Death of a Robber Baron (11 page)

C
HAPTER
18

 

A
t daybreak, Pamela hid behind a bush near the back entrance to the kitchen. A few minutes later, Maggie Rice, the pantry maid, sneaked out, glanced furtively left and right, and beckoned. From a nearby grove a tramp dashed up to her. She handed him a large sack, waved good-bye, and scurried back into the kitchen.

As soon as the tramp disappeared into the grove, Pamela went to the pantry and discreetly confronted the maid. She was better educated and more experienced than most of the female servants and enjoyed their respect. Lydia was thinking of her for a higher position in the household, perhaps to replace the housekeeper when she retired in a few years.

Pamela addressed her politely. “Let's go to your room, Maggie. We have to talk.”

The woman drew back a step, about to object. But she recognized determination in Pamela's eyes. “Yes, ma'am,” she said sourly and led Pamela to her room.

On one wall hung a photograph of her, together with an older, cultivated gentleman in rather shabby clothes. Pamela detected a strong resemblance.

“Your father?”

Maggie nodded. “He was a schoolmaster and taught the older children. Mother taught the younger ones.”

In the background was a substantial brick building. “That's the company school in Calumet, Michigan,” Maggie added.

Also on the wall was a shelf of well-used books, including a Bible, a history of the United States, and a few novels by Twain, evidence of a lively mind.

The two women sat at a table, and Pamela came directly to the point. “Maggie, what did you give to the tramp at the back door a few minutes ago?”

For a moment, she was speechless, but she reluctantly yielded to Pamela's insistent gaze. “I gave him bread, cheese, and fruit left over from last night's supper. The man said he hadn't eaten since early yesterday and had no money and no prospect of earning any today. He looked hungry. Feeding him seemed the Christian thing to do.”

“I'm sure you know that Mr. Jennings has strictly forbidden tramps on the estate. You should have reported the man to the police, or at least called the steward.”

“I understand, ma'am. It won't happen again.” The promise seemed too quick and thoughtless to be sincere.

Pamela glared at the woman. “This wasn't the first time, was it?”

The maid averted her eyes and didn't reply.

The question hung in the air. It was clear that the maid had been feeding tramps for some time. Why? Pamela asked herself. This maid was neither gullible nor sentimental. She could see the sense in discouraging the tramps. Otherwise, they would infest the estate. So what was in her mind? Was this particular tramp her lover or a relative? Or was she secretly defying Mr. Jennings for political, religious, or personal reasons? Could she be the person, the enemy, whom the anonymous messages referred to?

“Your silence speaks loudly enough, Maggie. I should simply report your behavior to Mrs. Jennings and let her bring the matter to her husband's attention.”

A terrified expression came over the maid's face. “Please don't. These are hard times. I'd lose my position and be put out on the street, destitute, with no prospect of work.”

“Then tell me why you are consorting with this tramp or with tramps in general.”

“He's Tom, an acquaintance who used to work here. Got into a terrible row with Mr. Jennings and was thrown out. Worked for five years in Chicago. A few months ago, he lost his job and came back to Lenox. Can't find work here, either.”

Pamela decided that she needed to include Tom in her investigation. “What's his full name, Maggie? Show me where he lives.”

“Tom Parker is his name.” The maid frowned. “He doesn't want anyone to know where he's hiding. If the police were to find out, they would arrest him for vagrancy.”

“You must cooperate with me, Maggie. Unless you take me to Tom, I'll report you to Mrs. Jennings.”

The maid chewed nervously on her lower lip. Finally, she gave a deep sigh. “I'll do it, but he'll be angry.”

Pamela nodded. “Nonetheless, we'll meet in the pantry in a half hour.”

 

Pamela put on sturdy shoes for a walk in the woods. She and O'Boyle agreed on a backup plan. Then she went to the pantry. Maggie arrived a minute later, unsmiling. For thirty minutes, Pamela followed her on a narrow trail to the railroad tracks; then they walked a few more minutes along the tracks.

Pamela inquired about Tom. “Why did he quarrel with Mr. Jennings?”

“Tom was a handyman on the estate's farm. A clever fellow, he could repair almost anything and worked ten hours a day, six days a week. But Jennings gave him only a bed above the stables, food in the servants' dining room, and a dollar per week. The other farm workers and the common servants in the cottage weren't paid much better. Tom tried to organize a protest among them for more money. Jennings took it as a grievous personal insult and threatened to fire the lot of them. Tom called him a greedy bastard to his face. Jennings fired him on the spot and said he'd never again find work in Berkshire County. An outcast, he moved to Chicago.”

At a thick grove of trees about thirty yards from the tracks Maggie stopped and whispered, “He's in there.”

Pamela couldn't see any sign of a human presence. But Maggie led her through tall, dense brush to the grove. A few minutes farther on was a small clearing. Off to one side was a wooden shed, cleverly built of logs and bark to blend into its surroundings.

Outside the shed a man stood by a crude bench, a knife in one hand, a piece of wood in the other. He had heard the women coming. His deep-set, dark, hostile eyes focused on Pamela. He was thinner and shabbier than she had earlier imagined him. His face was gaunt and unshaven. Lydia might be moved to feed the man, but Mr. Jennings would violently object that such charity was misguided and undeserved and would simply attract more tramps to the area.

“Why in God's name did you bring her here, Maggie?” exclaimed the tramp.

“She insisted, Tom, and threatened to turn me in.”

“I'm at the end of my rope and don't have the energy to hike any farther.” He glared at Pamela. “What do you want?” He pointed the knife at her in a menacing gesture.

“I'm working for Mrs. Jennings. I'd like to ask you some questions.”

“I'll have nothing to do with the Jennings family. They can't touch me. My shed isn't on their property.”

“But your food and other supplies come from their kitchen. That has to stop. Too much suspicion has already been aroused. This morning Maggie was observed handing you a sack. If she continues to steal for you, she'll soon be caught. Jennings will charge her with theft, and she'll go to prison. Then what will you do?”

“I'll lie down and starve, silly woman. But not before I settle with that old devil Jennings.” His grip tightened on his knife.

To calm the man's anger Pamela asked in a soft voice, “What do you do for a living here?”

“I carve children's toys. My partner tries to sell them door-to-door in the town.” He showed Pamela the toy he was working on, a big, fat sow sitting straight up with a jolly smile on her face.

Pamela liked it and said so. “May I see your tools?” She wondered if they had been taken from the Jenningses' farm.

“I didn't steal them, if that's what you think.” He beckoned her into the shed. Hanging on the wall above a workbench was a variety of tools. None of them had a Jennings mark. “I brought some of them with me from Chicago; others I picked up along the way.”

“That may be true. But your blankets and coat come from Broadmore.”

At that moment, Tom's partner returned to the shed. “What's she doing here, Tom?” he asked in an angry tone. He was a large man with a mop of curly gray hair and a wide, toothless mouth.

“Asking a lot of questions, Ben.”

“She already knows too much,” Maggie added, nodding to Tom. His eyes narrowed. He took a step toward Pamela.

Pamela raised a warning hand. “Before you do something you would surely regret, I must tell you that the coachman and his stable hands have followed us to this place. They are armed. I'll leave you with this advice: Stop pilfering from the Jennings estate. The blankets and the coat look worn. You may keep them. I'll do what I can to promote the sale of your toys in Pittsfield and in New York City. Let's keep Mr. Jennings and the police out of this affair.”

“Are you all right, ma'am?” came the coachman's big Irish voice from outside.

“What do you say, Tom?” Pamela asked.

He huffed, “I've no choice. Jennings wins again. He's got millions to burn. I've nothing. What's wrong with taking a loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese from him?” He turned to Maggie. In a voice steeped in sarcasm he exclaimed, “You heard what she said, ‘Stop pilfering.' ”

Pamela left the grove with O'Boyle and his men. She felt that she had won a battle but not yet the war. The tramp was Mr. Jennings's implacable enemy. A clever, determined man, he could cause a great deal of mischief.

C
HAPTER
19

 

A
few days passed. Pamela went about her routine work for Lydia. She also unobtrusively inspected the household. Everything appeared in good order. Maggie was complying with the estate's rules, and no tramps were in sight.

Then late in the afternoon on Monday, 12 June, Pamela took her usual walk through the garden. Since Prescott was away in New York, she also ventured into the woods, intending to go to his cabin. She would weed his vegetable patch and water his wilted plants. On the way, she left the path at the bridge over a creek flowing from high ground down to Lily Pond. She had discovered a rocky outcrop overlooking the creek.

There she sat listening to the gurgling water beneath her and let her mind wander where it willed. Then she brought forth her journal and began to write an entry for the day. Afterward, she would pick a small bouquet of wildflowers to place on Lydia's table at the evening meal. Lydia always looked so pleased when she saw it.

Today was windy. The trees creaked and rustled. The creek seemed to gurgle louder than ever. Pamela was so absorbed in her journal that she didn't hear the men's stealthy approach until they were upon her. Then she glimpsed a man raising a club. A second later, she felt a sharp, painful blow to her head and lost consciousness.

 

Brenda Reilly saw Pamela disappear on the path into the woods and thought nothing of it. She usually walked there at this time of day. But a few minutes later, Brenda noticed two men put down their tools, glance at each other, and follow Pamela. They had been trimming grass around the pistol range at the edge of the woods. Brenda didn't recognize them. As summer approached, seasonal workers were being hired. Still, her suspicions were aroused, and she looked for help. No one was close enough. Then Peter O'Boyle came with a large mallet for pounding fence posts. Brenda signaled desperately, and he came running.

“What's the matter?” he asked.

Brenda explained that two strange men had followed Pamela. “I fear they are working for my father,” she added.

“Then she's in grave danger. We have to save her.” They dashed to the path into the woods.

At the bridge, Brenda whispered, “She often leaves the path here and goes to the rocky outcrop in the clearing above the creek. We must go quietly.”

They made their way to within sight of the outcrop. Pamela was lying on her side. One of the men stood above her with a large rock in his hands. He appeared about to drop it on her head.

“Stop!” shouted the two young people together. Peter charged into the clearing, shaking his mallet. Brenda screamed for help. For a moment, the rogues stared at each other. Then the man with the rock threw it at Peter, who dodged it easily. Peter struck him on the head, and he fell to the ground senseless. His companion had drawn a knife. But now he thought better of using it and fled into the woods. Peter followed him to the far edge of the clearing. Brenda knelt next to Pamela. She was unconscious, her face scratched and bruised. Blood was seeping from a wound on the back of her head.

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.