Whiskey Island (42 page)

When Julia arrived in Europe, it was discovered that she was pregnant, an unexpected circumstance, since the Simeons hadn’t produced a child during seven years of marriage. Her physicians encouraged her not to travel home. Julia was said to be a delicate woman, and they wanted to take no chances with the Simeon heir.

Following their advice, Simeon insisted that his wife remain with relatives in a village in Kent, where she could live quietly and receive the best medical care in London when the time came for the baby to make its appearance. He planned to join Julia for the final month of her confinement, and when she was fully recovered and the baby was old enough to make the voyage, they would return together to resume their lives in Cleveland.

Instead of this happy scenario, Simeon vanished just one week before he was to make the trip to Europe. Julia Simeon was so distraught over the news that she delivered prematurely, and the stillborn child was buried in a small country churchyard, to be left behind on its mother’s return to America.

In the meantime, in Cleveland, the local police force was performing a house-to-house investigation of every person who had had a connection to Simeon or Simeon Iron and Steel. Despite what was described as valiant and brilliant detective work, no clues turned up.

On the evening of his disappearance, Simeon had left his office to return home for an early supper. The cook, a Mrs. Bloomfield, had prepared his meal and claimed that he’d eaten heartily. Later two of the servants had dined on the considerable leftovers and suffered no ill effects.

After supper, Simeon informed Mrs. Bloomfield that he was going out for the evening and would be home quite late. He told her to take the rest of the night off, that, in fact, the entire staff could leave if they chose. Most of them, including Bloomfield herself, did exactly that. Only one maid, a Nani Borz, stayed behind to watch over the house, along with the gardener and his son, who lived above the carriage house. The maid admitted to retiring early and sleeping soundly.

The next morning, when the butler went to wake Simeon in his chambers, he found that Simeon wasn’t there, nor had the bed been slept in. Discreet but concerned, the butler, who had been imported for the job from London, made inquiries of the other servants. None of them had heard anything out of the ordinary after they had arrived back at the house late the previous night. And none of them had been told Mr. Simeon wouldn’t be returning.

Odder still, the carriage was still there. Mr. Simeon often preferred to drive himself in the evenings, but the gardener’s son acted as groom and readied the horse and carriage for him. That night, no request had been made. Apparently Mr. Simeon had gone by foot or traveled with someone else.

The butler waited until halfway through the workday to report his master’s absence to the police, first dispatching an errand boy with a note to Simeon at his office. When the boy returned with the news that Mr. Simeon hadn’t been there or contacted anyone about his schedule, the butler made inquiries of several of Simeon’s closest colleagues. None of them had heard from him. Finally, the butler made his report.

At first the police were unconcerned. Simeon was a man who kept his own hours, a rich man who could afford to take a day off and never tell anyone he’d done so. He might well have decided to drive into the country with friends. He might even have a lady friend with whom he’d spent the evening.

Would he appreciate the police snooping into his personal life? They thought not.

When Simeon didn’t return the next day, the police began to take the butler’s report seriously. By then Simeon had missed several crucial appointments, and word was traveling through the business community and along Millionaires’ Row that something was wrong in the Simeon household.

By the third day, despite a major blizzard, the police were out in force, questioning everyone who might have seen or heard from the iron-and-steel tycoon. But James Simeon had truly disappeared without a trace. Had he walked off the edge of a flat earth into a monster-laden sea, there might have been more witnesses.

The search continued for months. A message was dispatched to Mrs. Simeon in Kent, who promptly went into labor. By the time the weather had warmed, she had buried her stillborn baby, recovered her health and returned to Cleveland. By then James Simeon’s disappearance was old news.

Julia Simeon assumed titular control of the company, parceled out the tasks to trusted employees, and eventually, once her husband was declared dead, sold or gave away most of their belongings and vanished herself. Unlike her husband, she was seen from time to time in the following years, turning up on the arms of different men in places where the wealthy congregate, but once she moved away, Cleveland lost interest in the colorless young matron.

Cleveland never lost interest in her husband. The disappearance of James Simeon was the crime of the nineteenth century. Theories abounded, and endless articles were written; heated discussions were held over cigars and brandy. The gardener’s son, who had been in trouble with the law for brawling, was arrested, then released when an expensive watch he had tried to pawn could not be identified as having belonged to the millionaire. Another man confessed, but could not remember where he had buried the body or how he had committed the crime. It was the fifth murder he had confessed to that year.

In the end, the only thing everyone could agree on was the fact that James Simeon’s death was a crime of passion. Had it been robbery, something he’d worn that night—a watch, his extravagant cuff links, a diamond ring—would have turned up eventually. Had it been random violence, his body would have been discovered in some dark alley or vacant lot. It was unlikely the death was suicide, since Simeon Iron and Steel was prospering and Simeon was eagerly awaiting the birth of his first child.

Someone had murdered him in a fit of rage.

But who?

Niccolo finished the last article midafternoon and left to find something to eat, since he’d missed both breakfast and lunch. Just off University Circle, over coffee and a sandwich, he tried to imagine how Rooney Donaghue could be mixed up in any of this. Had he found the skeleton and the second cuff link just after the excavations began in the fall? Had he invested the skeleton with supernatural powers and vowed to protect it?

It was impossible to think like Rooney, yet Niccolo could almost see a logic of sorts. Rooney finds the cuff link. Rooney digs a little and finds the skeleton. Rooney, in his state of mental disarray, feels a loyalty to the man or woman who has given him this gift. So he vows to protect what’s left of the body.

But how did any of this connect to the newspaper article about James Simeon that Niccolo had seen in Rooney’s shelter? Had Rooney remembered the story of Simeon? Had he connected the logo on the cuff link with the dead man? Rooney was a lifelong Clevelander. Surely he’d heard the story and been fascinated by it, much as Jon was. Megan had said Rooney was a storyteller himself.

But in Rooney’s state of mind, was he able to make such an esoteric connection? Would he see the historic logo and remember it from some boyhood lesson or tale? It seemed possible but far-fetched. Yet what other explanation was there?

Niccolo stared into what was left of his second cup of coffee and wondered what had brought James Simeon to that lonely grave site on squalid Whiskey Island. He had set out without his carriage that night and apparently planned to stay out late. Whoever had killed him had not—at the very least—taken his cuff links. Whoever had killed him had known where to bury him so that more than a century would pass before the body was discovered. And the body had been buried deep in the ground, indicating the work of at least one strong man and possibly more, since Simeon had died in early winter, when the surface of the ground had most probably begun to freeze.

Most interesting of all, the secret of Simeon’s death had been carefully kept for more than a hundred years. There’d been no hint of it in discovered writings, no deathbed confessions. Someone had known the truth and taken it to his own grave.

But who?

Niccolo looked at his watch and wondered if Megan was finished with the bulk of the saloon’s lunch patrons. He did not want to crowd her. He did not want to push her into choices she wasn’t ready to make. But suddenly, the urge to see her was overpowering.

March 24, 1883

T
oday the weather warmed, and birds, which have huddled out of sight for months unending, appeared in the tree outside my window.

Perhaps they were birds from a place where winter departs between one day and the next, and spring is suddenly revealed. Such is not the case here in Cleveland. A day like this one is only a promise, but these birds seemed not to know.

One bird in particular, a wren, perhaps, or a young finch, appeared with bits of dried grass in her beak. I’m certain her plan was to make a nest and raise a family, not unlike the eager young women at St. Brigid’s whose thoughts turn to young men and marriage at this particular time of year.

I had hopes for this birdling myself, as I watched her gather sticks and grass all during the day. My tree was to become the source of new life, and although I feared the next snowfall as she couldn’t, I admired her courage and prayed she would survive it.

But long before the snow fell a black bird swooped from the sky when she was fettered with a particularly large stick. I know not what motivated him, nor why he felt her to be a threat. Perhaps he wanted something that belonged to her. Perhaps he only wanted to prove his strength. But between one screech and the next, my little bird was gone.

I still haven’t the courage to learn if she escaped uninjured or now is simply a blood-soaked heap of feathers beneath my window.

From the journal of Father Patrick McSweeney—St. Brigid’s Church, Cleveland, Ohio.

27

March 1883

L
ena set about learning James Simeon’s moods, his habits, his preferences, and gauged her own actions accordingly. If she couldn’t leave his employment, she would find ways to avoid being alone with him. Surely she would be safe if she was careful enough.

Weeks passed, and Terence was hard at work at his studies. Even she, his most ardent supporter, was amazed at how swiftly he learned to read. She had been blessed with more education than he, but he quickly surpassed what little she’d learned in her years with the nuns. In the evening, when she sat beside the fire, exhausted from a long day of hard work and avoiding Simeon, Terence read to her from a primer his teacher had given him. Shakespeare’s sonnets could not have thrilled her more.

Rowan came home more frequently now, often to sit with them in the evenings and help Terence with his studies. Rowan’s education was limited, but he did read, and together he and Terence could puzzle out the most difficult words. The solid friendship the two men had shared was renewed.

Lena wanted to believe that all was well. Simeon stayed away from her, as if their conversation about herbs and adultery had never occurred, and a less astute woman might have been lulled into a false sense of security. But even though strong drink might have compelled him to speak, she knew there would be other nights when he drank that much again. Unless he had found another woman willing to let him bed her, he would come for Lena, and this time there might be no escape.

Her luck ran out when it was almost April and a day or two of unexpected warmth and sunshine had lightened everyone’s mood. Bloomy appeared in the kitchen as supper preparations were just beginning, pulling on gloves and refastening her hat.

“I’m sorry, dear, but I’ve a bit of an emergency. I’ll have to leave for the night. But not to worry. Mrs. Simeon has already gone out, and she informs me she’ll be eating with friends, so you won’t have to prepare her supper, too. Do her good to get out. She’s looking peaked, don’t you think? Of course, everyone with red hair always looks a little sickly to me.” She stopped, as if she’d just realized to whom she was speaking. “Except for you, of course, Lena. You are always the picture of perfect health.”

Lena scrambled for an answer. Bloomy’s opinion of her was the least of her worries. “You’ll be gone, and Mrs. Simeon, too? Perhaps Mr. Simeon has plans, as well?”

“Not that I know of, dear. The last I heard, he intends to be here for supper. He says he’s looking forward to sampling your talents.”

Lena’s throat felt tight as panic began to set in. “If Mrs. Simeon intends to be gone, perhaps Nani will come down to the kitchen to keep me company.”

“Nani? Nani has enough to do, don’t you think?”

“Oh, not to help. Nani deserves a few moments of ease now and again, Bloomy. She dances attendance on Mrs. Simeon every moment she’s at home. She can sit by the fire here and have a cup of tea while I finish preparations.”

Bloomy looked doubtful, but even more she looked harried, as if she really did need to go. “Well, I’m sorry to be leaving you in charge, but my sister’s been taken ill. And Mr. Simeon insists I go to her right away.”

More alarm bells rang in Lena’s head. Generosity was not James Simeon’s finest quality. If he insisted Bloomy leave early, then he had reasons of his own. Lena was afraid she knew what they were.

“You go on, and best of health to your sister,” she said, as calmly as she could. “But if you see Nani on the way out, please send her in, won’t you?”

“This is quite extraordinary, dear.” Bloomy stabbed the final pin through her hat and swept out.

Lena stood absolutely still and closed her eyes. She understood the way an animal must feel when it first realizes the hunters are closing in. She could not let panic overtake her. She had to plan carefully. And, if it came to that, there was still time to take off her apron and leave. She could make some excuse, tell a colorful lie.

And lose her position here and all that went with it. Their only source of income, Terence’s education and blossoming confidence, all hope for a real life once again.