Away in a Manger (5 page)

We followed Eighth Street then turned northward on Broadway, Wanamaker's taking up the whole block on the east side, and today a group of handbell ringers stood outside the main entrance ringing out “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” The sweet sound of the bells echoed through the cold air and the smell of roasting chestnuts greeted us from a barrow being pushed slowly along the edge of the street. I stood under the awning of Wanamaker's doorway, purporting to be listening to the handbell ringers but in reality watching the crowd as they came in and out of the store.

“Come on, Molly.” Bridie tugged at my sleeve. “It's too cold to stand still today and I want to see my girl and her scarf.”

I decided that having a lively eleven-year-old and a baby with me would not make for easy detective work. When Mrs. Sullivan arrived maybe I could slip out alone and do some proper observation. I made Bridie hang on to the buggy as the policeman blew his whistle for us to cross the street. It was slushy and muddy and we slithered our way across. I wished a crossing sweeper had been operating here, but there was too much traffic and it never stopped. The crossing sweepers were working hard, however, when we crossed Tenth, and a narrow ribbon of street was quite free of mud and snow. The well-spoken big brother was among the sweepers and gave me a half smile. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the silver dollar I had put there. “This is for you and your sister,” I said. “It's probably safer to give it to you, so that it won't get taken away from her.”

His eyes opened wide as he looked at the coin in his hand. “Thank you very much, ma'am,” he said. “You are very generous.”

“Make sure your sister gets a warm meal,” I said.

“I will. I will.” He nodded then rushed back to sweep as a loaded dray spattered mud over the street.

Bridie was tugging impatiently as we continued to the doorway where the little girl sat. We heard her voice before we saw her. “In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,” she sang in that beautiful angel voice. And there she was, hugging her knees to her for warmth, and …

“Where's your scarf?” Bridie demanded. “Why aren't you wearing your scarf?”

The child stared up at Bridie with big, sad eyes. “She took it away from me,” she said, her voice trembling.

“Who did?” I demanded angrily.

“Aunt Hettie. She didn't believe it was mine. She said I must have stolen it.”

“Your aunt thought you'd stolen it?” I said.

She nodded, biting back tears now. “I told her a lady and a girl had given it to me but she wouldn't believe me. Then she said it was too good for me and she took it away. Tig said that she's probably going to sell it.”

“You live with your aunt?” I asked, having taken them for street children with their obvious lack of care and threadbare clothing.

She nodded. “Aunt Hettie.”

“Then I'm going to have a word with this Aunt Hettie of yours,” I said. “I'll let her know that we made the scarf for you and she should be ashamed of herself sending you out into the cold dressed the way you are.”

“Oh, please don't,” she said, reaching out to grab at my skirt. “She doesn't like us very much. She might turn us out and then we'd have nowhere to go.”

At that moment a woman's voice screamed out, “My purse! Someone just took my purse!”

 

Seven

The constable on the corner sprang into action. He blew his whistle as he hurried over to the woman.

“It was here a second ago,” the woman shouted. “I know because I checked when I was standing on the street corner, waiting to cross. They said you couldn't be too careful around Christmastime.”

“Anyone see anything?” A crowd started to gather. The constable looked through the crowd and his gaze fastened on a skinny youth, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets. “You,” he said. “You look like you might be up to no good.”

“Me? I'm just standing here minding my own business and waiting for my pal to show up,” the boy said. “But come to think of it, I did see something. That kid over there. I saw him standing real close to that lady and I think he took something out of her bag.”

And to my horror he pointed out our little girl's brother.

“Right, my boy. You're coming with me.” The constable took a couple of big strides and grabbed him by the collar before he could move.

“Let go of me. I didn't steal anything,” the boy cried out, struggling as the constable held him fast.

“Then let's look through your pockets, shall we?” the constable said. He reached into the boy's jacket and held up something in triumph.

“And what's this, then? How does a boy like you come by a whole dollar? A nice shiny silver dollar? Not the sort of change you get from sweeping the street, is it?”

“A lady gave it to me,” I heard him say as I tried to force my way through the crowd. “She said it was for me and my little sister.”

The little girl was on her feet now, grabbing at me frantically. “Don't let him take my brother away,” she begged. “He's a good boy. He doesn't steal.”

I was going through a turmoil of indecision. I remembered all too clearly Daniel's warning that some street children might look sweet and innocent, but it was just a guise to prey on passersby. What if he was a pickpocket and his little sister didn't know or didn't realize?

But my gut instinct won out. Any child who had thanked us so gratefully for our small gifts surely couldn't be a thief.

“Hold on to Liam's buggy,” I instructed Bridie. “Watch over him carefully and I'll be right back.”

Then I forced my way between two large Italian ladies and their shopping baskets.

“Hold on a minute, Constable,” I called. “I gave that boy the dollar.”

The crowd turned to face me.

“You did, ma'am?”

“A few minutes ago. My little girl has been most concerned about this boy's small sister, who sits in that doorway down there, begging. So I thought I'd help them out with a dollar.”

“Most generous of you, ma'am,” he said. Then he frowned at me. “Wait a minute, I know you, don't I? It's Mrs. Sullivan, the captain's wife, isn't it?”

“That's right.”

“Well, Mrs. Sullivan, ma'am. I'm afraid this young rascal could well have taken your dollar, all innocent-like, and then helped himself to another lady's purse the next instant. We see it all the time. Rogues and ruffians, the lot of them.”

“I think this boy is different, Constable,” I said. “I don't think he stole any purse.”

“I didn't,” the boy said, his eyes pleading with me. “I've never stolen anything in my life—apart from some extra potatoes from Aunt Hettie.”

The constable was looking first at the boy and then at me. “If you're vouching for the boy, Mrs. Sullivan, then I have to believe he's okay. But a lot of the little rascals around here would sell their own grandmother for a nickel.” He continued searching the boy as he spoke. “There doesn't seem to be a purse on him, but I've been instructed to take suspected pickpockets down to the station house and have them fingerprinted.”

“If I vouch for him, then I hope that won't be necessary,” I said. “I tell you what—I'll take the boy home right now and have a word with his aunt. You can see he doesn't have the purse on him, can't you? Let's assume he's innocent. In fact I'm rather inclined to believe that the boy who identified him was the real thief himself, or was in league with him.”

We both looked around and, as I suspected, the bigger boy had vanished.

“He wanted time to get away,” I said.

The constable was frowning now, torn between doing his instructed duty and wanting to believe me.

“He did have a shifty sort of look about him,” he said. “What's more I think I've seen him hanging around here before.”

“There you are, then,” I said. “I'll take this young man straight to his aunt's house and we'll have a little talk. We'll make sure that nothing like this happens again, all right?”

The constable released the boy. “If you say so, Mrs. Sullivan.” He turned to the boy and wagged a finger at him. “Now you be grateful to this lady, you hear me? If it wasn't for her you'd be spending the night at the station house jail, along with thugs and murderers. And if you really took that purse, then I'll be watching out for you next time. I'll have my beady eye on you from now on.”

“I really didn't take it, Officer,” he said. “I promise. My mother brought us up properly.”

The constable grinned as he looked at me. “Hark at him talking. He sounds like a proper Little Lord Fauntleroy, don't he? Where did you get such posh ways, my boy?”

“From my mother,” he said.

“And where's your ma now?”

“She's gone.” The boy's face became a blank mask.

I put an arm around his shoulder. “Come on. I've promised to take you home and your sister is waiting with my children.”

Tig bent to snatch up his precious broom, then allowed me to usher him away. The crowd parted for us, as if we were bewitched. I think they'd heard the boy speak too and were looking at him with wonder and suspicion. The little girl rushed up to her brother and flung her arms around him.

“You're safe, Tig. They said you were going to prison.”

He hugged her fiercely. “It's all right, Emmy. This lady saved me. The constable was going to arrest me but she told him that she'd vouch for me.”

Emmy looked up at me, eyes glowing. “Are you really our fairy godmother?” she asked.

I smiled. “You can blame Bridie here. She was the one who heard you singing and wanted to do something for you. She sat up almost all night knitting that scarf for you. The one your aunt took from you. No matter. We'll soon sort that out. Come on. Where do you live?”

The children looked at each other with frightened faces. “A long way from here,” the boy, Tig, said. “Look, you don't really have to speak to our aunt, do you? If she thinks I've been stealing that will be a good excuse to get rid of us. She's always threatening to.”

“She doesn't sound like a very nice person,” Bridie said as we set off down Broadway, heading south. “And she steals scarves too.”

“She's absolutely horrible,” Emmy said. “We hate her. But we've nowhere else to go. Mummy left us with her so we have to stay, until she comes back.”

“How long has your mother been gone?” I asked.

Emmy frowned. “A long while,” she said. “She went away soon after we came to America.”

“Where did you come from?” I tried not to sound too curious.

“England,” Emmy said, confirming what I had surmised. “We came from England. That's where we used to live. And then we went to stay with Aunt Hettie when we got here.”

“And when do you expect your mother back?”

“We don't know,” Emmy said. “We just keep waiting and waiting but she doesn't come and she doesn't even write to us.”

“You don't know where she's gone? Didn't she say where she was going?” I asked. This time I heard the anxiety in my voice.

“She didn't tell us, but she promised she'd be back soon and that everything would be all right again if we were good and did what Aunt Hettie told us.”

“Emmy, I don't think you should be telling this lady everything like this,” Tig interrupted sharply. “She's been very kind, but she's a stranger. Remember what Mummy said about being careful in a strange city, and how dangerous it was here. We shouldn't tell a stranger things. For all we know she's a child snatcher.”

Emmy looked up, suddenly frightened. “You're not a child snatcher, are you?”

I laughed. “I promise you I'm not. As you can see, I've a baby of my own and a visiting eleven-year-old to take care of, as well as a husband. I don't need more children to snatch. And my husband is an important man in the New York police, by the way.”

“Oh, he's a police captain,” Tig said, letting down his guard again. “When that constable called him captain I thought he was on a ship.”

“So where are we going?” I asked. “Where does your aunt live?”

“Over on West Street by the waterfront,” Tig said. “It's quite a long way, and it's starting to snow again. Do you really have to come with us?”

“I promised the constable I'd take you home,” I said. “Besides, I'd like to see this aunt of yours for myself. I won't mention the pickpocketing, if you like. I really don't think you took that lady's purse.”

“I didn't,” he said indignantly. “We were brought up properly. Mummy and Daddy were very keen on manners and doing everything correctly.”

“What happened to your father?” I asked. “He didn't come over to America with you?”

“He died,” Emmy said. “He died a long time ago.”

“It was two years ago,” Tig corrected. “It seems like a long time to you because you're only four. It's half your life.”

“I'm almost five.” She stuck out her little chin. “You said I'd be five right after Christmas.”

“And how old are you, Tig?” I asked. “What is Tig short for? It's not a name I've heard.”

“I'm eight years old,” the boy said, “and my real name is Thomas, after my father. Thomas Jones.”

“That sounds like a Welsh name,” I said.

“My father was from Wales,” he agreed.

“Ah, so that's why your sister has such a lovely singing voice.” I looked down at Emmy and smiled. “The Welsh are reputed to be fine singers. It's in the blood.”

“Our father was a wonderful singer,” Tig agreed, and for the first time I saw the ghost of a smile cross that tense and worried face. “He sang in front of people. On a stage.”

“My mummy is a beautiful singer too,” Emmy said. “She has a lovely voice and we used to sing with her. It made her feel happy after Daddy died, didn't it, Tig.”