Death of a Robber Baron (12 page)

C
HAPTER
20

 

O
ver the next six days, while Reilly and his two confederates sat in the Pittsfield jail, Prescott made arrangements for their trial. Freed from her father's threats, Brenda grew calmer, less fearful. And as summer approached in all its Berkshire glory, Pamela's bruised head rapidly healed. She looked forward to preparing Broadmore for a magnificent celebration of the Fourth of July.

So she was startled on Monday evening, the nineteenth of June, when Brenda brought her a sealed note from Prescott: “Come to the cabin. I have important news.”

She again felt uneasy meeting him in the cabin. However, she would attract less attention than if he were to come uninvited to Broadmore. It was dusk, and he was outside chopping wood. As she approached, he laid down the ax and showed her into the cabin.

“I apologize for such short notice,” he said. “But I wanted to tell you that Harry Miller sent me a report on Wilson. It confirms your observations back in April and offers credible estimates of his large gambling losses and other expenses. He also has no income in New York and no inheritance. His only income, legal or illegal, is from Broadmore Hall.”

“Have you found a way to audit his accounts?”

“Not yet. I assume that he keeps a secret register of his illicit earnings and his expenditures. Inform me the next time he goes to New York and his clerk takes his lunch at home in the village. Then with Lydia's permission we could search Wilson's rooms and find that register. What have you learned thus far?”

“He usually keeps both his office and his own room locked. Recently, however, he left the key in the door when he was called out of the office. Brenda seized the opportunity to make a wax impression. I've had a metal copy made. We'll see if it fits.”

“If it doesn't,” Prescott said, “I could try to pick the lock. What else do you have to report?”

“My encounter with Maggie and Tom the tramp twelve days ago continues to occupy my mind. I hope they will heed the warning I gave them. Since then, I've wondered whether they had more serious mischief in mind than pilfering from the pantry. Tom appears to nurse a passionate grievance toward Mr. Jennings and might do him harm.”

Prescott's brow furrowed. “What would he do?”

“Nothing public or foolish. He's too cunning to put himself at any great risk of getting caught. But I can imagine him stealing something of great value to Jennings, or, less likely, even killing him.”

Prescott nodded. “Your suspicion seems reasonable. He might have help from Maggie Rice. Her connection to Calumet, Michigan piques my curiosity. I'll have Harry Miller gather more information. As we know from your husband's failed investment, much of Henry Jennings's fortune was made there in the copper mines of the Upper Peninsula.”

“At great cost to others,” added Pamela, fighting back a surge of bitter feelings.

The next day, Lydia asked Pamela to join her for a late afternoon walk through the garden. Earlier, the sun's heat had kept her indoors. They sat on a shaded bench and silently gazed at a colorful carpet of flowers.

“Is there any word yet on the Lizzie Borden case?” Lydia asked. “This morning, the jury was supposed to give its verdict. I imagine the entire world is eagerly waiting. I'm on pins and needles.”

“We'll soon know,” Pamela replied. “The
Berkshire Eagle
should have arrived by the time we return to the cottage.”

For two weeks, she had conscientiously reported to Lydia on the progress of the trial. In the discussions between them, Pamela marveled at Lydia's rapt interest. Even now she seemed more engaged with the trial than with the lush flower beds around her.

“After considering all the arguments,” she said, “I'm more convinced than ever of Miss Borden's innocence.”

“Then who is guilty?” Pamela asked.

“That's what's so frustrating,” Lydia replied. “The police haven't identified a credible suspect. William Borden, Mr. Borden's illegitimate son, had quarreled with his father over money. But so had many others. He was greedy and insensitive, a difficult man to deal with.”

Pamela reflected that Lydia's own husband had much in common with the murdered man.

“Can you imagine,” Lydia continued, “how Lizzie must have felt when she found her pigeons lying slaughtered in the backyard and realized that her father had acted maliciously and without consulting her?” Lydia's voice shuddered as she spoke.

Pamela recalled the incident. Mr. Borden had claimed the birds were a nuisance, so he had cut off their heads. At that moment Lizzie could almost be excused if she had thought of murder.

When the two women returned to the cottage, Brenda Reilly met them at the door. “Lizzie Borden is acquitted!” she exclaimed, and handed Lydia the newspaper.

“I'm so relieved! I knew she was innocent,” exclaimed Lydia, glancing at the headline. “Thank God, justice prevailed.” She paused, lines of anxiety gathering on her brow. “Still, it was a heinous crime. The nameless killer is free to strike again.” She raised a warning finger. “Pamela, we must be alert or risk suffering the Bordens' fate. Tell the servants to keep tramps from sneaking onto the estate. Report them immediately to the police.”

 

The next day, Pamela duly reminded the servants of the rule on tramps, though she personally believed that Broadmore Hall, or at least its master, Henry Jennings, faced threats to his life and property from within the household. She and Brenda kept looking for an opportunity to search Wilson's office.

Finally, early on Thursday morning, Brenda reported that the steward had left for New York on the early morning train. His clerk was at home, and the office closed until the afternoon.

Pamela went immediately to Prescott's cabin and told him, “Now is the time.”

“You must help me,” he said. “Four hands are better than two. We'll be in and out of the rooms quicker.” He hesitated. “Has Lydia approved of this search?”

“Yes,” Pamela replied. “I asked her before coming here. Now I'll contact Brenda. She'll stand guard and warn us if need be.”

Wilson's office and his private room were in the basement at a safe distance from the servants' dining room and prying eyes. At ten in the morning, Prescott entered the basement, unobserved. Pamela came down from her room at the same time. Brenda was alert, watching in the hallway.

Prescott tried the copied key to the office. It fit snugly. Pamela followed him inside. She knew the room from previous visits with Wilson. Two high window wells faced east, allowing the morning sun to cast a strong light into the room. Carefully organized file boxes lined its whitewashed walls. The papers on his desk were neatly stacked.

“Any secret accounts should be close to his desk,” she said. Prescott checked the floorboards. They were secure. He couldn't find any other hiding place.

Meanwhile, Pamela searched through file boxes on shelves behind the desk. One of the boxes was labeled “old accounts.” On a hunch, she fingered through several account books filed by dates. On the outside they looked alike, except for one that had no dates on the cover. She checked it closely. “Eureka,” she cried and handed it to Prescott, who quickly scanned it. “I see gambling losses and brothel visits.” He smiled broadly. “We'll take the book with us, examine it carefully, then decide what to do with it.”

While searching these rooms, Pamela also hoped to find evidence of the anonymous messages that had upset Lydia Jennings and George Allen. Wilson was chief among the suspects in Pamela's mind. She searched the drawer of his table. Among his writing materials were sheets of the cheap paper and the same color of ink used in the messages. That wouldn't be enough to convict him, but it increased the likelihood of his guilt. A few minutes later, in a file of his correspondence, she found a dated copy of each letter, identical to the originals, even down to their crude script and barely literate grammar. Lydia should be pleased.

 

“How much should we show to Mrs. Jennings?” Pamela asked her companion. They had retreated to her parlor. Even a hurried examination of the secret accounts yielded evidence of embezzlement.

“Everything, including Wilson's financial crime,” he replied. “She asked you to find the source of her anonymous message and any other problems afflicting Broadmore. You've completed your mission. She can decide how to present the results to her husband.”

“Henry Jennings should be grateful to us for saving his money,” Pamela said firmly.

“But he might also resent that we, rather than he, discovered the crime. His peers might think he was a poor judge of men for leaving the management of his money in the hands of a person who was an addicted gambler, a whoremonger, and a thief.”

 

Later in the morning, Pamela and Prescott visited Lydia's apartment. Still in her morning robe and reading by an open window, she met them with an unfocused expression. A moment later, she put down the book and took off her reading glasses. “Pardon my distraction,” she said. “Henry James's
Portrait of a Lady
has transported me to a distant place. I fancied myself Isabel Archer in Britain beset by rascals after my money, or at least my cottage.”

She studied their faces. “Do you two have something to report? Your expressions give you away.”

Pamela spoke first. “We have solved the mystery of that threatening message you showed me back in April.” Pamela had decided to hold back the one sent to Mr. Allen.

Lydia grew instantly alert. “And who was responsible for it?”

“Mr. Wilson. Here's the evidence.” Pamela handed over the copy that she had taken from his correspondence as well as the cheap paper he had used. “The ink also matches.”

Lydia studied the materials closely, shaking her head as she read. Finally, she looked up and asked incredulously, “Did you find these things in Wilson's office?”

Pamela replied, “Yes, with your permission we searched after he left early this morning for New York.” She went on to describe getting the key and finding the message hidden among other correspondence.

Lydia breathed a sigh of relief. “I'm pleased to know who did it. I suppose he simply wanted to vex me. He seems more pathetic than evil or malicious.”

“In our search,” Prescott added, “we discovered other evidence of Wilson's malfeasance.”

She frowned. “What might that be?”

Prescott described the secret account book. “Mrs. Thompson's earlier discovery of his addiction to gambling and other vices made me suspect financial skullduggery. My agent in New York learned that Wilson has only the modest income he receives here. To cover his expenses he has apparently been embezzling funds from Broadmore Hall.”

Lydia sighed. “That presents a more serious problem. My husband passionately dislikes being cheated, though he takes pleasure in cheating others. He'll be severe with Wilson. Nonetheless, we'll present the facts.” She paused thoughtfully. “Jennings apparently trusts Wilson with more responsibilities than he should.”

Prescott asked, “Will you confront Jennings yourself or do you need us to come along? He seems to dislike me. Wouldn't he resent my investigation of his steward?”

“And wouldn't he think me presumptuous in searching the steward's office?” asked Pamela.

Lydia replied, “I really don't know how he'll react, and I don't care. He'll be in New York for several days. When he returns to Broadmore, I want both of you to go with me to his study.”

C
HAPTER
21

 

T
hat afternoon, Prescott left Lenox to tend to business in New York for a few days. His secretary had arranged a late supper for him with Harry Miller at a tavern close to the office. Over beer and shepherd's pie, Miller reported recent gossip, concluding with the remark, “They say that Henry Jennings is involved in a new, intimate relationship with a young woman. What do you make of that, sir?”

“If true, Harry, it's another insult to Lydia Jennings. And it means Helen Allen might lose Henry Jennings and the riches she coveted. Check the facts and give me a report tomorrow morning.”

Prescott returned to his office and phoned George Allen. They agreed to meet the next day at the club for lunch. By that time, the gossip might be confirmed and presented to Allen. Would he still want to investigate his wife's infidelity?

 

Allen arrived a half hour late from a tennis match. “Sorry, my opponent put up a better fight than I anticipated. Now I'm thirsty.” He ordered an expensive bottle of French white wine and a plate of steamed oysters.

Prescott led the conversation toward mutual acquaintances, male and female, then asked, “How is Mrs. Allen?”

“She's well, thank you, and preparing for the festive celebration of the Fourth at Broadmore. She has been in Lenox almost three weeks, at the Curtis Hotel.” His voice began to crack even while he strained to be calm. “She'll be alone at the hotel for several more days. The press of business will keep me here until late on the third.” He took a long drink from his glass. “Henry Jennings will soon return to Broadmore Hall. Helen will not lack for companionship.”

“Jennings might prove to be distracted company,” remarked Prescott. “This morning, my agent in New York told me that a beautiful young opera singer has caught Jennings's eye. Late last night, they dined together at Delmonico's, then retired to Jennings's house on Fifth Avenue. After breakfast, a cab took her to a fashionable address on Fifth Avenue near Columbus Circle, leased by Jennings.”

“Helen will be furious,” Allen blurted out. “But then Jennings and she are kindred spirits, both of them treacherous.”

Prescott shrugged. “Tomorrow, I'll return to Lenox. Henry Jennings is expected at Broadmore this weekend. I'll study his behavior toward your wife, especially in light of the recent rumors.”

His nonchalance appeared to irritate Allen. “Remember, Prescott, I've hired you to catch them in the act. I'm certain that they were fornicating behind my back, and will do so again, but I need proof.”

“I won't fabricate evidence, but if I find it, I'll pass it on to you. What purpose would it serve?”

“I'll keep that to myself,” Allen replied.

Prescott tried to puzzle out Allen's attitude: Was he personally offended or angered that Jennings had seduced Helen, then apparently cast her aside? Would he claim alienation of affection and demand compensation? That could be a dangerous game to play with a man as powerful as Jennings.

 

Prescott left Allen at the club and took a cab to the courthouse in lower Manhattan. A judge was considering Dennis Reilly's petition to recover custody of his daughter Brenda. When Reilly had been arrested for conspiring to murder Pamela, Prescott had written to the court, requesting this hearing.

Inspector Williams, who had initially supported Reilly's petition, arrived at the courthouse shortly after Prescott. The two men met outside the judge's chambers. Prescott politely greeted the inspector, who responded with a cool, perfunctory nod. Fortunately, they didn't have to wait in stiff, hostile silence. The judge's clerk soon called them in.

The procedure was brief and simple. At the judge's request, Prescott spoke first. He argued that, since Reilly was in jail on a serious felony charge, his petition for custody should be held in abeyance, until the conclusion of his trial.

Williams agreed in principle with Prescott—he could hardly do otherwise. Still, he insisted that Reilly's arrest shouldn't in any way prejudice his petition.

For a few minutes the judge seemed to ponder the arguments, then he ruled sensibly that he would withhold his decision until Reilly's trial was complete. Prescott had no doubt as to what the final determination ought to be. Reilly would surely be convicted, and the judge should reject his petition.

Still, Prescott felt an irrational stirring of anxiety: The judge owed his position on the bench to the powerful influence of Tammany Hall, the political organization loosely allied with Inspector Williams. The judge could reasonably be expected to help the inspector who had invested his reputation in Reilly's rehabilitation and now needed to save face. As a favor to Williams, the judge might find an arcane way to interminably delay his decision, thereby causing unnecessary pain to Brenda and to Pamela.

As they left the judge's chambers together, Prescott glanced sidewise at Williams. The inspector appeared confident. “It's not over yet,” he said, with the hint of a sneer in his voice.

 

The next day, Prescott dispatched routine business in his office. Yesterday's judicial hearing on Reilly was still on his mind. He had hoped to bring more encouraging news to Pamela and Brenda.

Late in the afternoon, he took a cab to Grand Central Station. As the train left for Lenox, he noticed Broadmore's steward, Bernard Wilson, sitting at the far end of the coach. The seat next to his was empty. Prescott sat down before Wilson could object. In the coming hours on board, Prescott hoped to better understand the man at the heart of this investigation.

After the introductions he asked Wilson, “Have you enjoyed a few days in the city?”

“Yes,” he replied deferentially. He seemed to realize that Prescott was a man who commanded respect but was also congenial.

From his portfolio Prescott pulled a small silver flask of whiskey and two silver cups. He poured a cupful and offered it to the steward. Wilson declined, but he seemed tempted. Prescott smiled gently and insisted that they honor the finest drink that man and God had ever created. Wilson yielded and accepted first one cupful, then another. He was soon speaking about the wonders of New York City and its fast pace of change. New buildings sprouted like weeds. He enjoyed the excitement.

“Where do you stay?” Prescott asked, though Pamela had told him.

“I have rooms in the basement of the Jennings's residence and my own exit to the outside. After I've met with the housekeeper and her maids, I check the house from top to bottom. When I feel that everything is in order, I run a few errands. For the most part, I can come and go as I please.”

“I'm told that Mr. Henry Jennings was at home while you were there. Were you called to serve him?”

“He asked me twice to deliver flowers to an address on Columbus Circle—orchids, no less, very expensive and simply gorgeous. A special friend needed to be consoled, he said.” Wilson gave no indication that he might disapprove of Jennings's “special friend.”

With Prescott's prompting, Wilson went on to describe how much he enjoyed serving the Jennings family. “They live like royalty,” he said, his voice quivering with admiration.

Prescott filled the cups again and asked tentatively, “Have you ever had a family?”

“Oh, no,” the steward replied. “The Jenningses are family enough for me. I'll serve them until I'm pensioned many years from now.”

As the train pulled into Lenox Station, Prescott said, “I wish you well, Wilson. Shall we share a cab to Broadmore Hall? I vacation in a cabin nearby.”

“Yes, indeed. That would be most kind of you.” They continued their conversation until they reached Broadmore. Prescott paid the driver and bid Wilson good night. As Prescott walked to his cabin, he reflected that beneath the steward's show of integrity beat a thieving heart. Still, he inspired pity. All his assumptions and aspirations for a good life would soon be shattered.