Shrouded In Thought (Gilded Age Mysteries Book 2) (9 page)

“And did you?”

“What could I say? He is supposedly Mr. Allworthy’s right-hand man. I allowed him free access to the company’s records.”

“I’m surprised the fellow can read.” Freddie scribbled a few more notes about Bayne.

Tibbs regarded the notebook with an expression of mild annoyance. “I said this was to be off the record, Mr. Simpson.”

“And so it is,” Freddie hastened to reassure him. “I’m keeping a separate set of notes on Bayne for my personal reading.”

“Ah, I see.”

Freddie shifted his attention to more printable fare. “For the record, what do you expect will happen next?”

“I imagine Mr. Allworthy will try to replace us with strikebreakers and reopen the shop.”

“When?”

Tibbs shrugged. “It could happen any time now. I hope the fellows can keep their tempers when it does.”

The two men stood for some time contemplating the parallel human chains before them. The air was thick with tension but no violence had erupted yet.

Freddie broke the silence. “I’m reminded of an observation recently made by a friend of mine.”

Tibbs looked at him with curiosity.

“She commented that it’s only when a man feels he has nothing left to lose that he becomes truly dangerous.”

“Perhaps your friend should share her views with Mr. Allworthy.” Tibbs kept his eyes on the picketers.

“She has,” Freddie responded, “but he seems to have a hearing problem.”

Tibbs chuckled. “Well, I’m not surprised.” He mopped his forehead once more and turned resolutely back in the direction of Hyperion. “I suppose I should be getting back to my place in line.”

The two strolled back to the front of the factory. The bookkeeper retrieved his placard and rejoined his fellow workers.

Freddie was about to leave when he noticed something odd. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Bayne slip a folded bill into the hand of the cop he’d been conversing with. The cop dropped the bill into his pocket.

Just at that moment, a canvas-covered delivery wagon drawn by a team of draft horses crossed the bridge over the river and made its way to the factory entrance. Another wagon followed. Freddie watched as the men in the picket line began to grow restless, whispering to each other and pointing to the wagons.

Ten men stepped out of the back of the first dray. Another ten stepped out of the second. Some of the police moved forward as a shield between the newcomers and the picketers. A few of the strikers picked up stones and hefted them for weight.

“Remember, all of you, this is a peaceful demonstration!” Tibbs tried to make himself heard above the rising tide of angry voices.

The men unloaded from the wagons meekly followed the police through the door of the factory.

Freddie saw the cop who had been in conversation with Bayne walk up to
Orlando
. The young man was already seething with rage. It wouldn’t take much to push him over the line.

“You, Orlando?” the cop asked in an insolent tone.

“That’s right.” The boy glared at him.

Freddie was reminded of a picture he’d once seen of David and Goliath.

“Gettin’ into trouble must run in the family.” The cop paused to ruminate a moment over his chewing tobacco. He spat casually on the ground in front of
Orlando
, narrowing missing the boy’s boot. “I think it was yer sister I ran in last night.”

“What?”
Orlando
challenged in disbelief.

“Yeah, sure it was her. She was out walking
Clark Street
around midnight, looking for business. I ran her in for prostitution.”

“You lying son of a—”

Before
Orlando
could leap at the cop, two of his coworkers pinned his arms.

The cop grinned. “But maybe I made a mistake.”

Orlando
relaxed slightly and the two strikers loosened their grip on him.

The cop rubbed the back of his neck, seemingly deep in thought. “Yeah, that’s right. I did make a mistake. Now that I think about it. It wasn’t yer sister.”

Orlando
looked at him skeptically.

“It was yer mother that was the whore!”

Before his friends could stop him, the young man had leaped for the cop’s throat, attempting to throttle him. The patrolman was quicker. He raised his club and brought it down squarely on
Orlando
’s skull. Freddie winced as he heard the dull crack of wood against bone.

At the sight of the attack, the other picketers broke their line and began pelting the police with rocks, broken glass, bricks, and anything else they could lay hands on. The cops retaliated by striking back with clubs. A few shots were fired, and Freddie saw a picketer drop to the ground and roll around on the sidewalk, grabbing at a shattered, bloody ankle.

One of the cops blew his whistle, summoning reinforcements. Almost instantly, three patrol wagons came charging around the corner.

The police subdued the strikers by kicking them, clubbing them, and finally shooting into the crowd. The men were rounded up at gunpoint and loaded into the patrol wagons. Freddie saw Tibbs smile crookedly at him through a cut lip before being shoved into the back of the last wagon.

Freddie noticed Bayne standing on the top step of the factory entrance languidly smoking a cigar. In a second-story window directly above the doorway, Freddie caught a glimpse of Martin Allworthy anxiously watching the scene below. Freddie shook his head in disgust as he turned to go. Simple justice for the strikers would be a long time coming. In the meanwhile, Hyperion had reopened for business.

Chapter 8—The Presence Of Spirits

By the third week of June, both Evangeline and Freddie were feeling the strain of
Chicago
’s labor unrest. Evangeline had volunteered to work at the Pullman Relief Store and Freddie was being sent all over town to cover strike stories. Exhausted, the pair had mutually agreed that one night of frivolity would do them good. It was the evening of the much anticipated séance at the Allworthy villa and Freddie had come to the country house to collect his friend.

“How goes your murder investigation?” Evangeline slipped on her gloves and took one last approving glance at herself in the foyer mirror.

Looking suspiciously around him, Freddie ignored her question and asked one of his own. “Where’s Delphine this evening?”

“When she found out who my escort was to be, she developed a fit of the sulks and retired to her room for the nonce.” Evangeline held out her hand as a prompt for Freddie to offer his arm. “Shall we?”

Belatedly recovering his manners, he complied. One of the maids let them out.

Evangeline paused on the front steps, momentarily diverted by the contentious chirping of birds on a long summer evening. The sun was just beginning to dip to the horizon, and a pleasant breeze was blowing in from the south, bearing the scent of roses.

“No carriage?” Freddie sounded surprised.

“I believe we’ll walk.” Evangeline had chosen to ignore the rules of decorum regarding their mode of conveyance since they were now in the country, and none of the etiquette books with which she was acquainted addressed the topic of appropriate transportation to and from a séance. The evening being a delightfully cool one, the Allworthy villa a mere four blocks away, and the lady in need of exercise, they walked.

As the couple turned down
Center Street
, Evangeline persisted in her line of inquiry. “I repeat the question. How goes your investigation?”

Freddie hung his head in discouragement. “Deuced badly, I’m afraid. You heard about the strike this past Monday, of course?”

“Yes. A deplorable business that confirms my already dismal opinion of Martin Allworthy’s judgment. What can the man have been thinking! With
Pullman
refusing to arbitrate, the mood of
Chicago
’s working class toward factory owners in general is becoming increasingly angry. He’s just given them one more reason to resort to desperate measures.”

“Once they got out of jail, all the Hyperion men lost their jobs. Replaced by strikebreakers.”

“At a steep wage reduction, no doubt?”

Freddie nodded sadly. “I tried to ask around to find places for a few of the fellows, but everyone I know is afraid to hire anarchists.”

“It’s a sorry state of affairs when a man who will not quietly consent to starve to death is labeled an anarchist.” Evangeline sighed despondently. “And what about the malevolent Mr. Bayne? Any new facts to feed your fancies regarding him?”

Freddie’s expression changed from gloom to exasperation. “The scoundrel must be Old Nick himself. He appears in a puff of black smoke with no past and no acquaintances in the city to speak of. I’ve managed to discover where he lives, and it’s a pretty high-toned neighborhood, but he’s never there. I’ve even stayed up nights, propping myself against a lamp post across the street from his flat, in hopes of seeing him engage in something nefarious, but to no avail.”

“You’d better have a care, my friend. The police are likely to take you for a suspicious character, not him, and run you in for questioning.”

Freddie laughed ruefully. “That would be just the perfect irony, wouldn’t it? Is he supposed to be attending this hocus-pocus tonight?”

“The correct term is séance, not hocus-pocus, and I don’t believe so.”

The couple had by this time ambled along
Center Street
all the way to the lake and turned down
Aurora Avenue
. Spread out to their left in all its restless blue expanse was
Lake Michigan
. To their right stood an edifice which might suitably have been named
Versailles
on the
Lake
.

“Well, here we are,” Evangeline announced. “Un peut de trop, n’est-ce pas? »

“What?”

“Excessive, isn’t it.”

“In ways too numerous to mention.” Freddie stood gaping at the front of the building. “Now I know why you were surprised that I could have overlooked it.”

The house possessed no coherent architectural style but rather seemed content to borrow from a variety of sources. The façade consisted of a hodge podge of multi-colored stone surmounted by a flurry of turrets and dormers and gables. If Euphemia Allworthy had hoped to be noticed by the local set, she would certainly get her wish.

Garrison opened the door to their knock and silently took their wraps. Although the two braced themselves for a torrent of welcome from Euphemia, she greeted the couple in a subdued manner in keeping with the solemnity of the occasion.

“This evening is meant to be a soirée intime, my dears. Too many people clattering about will frighten the spirits. At least that’s what Serafina says.”

Evangeline noted with relief that Euphemia’s hair was dressed without its characteristic aigrette, and the lady of the castle had opted for a simple gown that did not silently reproach Evangeline’s choice of a teal silk walking suit.

While Evangeline cared little for the opinion of others regarding her eccentricities of manner, she had no intention of displaying her eccentricities while badly dressed. Freddie, bless his heart, had been oblivious to the intricate fashion dilemma before him and had failed to change into formal evening clothes for the occasion. Attired in a plain business suit, he had, therefore, stumbled onto the appropriate costume for the event.

***

Euphemia led her visitors into the drawing room whose elaborately gilded and frescoed ceiling aspired to be mistaken for that of the Sistine Chapel.

Bracing himself for an onslaught of introductions, Freddie was almost disappointed when Euphemia said simply, “I believe you already know everyone present.”

Freddie’s eyes swept around the room. He saw Serafina seated in an oversized armchair that seemed to dwarf her delicate frame. Theophilus Creech was hovering attentively nearby. Martin nodded curtly in greeting. As Freddie turned to look toward the opposite wall he noticed a familiar prop holding up the fireplace mantel—Roland.

Following the direction of his gaze, Euphemia whispered a confidence in his ear. “Roland wasn’t supposed to be here. He invited himself.”

Unfortunately, Euphemia’s idea of a whisper was more oratorical than most, prompting Roland to defend himself. “Oh auntie, I didn’t mean to be a burden. Really, I didn’t. It’s just that the city is so dull this time of year.”

“Didn’t you have matters of business to attend to?” Martin asked tersely.

Roland waived his hand dismissively. “Mr. Waxman said he could do without me.”

“Indeed.” His uncle allowed the single word to hang reproachfully in the air.

Before the conversation took an unpleasant turn, Euphemia diverted their attention. “Shall we go into the dining room, my friends? I’ve planned a light supper. Nothing elaborate, you understand. Serafina tells me this is best. Wouldn’t want anyone nodding off after a heavy meal and offending the inhabitants of the astral plane, now would we?”

“Do ghosts care what we eat for dinner?” Freddie murmured in Evangeline’s ear. She trod on his foot by way of comment.

***

The party was well into the final dish of a simple ten-course dinner when a loud pounding was heard coming from the outer door. Given the cavernous dimensions of the Allworthy villa, it was no small feat of strength for a knock to make itself heard all the way to the dining room over the chatter of the guests and the bustle of the servants. Garrison rushed to see who was causing the racket. Small talk in the dining room was suspended as everyone speculated on the meaning of the intrusion.

Their silence was broken by the echo of boisterous voices coming from the foyer, reverberating off the wainscoting in the hall and bouncing through the door of the dining room.

“See here, fellow!” a raucous voice boomed. “You’ll be showing me in to see my friend straightway, or I’ll be showing you the head of me cane about your scrawny neck.”

A strident female laugh accompanied the booming voice.

Martin hastily rose from the table. He seemed to recognize the voice but dreaded to acknowledge it. “I’ll just go and see who it is.”

Before he could reach the door and avert disaster, in walked Desmond, or rather, in staggered Desmond with a blowsy, berouged female draped over his arm. She was dressed resplendently in a fur-trimmed mantelet which the balmy summer evening did not require, white satin opera gloves, and diamond bracelets on both wrists. Despite her regal accoutrements, she seemed to have as much difficulty in standing upright as her companion. The two managed to remain somewhat vertical only by the process of leaning against each other.

At the sight of Martin, Desmond’s face beamed with joy. “Ah, there’s a sight for me eyes, Maggie. Didn’t I tell you, and you not believing a word I said. Didn’t I tell you I’d take you round and introduce you to my friends in society.”

“That you did, Desmond. That you did.” She thumped her companion repeatedly on the chest for emphasis. “And I’m a sorry bitch for not believing you.”

Euphemia gasped. Even Evangeline, who was used to the seamier side of life on the streets around Mast House, appeared to be at a loss for words. Freddie felt his eyes growing round as saucers. It was only with the greatest act of self-restraint that he kept himself from diving into his coat pocket for his notebook to add to his secret file on Desmond Bayne.

Martin made a superhuman effort to maintain his dignity. “We weren’t expecting the pleasure of your company this evening, Desmond. Nor that of your, uh... lady.”

Desmond howled with glee at Martin’s words. “It was supposed to be a surprise! I says to Maggie, Maggie my girl, I’ll take you round to the country house of my friend, Mr. Allworthy. We’ll hire a carriage and pack some refreshments and take ourselves a pleasant drive. We’ll surprise him at home. And a right old surprise it was too, I’ll be bound. The look on yer face is priceless, that it is!” Standing up as straight as his inebriated condition would allow, Desmond attempted to make introductions. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like you to meet a particular friend of mine. This is Miss Maggie Darling.”

Miss Maggie, in what she took to be the proper behavior of a lady on such occasions, squatted into a deep curtsy. “Most honorable and pleasured to be sure.”

To the horror of everyone present, her tipsy condition had affected her balance. She dipped to the side and tried to steady herself by grabbing at the first object she could reach. This proved to the scarf on the sideboard, which went down with her as she sank, along with a vast number of silver chafing dishes and their contents.

Desmond gulped in dismay and bent down to assist his gravy-spattered light o’love.

“Oh Desmond, help me!” she wailed, attempting to wipe off a gobbet of chicken grease from her mantelet. “I’ve disgraced meself in front of all yer fine friends. God damn me for a clumsy slut if ever there was one!” She clutched at Desmond’s tie which had the dual effect of constricting his windpipe and dragging him down on top of her.

Freddie glanced at his host. Martin appeared too stunned to move. Garrison straightened his waistcoat with a deep sigh and dove into the fray. With the help of two other servants, he managed at last to raise Desmond and Maggie to their unsteady feet. Evidently he determined it was his responsibility to take the appropriate course of action while his master was incapacitated by shock. The butler nudged Desmond and his companion toward the hall. “Let me show you to the door, sir.”

Nonplussed by the turn his surprise had taken, Desmond didn’t dispute the matter. “Aye, aye. That’ll be fine, me lad. Show us the way.” He sheepishly pushed Maggie out of the dining room door ahead of him, pausing only long enough to tip his hat to the assembled guests. “A good evening to you all, ladies and gentleman.” He then wove his way precariously down the hall and out the door.

Because of the dead silence that prevailed in the dining room, the sound of voices outside the front door carried a good while after the pair departed. The wailing and hissing reminded Freddie of a catfight of epic proportions. Only after the screaming match subsided and the feral couple apparently weaved off to nurse their grievances elsewhere, did anyone at the table feel at liberty to speak.