Death at Pullman (23 page)

 “Emily, what happened? Come here, let me look at your face.” Dr. Chapman was alarmed when I appeared in his office the next morning. I had awoken with a swollen face, my body stiff, and deeply bruised in some places. It was painful to walk. My head ached dully as if a huge pillow surrounded it and pressed against me. I was aware that the cuts on my cheeks, and the bruises around my eye, gave a hint at my injuries from the night before. But I had been careful to cover every other bruise that might give evidence against me. The previous night, Joe had taken me back to the Florence only after convincing me that no one must know about the dynamite on the tracks and the catastrophe so narrowly averted.

“I am all right, Doctor. I merely fell after I rushed from the colonel's office last night. I was angry, and in my anger I managed to trip and fall and injure myself. It was no more than I deserved for letting my temper get the best of me.” It was difficult to tell him this outright lie, but I had promised Joe O'Malley, and I knew we had to hide the truth. Still, I felt a little sick, lying to Stephen. “How is Detective Whitbread?”

“He is much improved, Emily. Mrs. Foley stayed with him all night. I've only just sent her home on a wagon with one of her neighbors. She is still calm. Emily, I was so sorry you were unsuccessful in persuading Colonel Turner to do anything about Mr. Stark last night. I have to confess,” he gently pressed my bruised cheek as he examined it, “I told them about the dynamite. Colonel Turner immediately sent men to retrieve it. They took it away when I let them into the storeroom. I'm sorry, Emily, but it was much too dangerous to keep it here, you must know that. I tried to find out where you had gone. Turner can only do what he is allowed to do. He must abide by the rules, even if he does not always agree with them. You must believe that, in the end, Stark will be made to pay for his actions.”

I flinched as the picture of Stark's enraged face lunging toward me appeared in my mind. The doctor apologized, thinking he had hurt me. I could not tell him. I was deeply ashamed and frightened by what I had done. I had killed a man. No matter what excuse I had, nothing could change that fact. And what had that death accomplished? Did the death of Stark end the strike? Did it make Pullman the perfect place for working men and women to live in peace and prosperity? Stark was dead and I was only too aware that I had awakened to a world as badly off as when he was alive. We had prevented the dynamite from making the situation even worse, but LeClerc had gotten clear away. How could that be right? I was too ashamed to tell the doctor that. Too afraid of how deeply disappointed he would be if he knew. As he gently felt my face with his long fingers, I wished I had never come to Pullman, that he had never met Fiona MacGregor and I had never met Raoul LeClerc, that we were back at Hull House where he had so kindly offered me his name to protect me from being alone in the world after my mother's death. What a fool I had been to deny him—because of pride. I thought he was feeling pity for me and not a romantic love such as I imagined it might be. And now I felt what a fool I had been. And now I had a secret I could never tell him. I had killed a man.

I pushed his hands away, unable to bear his touch. “I am all right. Can I see Detective Whitbread?”

“If he is awake, let me . . . ”

There was a knock on the doorjamb. The door was open. Corporal Giles came in. “Excuse me, Doctor. Colonel Turner sent me to enquire after Detective Whitbread. How is he?”

“He is much improved, Corporal. I believe he will recover. He is in the next room.”

“Would it be possible to see him, sir?”

The doctor frowned. “He is very weak. What is it about?”

“It's this, sir.” The corporal took a bundle from under his arm and walked to the examining table, where he unwrapped it. It was Detective Whitbread's long-barreled pistol. I let out an exclamation. I had dropped it after shooting Stark. I never wanted to see it again. “You recognize it, miss? It's Detective Whitbread's, we believe. One of the policemen recognized it. It's a special issue, I guess, with this ivory handle. You'll want to know where it was found. It's that man Stark. He's dead. He was found this morning. He was sent to patrol part of the track last night. We keep men all along it for when the Diamond Special goes through. At first, we thought he was careless and got run down. We run a second train on the track beside the Special. It has no warning lights, it runs black and it's got armed men, so if the special gets ambushed they can protect it. We tell all the men to keep off the tracks, but that Stark, he wasn't one to listen. We thought it was his own fault.

“But then we found this, you see, near where he was hit, and when we looked more closely at him, we saw he was shot. He had his own gun, you know, so it's not that he couldn't defend himself. But we found this and they said it's the detective's. We think Stark must have had a gun battle with someone. But we don't know who. He wasn't much of a man, that Stark. So the colonel wanted me to return this to Detective Whitbread and let him know what happened to Stark.” He looked down at the gun and wrapped it up again.

I saw the doctor look at the pile of Whitbread's clothes in the corner, but he didn't say anything. He had folded his arms and was thinking. “There's one thing, sir. There's no way Detective Whitbread could have recovered enough to have gone out last night, is there? We didn't think so, but the colonel wanted me to ask to be sure. There's some of the men are saying it's Whitbread who got Stark, you see.” He cleared his throat. “There's some think he died and it was his ghost came back to get his man. That's what some of them are saying. The colonel wants to put a stop to it.”

“Oh, if that's what you think, I assure you there is no way he could have gotten out of his bed last night. And I am happy to report he is not a ghost. He is very weak but I have every reason to believe now that he will be able to recover. Come, follow me. I'll show you,” he said, as he walked out the door. We followed him to the corridor and into the next room.

Detective Whitbread was lying on a cot, breathing heavily. The air was warm, and smelled of sweat and blood. There was a small basin of water, covered with a cloth, on a table beside the bed and I could see the chair pushed away that must have been where Gracie sat all night, tending him.

“He was here all night. We never left him alone, someone was with him, and I was next door. I slept in my office.”

Even though Stephen spoke softly, I saw Whitbread's eyes flutter. He cleared his throat and attempted to raise his head. The doctor stepped to his bedside. “Whitbread, you're in the clinic. You are very weak. Don't try to talk.”

“Dr. Chapman. Miss Cabot.” I stepped to the doctor's shoulder, anxious to see Whitbread's face and reassure myself he was going to recover.

“You were shot at the train siding yesterday,” I reminded him.

“Indeed . . . Mrs. Foley. How is Mrs. Foley?”

“She's fine. You saved her. You took the bullet that was meant for her. She was here all night with you. She is fine.”

“Very unhinged, going after Stark like that. Should not be left alone.” He closed his eyes. It was too much of an effort for him to keep them open.

Dr. Chapman took his wrist and held it. He was checking the pulse. “She's calmed down. Seeing you shot seems to have cured her of her affliction. She tended you all night until I sent her home to the children this morning. She'll be back, I am sure, and you will see. She has regained her senses.”

“Stark shot you,” I hurried on. “It was Stark again. He was aiming at her.”

“This will happen if you aim a gun at a man like that, it must be admitted,” Whitbread offered dryly, his eyes still closed.

“Still, that man shot into the crowd again. Colonel Turner wouldn't do anything, but last night Stark was killed. He was hit by a train and he is dead.”

“The corporal, here, has come to return your gun, Detective, and to ascertain that you were not there last night to push the man under the train. They're saying it was your ghost that did it,” Dr. Chapman told him, releasing his hand.

Whitbread laughed then. It was a dry little cough of a laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. “I regret to say I was unable to pursue the man, although I do—or did, I should say—consider him a criminal. I am happy to report that whatever ghost may have been involved, mine is not yet available for such activities. That is no doubt due to your efforts, Doctor, for which I thank you.”

“You are very welcome, but now you must rest. Corporal, Emily, we must leave Detective Whitbread to his sleep. If you please.” He shooed us to the door, motioning the corporal to leave the detective's gun on the table at his side.

But Detective Whitbread called out for me. “Miss Cabot!”

I turned back. “About the other matter, Miss Cabot. Did you safely deliver the materials? What we found in the brick shed?”

I reached out to touch his shoulder. “Yes, that is all taken care of. All of it is out of harm's reach. You mustn't worry about it.” With a sigh, he relaxed, closing his eyes again.

I followed the others to the door. As the corporal hurried away, the doctor turned to me with speculation in his eyes. He knew that Whitbread's pistol had been in the pile of his clothes the night before. He stared at my face as if counting every pore, every scratch, and every bruise from my supposed fall. I was tired. Perhaps he would see through me and discern the terrible thing I had done. I would never live it down. He shook his head. But before he could begin to lecture or interrogate me, we heard someone climbing the stairs.

It was Gracie Foley, in her good, green taffeta dress with her dark green velvet-trimmed hat, complete with a jaunty feather, on her head. She wore leather gloves and carried a folded set of stiff parchment papers.

“Mrs. Foley, there is no need for you to return so soon. He is resting. You must be exhausted from your efforts last night,” the doctor told her.

She looked back and forth between us. Her face was drawn and weary but determined, as ever. In that she reminded me of Whitbread.

“Joe has left. He has fled.” I thought she searched my face in particular and I knew Joe must have told his sister what had happened the previous night. I steeled myself to hear her tell it to the doctor. But she had a different errand. “He left a confession. He wrote it out and he made me promise to give it to him.” She nodded towards the door of Whitbread's room. “I must give it  to him. I must do it this morning.”

“What has he confessed?” I asked, before the surprised doctor could say anything.

She looked at me dully. “'Twas him who killed Brian. 'Twas Joe who killed our own brother. And last night he killed that man Stark, too.”

I was dumbfounded. The doctor was merely surprised. “It wasn't Stark who killed your brother Brian? We heard that Stark was killed last night—someone from the army was just here—but they didn't know who shot him. Was it really your brother Joe who killed Brian, not Stark? Why?” the doctor asked.

“Stark killed my Mooney,” she said sorrowfully, “and he shot the policeman,” she nodded at the door. “But he did not kill Brian. It was a bloody tragedy, but it was Joseph who done it. And he saw the detective jump in front of me to take the bullet. He feels he owes it to him to tell him the truth. Joe killed our brother Brian and he'll not have anyone else blamed for that, not even Stark who has enough bloodstains on his soul as will never wash away. Joe did it and he wants the detective to know.” She took a step forward, but I jumped in between her and the door.

“Mrs. Foley, Gracie. You can't tell that to Detective Whitbread. He is my friend. He is a good man, a very good man. But he is upright in the extreme. If you tell him that your brother has done this, he will never be able to let it go. He will hunt him down. He will not rest until he catches him. You must see that it is wrong. After all your brother has done, it is Stark who was the most guilty and he is dead.”

“I know what happened last night,” she told me looking me in the eye and I knew her brother had told her that I was there. “I know that Stark is dead. But what is right, is right. He had to get it off his chest. It is a terrible thing to kill your own brother, Miss Cabot. A terrible thing.”

Dr. Chapman had moved behind my shoulder. “In any case, Mrs. Foley, I must ask you to wait to reveal this information to Detective Whitbread until he is recovered. Come away and think about it for awhile and let him rest.”

But the detective had heard us. “Dr. Chapman, is that you? Is that Mrs. Foley? Dr. Chapman?”

The doctor frowned and shook his head. He looked at Gracie. “Miss Cabot is right, Mrs. Foley. If you tell Whitbread what you have told us, he will never forgive your brother. He will never let him alone.”

“Dr. Chapman, I hear your voices . . . please.”

The doctor opened the door. “Yes, yes, we are sorry to disturb you. Mrs. Foley has returned. But you must rest.” Gracie swept past Stephen quickly, settling herself into the chair at Whitbread's bedside. She was a substantial woman, sturdy in every move, but the little green feather at the top of her hat trembled as she opened the sheaf of paper in her lap.

“I have come to bring you a confession.”

“Really, Mrs. Foley, I must insist you put this off until later.” The doctor tried to intervene but, meanwhile, Whitbread was raising himself on his elbows, trying to prop himself up. Gracie jumped up and shoved some pillows behind his back. As she carefully rearranged herself back in the chair, the doctor murmured, “Oh, really.”

Detective Whitbread could barely raise his head on his neck for a few moments. He saw the papers she had placed in his hands and he looked across at her face. His eyes were rheumy with sleep, but I thought I saw a hint of amusement. And of respect. It occurred to me that Detective Whitbread really admired the Irish widow. She had some of his own implacability. It pierced my heart because I knew what was coming and what a rift it would make between them.

“Read it, if you would please,” he told her.

She pursed her lips, but she took the pages, smoothing them out on her lap. I could see the carefully shaped, printed letters that were like the ones in the note I had received warning of the bomb in the clock tower. Her bosom rose with a deep breath and she read it out in a loud voice:

 

I, Joseph Liam O'Malley, of the Dens, Town of Pullman, do swear that, on the tenth of April, I killed my brother Brian O'Malley in the brickyard shed of the Pullman works. It was not planned but done in anger. I will regret it for the rest of my life and surely beyond. For Brian is dead and I can never pay for an act as terrible as killing your own brother.

I can never be forgiven by my family for this but know it came about, not from hatred, but from jealousy caused by love for his woman. I won't name her, for she has done all she can already and nothing I can say will harm her.

I also killed that traitor and murderer, Leonard Stark, with the gun of Detective Whitbread that I took from the clinic last night. He killed my sister's fiancé in cold blood and he tried to kill my sister. I took the gun, followed him, and we fought. He fired his gun first, but I killed him. It is as the Lord wills that he is gone to his deserts and I am sure he burns in Hell where I will someday meet him.

 

I was stunned. Joe was claiming the death of Stark for himself. He had gone to great lengths to make me promise not to report what had happened the night before. Now I understood. I thought he only wanted to prevent information about the dynamite from ruining the reputation of the strikers in Pullman, but he had planned this all along.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I listened to Gracie read the rest of the letter. He told the story of Fiona and Brian, as he had told it to me the night before, only he said nothing about the fact that she was carrying his child. He told of the awful fight with his brother, and how he had fallen and hit his head and how Joe had disguised the murder by hanging the body with the sign. He didn't mention Fiona's part in that. He did put some blame on his father, and Fiona's father, for preventing the young people from marrying in the first place. Finally he described taking Detective Whitbread's pistol, while people were milling around the clinic after the shooting, and following Stark along the track until he confronted him and they both shot, but Stark missed, and Joe hit his target.

Gracie's voice wavered a little as she read the end of the letter:

 

I'm confessing to Detective Whitbread to thank him for saving my sister Gracie O'Malley Foley. I hope she will take care of our younger brother and sister, Patrick and Lilly. I will never contact them again. They are innocent and I ask them to pray for me and for Brian and for our da. Except for shooting Leonard Stark, I regret what I did and I will to the end of my days.

 

Joseph Liam O'Malley

 

When she finished reading, Gracie took out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

“Do you know where he's gone?” I asked. I was concerned. “He wouldn't do anything to harm himself? He wouldn't take his own life, would he?”

“No, no. 'Tis forbidden by the Church. Although he'd no great fondness for the Church—as he says—he would be hard put to go against such a teaching. No, I don't think he would do it. Though I know I'll not be hearing from him again. It was a tearful goodbye. I've a thought he will have gone back to Ireland. It's a sorry place and such a one that would allow him a might of suffering if he's repenting his sins.”

Detective Whitbread snorted. “Gone west, more likely. A man can get lost out there and there's plenty of company for those who want to be forgotten. He's gone west.”

“You don't know that,” Gracie objected.

“I do. We'll have to put out a warrant.”

“Not now, you won't,” the doctor said, stepping over to remove the pillows behind Whitbread's head. “He needs to rest now. We must leave him.”

He looked too ill and tired to object but, just as we were about to leave, the door flew open. It was my brother, Alden.

“Have you heard? They arrested Debs and the heads of the unions. They put them in jail. All the trade unions and fraternities he was trying to get to join the strike have refused. Some of the railroad unions are going back to work, too. They've done it. They've broken the strike.”