Cupboards All Bared, page 20
“‘Assassination Plot Against President Foiled’?!” Thomas read the front-page headline aloud. “‘While on the case regarding the body found in Hangman Creek Friday morning, new information has arisen to indicate that one or more of the suspected persons involved may have been connected with the McKinley Reception Committee while harboring anarchist tendencies...’” Thomas trailed off, his face draining of color. “Bernard is going to be furious.”
BERNARD WAS furious.
He had promised Chairman Black himself that nothing would come out until they had definite facts confirming Pavoni’s anarchist leanings. And yet someone—and he knew exactly which miscreant it was—had taken it into his blonde head that Pavoni wasn’t the only anarchist.
Bernard flattened the paper he’d crumpled in his fists and read through it again.
“‘Evidence suggests the involvement of two substantial community figures who were heading the plans for the President’s visit to our fair city: Mr. Amasa B. Campbell and Mr. Antonio Pavoni of Tacoma. After discovering the anarchist beliefs of Mr. Pavoni, it has become quickly apparent that his cohorts, Mr. Campbell and the late Mr. London, were also working with him to plan a visit for the President that would never be forgotten. Chairman Black, head of the committee, was unavailable for comment...’”
There was no way The Spokesman would print such lies without confirming their reports...right? Thomas must have told Bach about the anarchist tilt and the reporter naturally went running to the paper with the story of his life.
He’d still said the body in Hangman Creek belonged to London, though, so they must have talked before Bernard and Thomas made their discoveries last night. Which was before he and his twin had finally compared notes and started working together again.
Bernard had thought last night was proof that they’d pushed past whatever petty jealousy was coming between them.
Apparently he’d been wrong. Thomas had already sided with Bach. Was he hoping to bring Bernard down with this and take his place in the spotlight by reporting the “truth?”
But why implicate Campbell? Bernard tried to slow his rampaging thoughts. He supposed it was possible Campbell, who openly admitted to working with Pavoni, was also an anarchist, but, as with Pavoni, they had no solid evidence this was true. To say such things in the paper was slander—or was it libel? No matter what it was, it was bad. Bad form and bad character to say such things without proof.
And stupid. His job was on the line for this. It wasn’t worth the risk.
Damn it. Damn it to hell.
It didn’t matter if it was Sunday, he had to vent his frustration at least in his own thoughts.
Bernard had taken that slimy good-for-nothing toad of a reporter and welcomed him into his home, shared his meals and his house with him. And for what? So he could write a misinformed article that would cost him his job?
ARGH!!
In the end, it was Thomas’s fault. They’d finally been working together again. The fact that Tony Pavoni was dead should have been front-page news rather than this drivel.
This...this...
And the whole time, Thomas must have known, must have been thinking about how Bach already knew about Pavoni being an anarchist. Even as Bernard stood there defending him to Chairman Black, declaring no one would hear about their theory until they had proof, it was already too late. Thomas had already blabbed to his new buddy.
A reporter. A reporter!
“Detective Carew?”
He looked up to find Miss Kenyon.
“I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time?” She was looking at him like she was waiting for the Baker to leap out of his mouth.
He cleared his throat and took a deep, slow breath. “How can I help you, Miss Kenyon?”
She took a deep breath herself and settled on the edge of the chair beside his desk. “I know you’re in the middle of this new case, but...it’s about Eleanor.”
Of course it was. “Eleanor, yes.” He took a moment to rearrange his thoughts from focusing on the new murder and that...blasted article. There it was again. Yet another time Thomas had made a decision without thinking. “Has my brother found a chance to speak with you about whatever happened at the jail during your visit?”
“No.” A look of surprise crossed her eyes, like she hadn’t expected Thomas to speak with her about it in the first place. Perhaps they weren’t as close as Roslyn had intimated?
“Oh.” Bernard cleared his throat. “All right. Well, if you’d like to talk about it, we don’t have to do it here. We could find somewhere more comfortable. Like the front parlor back at the house.”
Miss Kenyon shook her head. “No, thank you, I’d hoped to catch you somewhere alone. I thought I’d just run out on an errand and then stop in at the station...” She studied her hands, twisting the ring on her pinky finger around and around. “I wanted to ask you a question.”
Bernard nodded. “Go ahead.”
Miss Kenyon took another deep breath. “I was wondering...about the inquest...for Eleanor. Shouldn’t they have done that by now?”
Bernard rubbed his mustache. “Coroner Baker has said he doesn’t need an inquest as Eleanor has pled guilty and explained—some might say a bit too thoroughly—the details of...what she did.”
Miss Kenyon nodded. “But even if she’s pled guilty...at her trial...how...will someone be defending Eleanor’s...special case?”
Bernard shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to that.”
Her eyes met his. “But surely you have a theory?”
Bernard rubbed his mustache. Of course he had a theory. He also had an opinion. It was his opinion the woman was as mad as Professor Moriarty, and the world would be a better place if she came to the same end. But Moriarty had gone down with Sherlock. If the Baker hung for her crimes, Eleanor would take the fall with her.
“I get the impression Chief Witherspoon is hoping to send Eleanor to the Medical Lake asylum to seek medical treatment, rather than hang her for murders she didn’t understand she was committing.”
Miss Kenyon’s face brightened.
“But,” Bernard continued quickly, not wanting to get her hopes up, “as you say, hers is a very special case. I’ve never heard of someone with her...problems.”
Miss Kenyon shook her head. “Neither had Roslyn, and she reads more psychoanalysis articles than any man I’ve ever met.”
Bernard grinned beneath his mustache. “Yes, that’s my wife for you. She tells me you are getting along fine?”
Miss Kenyon nodded. “Yes, most certainly. Thank you for letting me into your home and in...” She paused, but then stopped her next word. “...to see Eleanor,” she finally said instead.
Had she been about to say “your family”? What would have been so bad about that? Too intimate? He thought again about what Roslyn had said about her and Thomas, and about Thomas’s infatuated puppy dog look at the kitchen table the other night.
Hang Thomas. If he wanted to pursue his wife’s companion, Bernard would rather he do that than continue to blab to reporters.
Miss Kenyon’s cheeks reddened. “Thank you, Detective Carew,” she said again.
“Call me Bernard,” he said. “You’re practically family now.”
Her cheeks achieved an even redder glow that stretched to her forehead.
“Marian,” she said, tipping her head to him as she stood. She turned and started to make her way toward the exit, tugging on her gloves as she went. Then she stopped and returned to him quickly.
“I think you should know that Thomas greatly admires you, and he appreciates when you allow him to help. It’s that reporter who’s the problem—he’s trying to pit Thomas against you, but Thomas said he’d never do that to you. We were both very pleased to hear Mr. Bach has left. Thomas was so happy you two were able to work together again last night. He said you were most successful.”
Bernard furrowed his brow.
“I just thought you should know.” Then she turned and escaped before he could say anything in reply.
THOMAS HAD PRACTICALLY flown out the door for the station, knowing immediately how Bernard was going to take this news.
And the answer was not well. Not well at all.
He’d probably be convinced it was Thomas’s fault somehow. After all, he’d gone off with Bach yesterday morning and then returned full of information Bernard hadn’t uncovered himself.
He felt guilty even though he knew it wasn’t his fault Bach had written that article. He’d just started liking the man. Had just started to forgive him for choosing the life of a reporter. What Bach had printed was no less than his own musings on the bluff...
Maybe the man was psychic? More likely, he had been listening at the door and overheard Signora Magro’s speech. But then he’d twisted it, deformed it, and mangled it along with what he’d learned while on the beat with Thomas that morning.
Why hadn’t he just told the little creep to fend for himself? He should have shaken him loose and told him to go find his own story. He was going to strangle that reporter if he ever dared cross their threshold after pulling a stunt like this.
He was imagining throttling him until his high cheekbones turned blue when an evergreen coat came into view and he momentarily missed a step. But he made up his mind then and there he wouldn’t be distracted. He had to speak to his brother first.
“I’m sorry, Marian,” he began, “I—”
“You—,” she began.
“—have to speak to Bernard,” they both finished together. Then they laughed.
He could have kissed her for how wonderful she was just then, making him laugh, relieving the tension a bit before the difficult scene he knew was coming.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
“I understand,” she said.
And they moved on from one another reluctantly, after exchanging one last smile.
Once Marian was behind him, however, Thomas felt the urgency of his situation again, and barreled into the station. He ran past the empty front desk that reminded him it was the Lord’s Day, and up to Bernard’s desk.
Bernard stood quickly as he approached, The Spokesman-Review lying crumpled before him. Thomas looked at the crushed paper and felt his regret deepen.
He slowed down and reached for the right words before saying simply, “I’m sorry, Bernard. I swear I didn’t tell him anything. That mess of mistaken conjectures was all his. I—”
“I’m sorry, too,” said Bernard. “I immediately assumed that you must have told him about Pavoni being an anarchist but he could just as easily have overheard half of a conversation and jumped to his own conclusions. But now both of our jobs are definitely at stake. We’ve got to solve this mystery quickly so we can present it in a neat package to the chief, or we’re done for good.”
Thomas breathed a sigh of relief. He agreed whole-heartedly. “Where do we start?”
Bernard’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Let’s go find us a reporter.”
PETER CALLED FOR ANOTHER pint of beer for his cousin Daniel and himself. Daniel was three sheets to the wind already, and it wasn’t even three in the afternoon.
He’d decided to celebrate his mayhem-inducing article by hiding out with a little bit of comfort between his hands, and between his legs if he could find it. Here at the Coeur d’Alene Hotel there seemed to be sins aplenty to choose from, and somehow it being Sunday made it all the more enjoyable.
“Fancy seeing you here,” came a deep voice from behind him as a large hand slapped his right shoulder and squeezed.
Another hand settled onto his left shoulder with a firm grasp. “Mind if we join you?”
Peter gripped his mug of beer harder as the Carew brothers settled on either side of him like a couple of Mafia assassins.
“Hello there, twins! Please, do join me!” he said, forcing a smile onto his face and into his voice. “A round of drinks for my friends!” he called to the bartender. “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to say farewell, but my cousin Daniel offered a bed in his home and I could not say no.”
Peter looked about for said cousin, who he could’ve sworn was sitting next to him not two seconds ago.
“Naturally, naturally,” said Bernard, keeping his hand on Peter’s shoulder. He squeezed it slowly. “You left before we had a chance to update you on our investigation. I wish you’d waited.”
“We have discovered something quite interesting you may want to share with the public.” Thomas’s hand was also slowly squeezing Peter’s shoulder harder and harder.
Peter couldn’t help the interest that shone on his face, though he had the impression the brothers were playing with him.
“Yes,” said Bernard, “it’s real information. You know, not the type you read in the papers these days.”
“No,” said Thomas, shaking his head, “this information is backed up by facts, but perhaps you’re unfamiliar with that sort.”
Peter gulped. “Carews, if you are in any way insinuating that what The Spokesman printed about your investigation this morning was not true, I must ask that you speak with the owner of the paper, Mr. Cowles. I do not know who wrote the article, but I am certain Mr. Cowles would be willing to speak with him should you have any concerns.”
Their grips on his shoulders tightened again.
Peter tried not to squirm. “I wish I could help you more.”
“I wish you would,” said Bernard.
“I don’t,” said Thomas, and he leaned in close to Peter’s ear. “We know you wrote that article, because no one else would be slimy enough to listen to a private conversation and then defame some of the biggest names in this city without proof.”
Bernard leaned closer on the other side. “It’s too bad you chose to print such lies just before we uncovered some rather remarkable facts. You might have raised yourself in the esteem of the paper, but instead, when they learn what you’ve done...”
“And they will because we’ll have proof to back up our claims, unlike you...”
“Mr. Cowles will fire you like that.” Bernard snapped his fingers. “And no one will hire you in this town to scrape mud from their boots.”
Both hands squeezed so tightly Peter bit back a yelp, and then let go.
And they were gone.
Leaving Peter to his lonely thoughts, and two bruised shoulders.
“SO, WHAT DID YOU THINK?”
Archie had been grateful to Mrs. Curry for inviting him to join her at her little church on the South Hill, but he felt ashamed that he didn’t have an honest answer to her question. He could barely recall what the sermon had been about, let alone the name of the church.
He’d spent most of the sermon with his thoughts bouncing between trying to recall exactly what Jennings had looked like, and torturous imaginings of Thomas and Marian sitting closely together on the pew in front of him, their faces practically touching whenever they turned to whisper in the other’s ear about something.
“No matter, I can see you’re still pondering,” said Mrs. Curry. “I’ll ask you again after we’ve gotten some vittles in your belly.”
She smiled, already removing her hatpin and untying her hat ribbon on the walk up the drive, so she was practically in her apron from the moment they stepped through the kitchen door.
After washing her hands and stoking the fire in the range, she removed the roast she’d put in that morning and murmured that it was “quite nice, quite nice indeed.” She set it on the wooden countertop while she prepared the remainder of luncheon. Archie took a seat at the table after his offer of assistance was turned down, and Matsumoto soon joined him.
“I have not yet had a chance to inquire,” the inventor began as he took his seat. “Did Detective Carew agree with your theory regarding the similarities between Jennings and the nun?”
Archie shook his head glumly. “No, I haven’t had a chance to speak with the Carew brothers. But I think I may have come across something else.” He took a deep breath before continuing, but he had to tell someone. “I think Jennings is actually the Carews’ new boarder, under the guide...guise of a reporter.”
Matsumoto said nothing, simply stared at Archie’s ear, so he continued. “I met ‘Mr. Bach,’ as he’s calling himself, yesterday when I went down to the Carews. He’s got a huge beard, claims to be a reporter from Tacoma, and even showed me an article he’d written as though that would prove he’s who he says he is. But he’s got an aquiline nose, he breathes in just before he speaks, and he smokes cigarettes,” he counted on his fingers. “Plus he hot-footed it out of here when I brought him to the House yesterday.”
“You brought him to the House?” Mrs. Curry asked, turning from her chopping block.
Archie nodded and pushed his glasses up his nose. “I thought if I brought him up here I’d find a way to make him spill the beans as to his true identity, and I could get your opinion on him. Detective Carew interrupted us, so I wasn’t able to carry out my plans, but still—Bach skedaddled awfully quick for a reporter desperate for a story, as he claims to be.”
“Perhaps he feared he’d be recognized,” said Mrs. Curry.
Archie waved his hand. “That’s what I was thinking.”
“But,” said Matsumoto, “why would he agree to come to the House in the first place, then?”
Archie was a bit stumped. “He may have had his reasons,” he muttered, then brightened. “Perhaps he was so sure of his disguise he felt certain he wouldn’t be recognized, but when Detective Carew asked him to leave, he began to doubt and thought it would be better not to risk it after all?”
Mrs. Curry furrowed her brow. “This reporter looks like Jennings?”
“If Jennings attached a massive fake beard to his face, yes...though I have to admit I only saw Jennings a couple of times. He disappeared pretty early on in the last case.”
“Any other clues?” Matsumoto asked.
Archie considered. “He claims to have been in town for a couple weeks—which is within the length of time it’s been since anyone’s seen hide nor hair of Jennings.”
