Death of a Robber Baron (24 page)

Pamela sifted through the papers and passed them to Prescott. They were copies of John's notes to his stepmother and notes he had received from her. Two days ago, Jennings had written to Lydia: “Shouldn't you send Mrs. Thompson away? She's bent on saving the tramp, Tom Parker, and blaming me for my father's death.”

Lydia had replied, “Calm down. I want to keep her. She has been helpful to me, and I'm fond of her. In any case, with her as my companion, I can reason with her that you are innocent. To send her away now would suggest that I have something to hide.”

The exchange ended with John writing, “Perhaps you're right—for the time being.”

When Pamela finished reading, her hands were trembling. She leaned back into her chair and breathed deeply.

“Are you ill, ma'am?” asked Brenda with concern. “You see how two-faced John Jennings is!”

“Thank you, I'm well, but, yes, I'm disappointed in him. Still, even an innocent man could be upset and lash out if suspected of a serious crime.”

C
HAPTER
36

 

L
ate in the morning, Pamela and Prescott rode into the village to find out if either George or Helen Allen had Wilson's copy of the Twain book or had alibis for the time of Wilson's murder. The first stop was the Curtis Hotel.

Helen was sitting in the busy lounge by the door, dressed for a coach ride in the country.

Pamela stood to one side while Prescott approached Helen. “Excuse me, ma'am, I'd like to ask a few questions. Could we go to a more private place?”

She appeared surprised and irritated. “If you insist, we could sit in the breakfast room. It's nearly empty at this time.”

They found a quiet, secluded corner, and she asked, “What's the matter now?”

Prescott replied evenly, “Wilson was murdered overnight. We found his body early this morning.”

Her eyes widened; her hands flew to her lips. “How dreadful! I hadn't heard.” For a moment she was silent, withdrawn perhaps in calculation or reflection. Finally, she glanced at Pamela then at Prescott and asked, “Do you know who killed him? But of course, if you knew, you probably wouldn't be questioning me.”

“So tell me what you were doing last night.”

“Until ten, I sang a few songs and played cards with a dozen guests at Mr. John Parsons's home. Afterward, I returned to my room and went to bed at eleven. A dull evening, I must admit. Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Has your husband lent you a book by Mark Twain?”

“No, he hasn't.”

“Would you allow us to inspect your room?”

“Of course not! How rude of you to ask!”

“Would you rather that I speak to the manager?”

She grimaced. “Then come along with me if you must.”

 

It was a spacious, tastefully furnished, and expensive room. Henry Jennings must have paid for it. Helen stood by the door while Prescott and Pamela opened drawers and looked under the sofas and the bed.

Helen shook her head. “If you want my opinion, you look ridiculous.” Her voice was laden with acid. “Perhaps I should help you.” She looked under a small pot of flowers.

Prescott ignored her taunts until finally he whispered to Pamela, “The Twain book isn't here—nor any evidence of either Jennings's or Wilson's murder.” He motioned Helen to a chair and sat facing her.

“Madam, I understand that you and your husband live separately, but still see each other from time to time. Can you tell me what he was doing last night?”

“Yes,” she replied. “He was playing poker at an acquaintance's house. He does that often. I don't know when he finished. This morning, we happened to meet on Walker Street after breakfast. He was on his way to a tennis match at the Lenox Club.”

 

Prescott and Pamela seized this opportunity to search George's house while he was away. Since it belonged to the hotel, the manager could allow the search. Inside, it was as messy as George's quarters in New York. Nonetheless they soon found the deerstalker hat and the cloak that Edgar had described, as well as the Twain book. In the fireplace were the charred remains of a shirt. “Most likely bloodstained,” remarked Prescott.

“Here's a locked drawer,” observed Pamela at a desk. “Should we take a look?”

“I'll try to pick the lock,” replied Prescott. “I must ask Harry Miller to teach you how to do it.”

In a few minutes the drawer yielded its secret: an artist's sketchbook. Among its recent entries were detailed floor plans of a large building with cryptic notes in the margins and the date 11/12 July.

“That's Ventfort Hall!” exclaimed Pamela. “The Morgans are gone for a few days with their personal servants. The rest of the household is much reduced. Would a jewelry thief like George Allen be interested?”

“That's an opportunity he couldn't resist.”

Within an hour they found a kit for picking locks, a crowbar for prying open windows, and a saw for cutting through iron bars, as well as a mask, gloves, and dark clothing.

Prescott remarked, “Let's hear what George has to say.”

They set out for the tennis court, accompanied by a constable from the city jail.

George was in the middle of a match when they arrived. They waited in the shade of a great elm tree and watched George effortlessly outplay his opponent. When the match ended, the two men changed sides and prepared to start another.

Prescott approached the court and confronted George. “I need to speak to you.”

“Can't it wait?”

“Wilson was killed last night. Where were you?” Pamela and the constable remained a few steps away.

George wiped beads of sweat from his brow, stared at the ground, and nervously twirled his racquet. “That's none of your business.” He turned to leave.

“Stay, George. You're strongly suspected of killing Bernard Wilson. His body was found this morning.”

George glared at Prescott. “Why on earth would I kill him? I hardly knew him.”

“But he knew you very well. On Jennings's orders, Wilson followed your tracks around New York City, gathering evidence of marital infidelity that Jennings could use against you in divorce proceedings. In the course of his investigation, Wilson also discovered that you stole jewelry as a profitable pastime. He most likely tried to extort a share of your ill-gotten money. In sum, you had strong motives to kill him.”

“That's just talk. You haven't any proof. I'm a rather clever lawyer. I'll destroy you in a court of law.”

“Skip the bravado. Wilson's Twain book was hidden in your house. Your hat and cloak were seen on a man entering the icehouse shortly after Wilson. I also found evidence that you are planning to rob Ventfort.”

George sputtered, “Your so-called evidence was mischievously planted in my house. I was home in bed last night. I don't need an alibi.”

“Be sensible, George. You need a better defense than that. We know that Wilson was armed. You killed him with an ice pick that was at hand. What happened in the icehouse?”

Allen was silent for a long moment, chewing on his lower lip, eyes lowered. “Right, I'll plead self-defense. Wilson tried to extort money from me. Showed me a satchel. Claimed it was full of evidence that I was a jewel thief. That's false, of course, but the accusation could damage my reputation. He demanded five thousand dollars. On an impulse I tried to grab the satchel. He pulled a pistol from his pocket, cocked it and aimed at me. In the second before he could fire, I stabbed him with the pick. He fell dead. I dragged him into the ice pit and threw the pistol after him. From the satchel I took out a brown paper-covered book that I thought was his diary. I tossed the satchel in the pond. The water would destroy the papers inside. Then I hurried home. As you've seen, the book was merely a novel by Mark Twain. Wilson was intending to cheat me.”

“Probably not,” Pamela interjected. “He thought that book was his diary. Unbeknown to him, someone had switched them.”

Baffled, George stammered, “I didn't know.”

Prescott signaled the waiting constable to approach with handcuffs. “George, the officer will put you in the town jail for now. We'll turn our evidence over to the district attorney. He'll decide what to do with you.”

As George was led away, Pamela remarked, “Perhaps now he'll be punished for trying to run me over.”

“I dearly hope so,” Prescott said. “He has richly earned it.”

 

Late in the afternoon, Prescott and Pamela went to the servants' hall for tea, invited by Brewer, the temporary steward, who cryptically promised useful information. With a preoccupied expression on his face, he presided over the table, placing Prescott on his left. Pamela sat between Edgar and O'Boyle.

As the tea was being poured, Brewer leaned toward Prescott and whispered, “I've a message for you from the dead. Come to the office after the tea. Bring Mrs. Thompson.”

Afterward, they followed Brewer in silence to the office. He shut the door, opened a safe, and drew out a sealed envelope. “Yesterday morning, Mr. Wilson secretly met me here and said you should have this if he were to die.” Brewer's hand trembled as he gave the envelope to Prescott.

Prescott and Pamela hastened upstairs to the library and read the contents together. Wilson wrote that he had hidden file boxes in his basement rooms in the Jennings's New York mansion. He gave instructions how to find them and concluded, “Sir, I hope the evidence I've gathered will help bring George Allen and Henry Jennings to justice.”

Wilson's envelope also enclosed a brief message for Maggie Rice:

A deep silence followed the reading. “Shall I bring that message to Maggie?” Pamela asked.

“Do it now,” Prescott replied. “Tomorrow, we must travel to New York, join Miller at the Jennings mansion, and look for Wilson's secret archive.”

C
HAPTER
37

 

T
hat evening, Maggie sat in the train to Pittsfield with a basket of goods for Tom Parker. A riot of conflicting thoughts troubled her mind. Pamela had just shown her Wilson's posthumous message. It was unsettling to realize that he had known who she was, yet hadn't dismissed her. Part of her still hated the man—and for good reason. Nonetheless she believed his apology was sincere. Perhaps he was atoning for the wrong he had done.

Pamela had sent her on this trip, suggesting that Tom might need encouragement. “Take him fresh clothes,” she had said, “and some of his favorite foods.” She had given her a companion, the simple maid Agnes Jones, and money for expenses.

Out of the blue, Agnes asked Maggie, “Is Mr. Parker your friend?”

Taken by surprise, Maggie hesitated. She cared for him. Did he really care for her? She wasn't sure. Still, she replied, “I would say so, Agnes.”

As the train rumbled through the Berkshire countryside, Maggie thought fondly of Tom and their Christmas Eve supper at Ahern's restaurant in Chicago, four and a half years ago. His kindness and consideration had lifted her out of the depression caused by her parents' tragic deaths. She had probably loved him at that point. Nonetheless, she had left him to bring Henry Jennings to justice in Lenox.

Since then, her affection for Tom had lain dormant. But a month ago it had revived when he had appeared as a tramp at Broadmore Hall. She had welcomed the opportunity to return his kindness and had fed him. Since then she had watched with helpless concern as he became entangled in the investigation of Jennings's murder. Had he done it? She didn't think so, but she wasn't quite sure.

At the Pittsfield jail, she presented Mr. Prescott's letter of introduction and requested a visit with the prisoner. Agnes waited in a parlor. Maggie followed an officer through barred doors into a small room. He examined her basket while a matron searched her clothes. The matron led her to a visitor's room. Tom came shortly, and they sat facing each other at a table. Maggie was pleased to see that he wasn't in irons, but he looked glum.

She put the basket on the table. “This might pick you up,” she said hopefully.

He threw a quick, incurious glance at the gifts. “I should have taken my chances on the open road instead of coming here.”

“How are they treating you?” His indifference hurt, but she tried to show compassion.

“I have my own cozy little cell. The roof doesn't leak on me. The food's not as good as I get from Broadmore's kitchen, but it's tolerable. Last night's supper was bread and boiled cabbage. The guards treat me fairly enough, like I'm not a criminal but neither am I a free man.”

“It sounds like you're better off here than in a New York prison. What bothers you most?”

“That I'm destined to spend the rest of my life in prison. I feel helpless, like a man caught in quicksand. The more I struggle, the deeper I sink.”

“Mrs. Thompson and Mr. Prescott are working hard on your behalf. They think they'll soon find old Jennings's killer, and then you'll be freed.”

He shook his head. “The people in power want to prove to the public that tramps like me will be dealt with firmly. They are already convinced that they have the guilty man.”

Defeated by his self-pity, Maggie was now at a loss for words. Her eyes filled with tears. She dabbed them away with a kerchief.

Tom stared at her, perplexed. Then a light of understanding slowly dawned in his eyes. He said softly, “I'm sorry, Maggie. Forgive me. I've thought only of myself and ignored your kindness toward me.” He gestured toward the basket. “I'm deeply grateful and encouraged.”

He reached across the table and took her hand. “I feel fortunate to have you for a friend. From now on, I'll try to think of others and look at life from the bright side.”

She patted his hand. “There's actually ground for hope. It sounds crass to mention this . . . but Mr. Wilson was found dead in the icehouse this morning.”

“Murdered?” Tom asked, his eyes widening with astonishment.

She nodded. “The person who killed Henry Jennings might also have killed him.”

“Well, it couldn't have been me. So who did it?”

“Mrs. Thompson told me that Mr. George Allen killed Wilson, but she doesn't know if he also killed Mr. Jennings.”

They lapsed into a congenial silence. Tom inspected clothes from the basket, smiling his newfound gratitude. Maggie offered him a cheese sandwich.

As he ate, he gazed thoughtfully at her, then asked, “Do you realize, Maggie, that the two men most responsible for your parents' deaths have themselves died violently this week?”

She nodded. “In some strange way, justice was done. I should rejoice. Still the scene on that Christmas Eve comes back to haunt me. I feel so sad for my parents. What a dreadful way to die.” She again dabbed tears from her eyes, then clasped his hand. “Tom, I feel so fortunate to have you share the burden of that memory. Help me overcome it.”

He gently squeezed her hand. “I'll try. We'll help each other.”