughed again. “No, Louisa May Alcott. In Little Women.”
Although he desperately wanted to take the bait and dive into a discussion of books again with her, the thought of Bernard’s request was weighing on Thomas’s mind. He needed to turn the conversation to the Baker, and somehow get Marian to confide to him what had been said between them at the jail.
“So how’s the new case going?” Marian asked.
Thomas looked up in surprise. Perhaps it would be simpler to broach the topic than he’d thought. “I honestly don’t know. Bernard wasn’t too pleased about our little excursion yesterday and so we haven’t really had a chance to discuss the new case or compare notes, that sort of thing.”
“I’m sorry if I caused a rift between you and your brother.” Marian’s brow furrowed in distress.
Thomas waved it away. “The tension between us right now is not your doing. It was there already for other reasons.”
“From what Mr. Prescot told me, it was thanks to the two of you working together that the last case was solved, no matter what the papers say.”
Thomas glanced at the fireplace. This conversation was not going the route he’d intended. “It was our first murder case together. I think it’s natural for there to be kinks still to work out. It’s difficult to remember exactly how it happened.” He smiled at Marian. “And really it was you who brought us the murderer.”
A look of sadness crossed her face for a moment before she straightened and responded, “I never would have realized the importance of the ash bucket, nor made the final connection, if I hadn’t heard that you were currently sifting through the ashes looking for bones as proof of a second body.”
Thomas nodded. “I figured that one out.” He tried not to say it too arrogantly, but it was difficult not to be proud of that deduction. “The body in the forge was a pretty amazing leap, to be honest. I’m not really sure what got me there.” He struggled for a moment to think of the exact order of events, but he couldn’t. He only recalled when all the pieces fell into place.
“I suppose that’s what makes real life different from detective novels,” Marian said. “Sherlock is always able to go back and explain the exact chain of clues that led him to his final deduction.”
“Precisely!” Thomas laughed at her ability to read his thoughts. “At least with that case Bernard and I were always on the same page. We both had all the clues to work from.” His gaze fell on the fireplace again. “This time I feel like I’ve only got half the notes. I haven’t heard what the coroner found and I left too soon to search around the body. The only people I’ve interviewed are the staff at the Campbell House, and that was thanks to a lead from Mr. Bach, not Bernard.”
He shook his head. “Mr. Bach says I should try to solve the case before Bernard, but I haven’t got a thing to go on. Besides, I’d never do that to my brother.” Even as he said it, he knew it was true. It didn’t matter if Bernard had followed a lead without him. What else did he expect him to do? Thomas would have done the same in his place. This was about solving a murder, not about their petty rivalry.
“I admire my brother. He’s got a good head on his shoulders. There’s a reason he’s made detective and I haven’t. If he wanted to, I’m certain he could solve this case without me.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t help him.” Marian leaned forward as though she was going to take his hand comfortingly, but then thought better of it, and instead merely straightened her skirt where it fell over her knees. “Is there something you learned at the Campbells’ you could follow?”
Thomas thought through his notes, landing on the man who’d been meeting London secretly behind the carriage house. “I suppose there’s one name I could look into: Tony Pavoni.”
“I RECOGNIZE THE NAME, but I can’t think why,” Marian admitted.
“Pavoni’s on the McKinley Reception Committee,” said Thomas, which explained it, “but that’s really all I know about him.”
“Oh, yes, Pavoni. Roslyn and I were just discussing an article about a speech he made in Tacoma. I believe he’s a state representative or commissioner.”
Thomas’s face clearly showed he was impressed that she, a lady, would know about such things. He should have known better, given his sister-in-law was the one who’d led their conversation about the article in the first place.
“Tony Pavoni,” Marian repeated. “You certainly wouldn’t forget a name like that when it came time to vote. It rolls of the tongue rather well: Tony Pavoni.”
“PAVONI?!” screeched a voice from the hall. Signora Magro rushed in, her face flushed with anger. “Pavoni you say?” Suddenly a torrent of Italian words came spilling out, her hands flying about her.
Marian looked at Thomas but it was clear he didn’t understand what was happening either. The only thing for certain was their new Italian cook was furious, and it had something to do with Mr. Pavoni.
Thomas rose from the couch. “Signora Magro, please.” He indicated she take his seat. She finally took a deep breath and did so. He sat across from her in the other armchair and looked at her steadily, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Please, slowly: Do you know Mr. Pavoni?”
“Signore Pavoni is bad—cattivo. ‘Pavone’ mean peacock, and he is this bird. He is proud—molto orgoglioso. He think he can do whatever he please. He not worry he hurt people.”
“Signora Magro,” Thomas said slowly. “Did he hurt you?”
“No, no,” the Italian woman waved this idea away. “Mio fratello. My...brother.”
“He hurt your brother?”
“Sì, sì.” She nodded, her eyes never leaving Thomas’s, as though hoping this would help him understand her. “My brother, he is in jail because of this peacock.”
“Jail? Did Pavoni have him arrested? Did he steal from Pavoni?”
“No, no. He...he...” Suddenly she gave up trying and broke into fluid Italian again. “Pavoni è un anarchico. Ha fatto mio fratello lavorare per lui, e quando il complotto non ha avuto successo, ha incolpato mio fratello. Mio fratello è in prigione mentre Pavoni è libero.”
Marian didn’t understand her words, but she understood her actions. She admired Thomas’s patient manner with the woman. She could tell he was quite interested in what Signora Magro was saying, and wished desperately to understand.
“She says that Pavoni is an anarchist,” came Roslyn’s clear voice as she wheeled herself back into the front parlor. “She says he made her brother work for him and when the plot was not successful, he blamed her brother. Her brother is in jail while Pavoni is free.”
Signora Magro turned to Roslyn like she’d found her long-lost sister, her anguished face flashing to joy briefly at this interpretation. “Sì, sì!” She rippled off more, her hands emphatically waving this way and that. Marian was impressed she was capable of remaining seated while the entire upper portion of her body was so animated.
“She says Pavoni is trusted, that no one would say he is a crook when he is one,” translated Roslyn slowly. Now she was the one whose eyes never left Signora Magro’s. “She knows because of her brother. No one believes her brother but her. He would not lie to her. Pavoni is the anarchist. Not her brother.”
“Does she have proof?” Thomas asked Roslyn, and then his gaze turned back to the woman who was really speaking. “Do you have proof?” he asked.
The Italian woman snorted and waved her hands about.
“Of course not,” said Roslyn. “If there was proof, Pavoni would be in jail and not her brother.”
Thomas nodded. “I had to ask,” he said with a sigh. He ran his fingers through his dark hair. Marian hated seeing him so ruffled. “Well, I suppose that’s no worse than I expected. What with his connection to the President.” His cheeks puffed out as he leaned back in his chair. “What we have here are the makings of an anarchist plot, and from what I’ve heard of them, what they’d like more than anything is to do away with McKinley. McKinley’s a Republican through and through, and in this day and age that means industrialism, commercialism, and capitalism.”
“What do the anarchists hope to gain by assassinating McKinley?” Marian asked.
It was Roslyn who answered. “There is a great division between the ruling elite and the lower classes, and it is only growing bigger.” Even Thomas turned to her with a look of surprise, though by this time Marian figured if the woman knew Italian, she shouldn’t be surprised to learn she also knew what the anarchists believed. “They say the moneyed elite control the economy and are building on the backs of the little people. The anarchists feel the only way to correct the problem is through violence, by tearing the whole system down.”
“And building it back up again?” Marian asked.
Thomas shrugged. “Given their name, I doubt that.”
Roslyn shook her head. “They preach the downfall of the U.S. government. Their papers include instructions for how to build a bomb out of everyday supplies, and they’ve been successful in creating chaos across the nation.”
“You’ve read these papers?” Thomas asked, a note of either shock or admiration in his voice.
Roslyn straightened herself in her chair, resting her elbows on the armrests. “I feel it is my duty to be informed concerning all sides of an issue, so that when women finally get the vote, we do not make fools of ourselves at the polls.”
Marian’s jaw dropped and she had to stop herself from standing and applauding. Roslyn Carew was her hero.
But in the meantime, they had a more urgent issue to solve.
“So what happens now?” she asked Thomas.
Thomas stood up. “Now Bernard and I compare notes. If Pavoni is an anarchist, and London was working with him, and they were both working for Campbell... This is definitely one of those moments where two heads are better than one.”
PETER STOOD AND QUICKLY moved behind the door to the dining room. It swung open as Thomas marched past and out the front door. Peter mulled over what he’d heard as he waited for the door to stop swinging to and fro.
Perhaps his return to the Carews’ house, rather than sticking around up on the South Hill, would pay off after all. Along with the information he’d uncovered at the Campbells’, he’d heard enough to write an article. Whether that article would be full of conjectures rather than truth—well, as his cousin Daniel said, “The truth is what we print in the paper.” Someone’s truth, at least.
He shook his head and leaned back against the dining room wall.
“If Pavoni is an anarchist, and London was working with him, and they were both working for Campbell...” then the natural conclusion was that all three were anarchists, and Spokane should be eternally grateful Mrs. McKinley’s health had kept the President from visiting their fair city. It was only right that the people of Spokane knew of this close shave.
He needed to get something written today. It wouldn’t do for The Spokesman’s newest reporter to deliver nothing but an article reporting the same details already known about the Baker’s case. He’d gathered less than nothing from his excursion up the hill, except that Mr. Prescot was keenly interested in him for some reason, and that Bernard Carew trusted him about as much as a stray cat who’d shown up on his doorstep looking for free milk.
He sniffed without thinking and then stood as still as could be, straining his ears to determine if someone might have heard it.
He’d better pack his things. If the Carews found out he was here and had overheard their little discovery, they wouldn’t let him leave until they closed the case. He’d have to type up the article at the Review Building.
He pressed his ear to the door and then opened it a crack. Time to slip away from yet another housing situation for the good of the people. And the good of himself.
BERNARD CAME BACK DOWN the hill with Prescot, though they parted ways at City Hall: Prescot to uncover what he could about the pocket watch and Bernard to go by the jail to check on the Baker.
He walked into the bowels of the station trepidatiously, prepared to be told the Baker had slit her throat with a hatpin or hung herself by a shoelace. But Officer Smith merely stood as he entered and reported all was well, though there’d been a couple of drunk-and-disorderly types who’d spent the night in the cell next to hers.
“They smarted right up after whistlin’ at her and gettin’ the Baker in return!” he said with a barely visible grin from beneath his thick mustache. “Perhaps we should keep the lady around.”
Bernard personally couldn’t wait for her to move to the Medical Lake asylum where she could be properly cared for—and away from prying eyes.
“Has a reporter tried to nose his way in? Tall, blonde, heavily bearded, goes by the name of Bach?”
Smith shook his head. “Not as yet.” He frowned. “You don’t want me to let him in if he comes by, do you?”
“No,” Bernard said, shaking his head forcefully. “He’s been trying to get ‘the scoop’ as he calls it and I don’t want him anywhere near. How about a nun?”
“Just the one yesterday.” Smith leaned in conspiratorially. “One of them types as you can tell why she chose the order over marriage.”
Bernard suddenly recalled Matsumoto had said something about the nun when he’d first gone up this morning. Made it sound like Prescot had wanted to ask him about her, but he hadn’t, so it must not have been too important.
“How long was she here?”
Smith shrugged. “Not long. By the time I got back from usin’ the W.C., your brother and his lady-friend and the big gentleman was leavin’ and all’s I heard was there was a nun speakin’ with the Baker. Soon after they leave, the nun comes out, bobs a thank you kindly and leaves.”
“How often does a nun from Sacred Heart visit?”
Smith bit his lower lip and shook his head. “None too often. Since the Baker’s been with us, maybe twice, three times. I’d have to check the log book to be sure.”
Bernard waved his hand. “That’s not necessary. I only wondered. So you weren’t here while my brother and his friends were here?”
“Nah, I stepped out, like I said. Figured if an officer was here it weren’t no problem. Good thing, too, as I’d had a bit much over me lunch and—”
Before Smith could give him a full report on his eating habits and more, Bernard walked to the door of the cells and said, “I think I’ll just go check on the Baker...”
He walked along the cold cells to the last one and peeked through the iron bars. The woman was curled into a ball, hugging her knees to her chest beneath a gray blanket, her face calm and placid as she breathed in and out slowly, evenly. Her brow was unlined and she looked at peace. Bernard prayed this meant Eleanor was getting some much-needed rest from the machinations of the Baker, and wondered how frequently she was able to overcome her other side.
Such a strange case. A convoluted mess of multiple victims and multiple murders and then multiple personalities within one person. And yet, somehow, he and Thomas had been able to untangle it all right up to the final knot.
