Death of a Robber Baron (10 page)

C
HAPTER
16

 

E
arly Monday morning, Pamela drove a light coach to Prescott's cabin. He had business in New York. Last night his message had asked her to arrange for a coach to take him to the railroad station. She should ride along and report on her afternoon visit with Helen Allen.

Driving the coach herself, Pamela arrived at the cabin a few minutes early and knocked on the door. Prescott opened it, portfolio in hand, ready to go. As they approached the coach, he looked surprised. “Where's the coachman?”

She replied with a teasing smile. “Why, he's cleaning out the coach barn back at Broadmore.”

They climbed into the coach. She took the reins, smartly cracked the whip, and they set off.

He turned to her with feigned amazement. “I didn't know you could drive. I'm impressed! Now tell me about yesterday with Helen Allen.”

Pamela gave him a quick sidewise glance. “Helen tried to test me. I'm in her way. She intends to push Lydia aside and marry Henry Jennings. Late last night, he arrived at the station in his private car. I believe she joined him there. She didn't return to the Curtis until dawn. I checked at the desk.”

He looked alarmed. “Helen Allen is bolder, and more dangerous, than I had imagined.”

“Sometime today, I'll meet her lover Jennings and perhaps learn if he's really caught in her net.”

 

Late that afternoon, Lydia called Pamela aside. “We'll go to my husband's study now. I'll introduce you to him. Be warned. He may play the gentleman, or he may not. I can't predict his behavior with any degree of confidence. Unpredictability is a strategy that has thus far worked well for him.” Lydia took Pamela's arm and rose laboriously from her chair.

They walked slowly to the study. Pamela shuddered at the prospect of meeting Jennings. After all, his brazen deception in selling shares of a worthless copper mine had led to her late husband's financial and personal ruin. Jennings wouldn't know about Jack Thompson or his loss, nor would he care. From his point of view, gullible investors like Thompson were doomed to fall by the wayside in the struggle for survival.

Lydia knocked. A gruff bass voice invited them in. Jennings sat at his desk, pen in hand, an account book opened before him. “Make yourselves comfortable,” he said and gestured toward a group of upholstered chairs by a large, empty fireplace. “I'll be with you in just a minute.”

Pamela used the time to study Jennings. At sixty, he looked twenty years younger and had a commanding presence. His hair was pepper-gray and curly, his body muscular, his manner brusque. A great hawk nose reminded Pamela of his predatory instincts. It was hard to imagine that Helen or any other woman could seduce him.

He was sitting upright in a straight wooden chair. A pillow supported his back. As he rose from the desk, he winced and took the pillow with him to a straight chair by the fireplace. “Sorry to act like an invalid, but I've recently sprained my back.”

Lydia remarked, “I'm pleased that the pillow I gave you is being put to good use.” She turned to Pamela. “I embroidered it ten years ago. A handsome piece, if I may say so myself.”

Jennings handed it to Pamela. “Take a look, madam.”

A large, finely woven red rose was embroidered on white linen. “It's beautiful,” she remarked, “one of a kind, a priceless gift.” She ran her fingers lightly over the soft fabric and gave it back to Jennings.

A tender feeling briefly seemed to grip him. He arranged the pillow in his chair, settled in, then fixed Pamela with a searching gaze. “So this is the new companion.” With a hint of skepticism in his voice, he asked his wife, “And what are her qualifications?” He idly fondled a diamond-studded pin in his lapel.

Lydia replied, “Intelligence, honesty, and trustworthiness. She's also well educated and has a wealth of experience that has already proved useful to me.”

During his wife's remarks, Jennings's gaze remained fixed on Pamela. She steeled her nerves and held a polite smile on her face, quietly defeating his attempt to intimidate her. His expression then took on a friendly aspect. “And what do you have to say for yourself?” he asked.

“I enjoy your wife's company and the opportunity to live in such a splendid house. Broadmore Hall reminds me of the great manor houses of Britain that I visited years ago after college.” She glanced at a collection of weapons that occupied an entire wall of the study. There were swords and daggers of all sizes, their handles studded with precious stones, and many pistols and muskets, some of them antique. The most dreadful-looking weapon was a mace or war club, its rounded metal head covered with short spikes.

“I see that Broadmore is armed to defend itself,” said Pamela.

Jennings left his chair and lifted a pistol from a rack on the wall. “A Colt .44. My favorite.” He handed it to Pamela. Mrs. Jennings protested.

“I'm familiar with firearms,” Pamela explained. She studied the weapon and returned it to Jennings. “It's beautiful in its own way, efficient as well.”

“Then you should enter our target-shooting contest on the Fourth of July. Women take part.”

“I regard that as an invitation. If Mrs. Jennings will allow me, I'll play the good sport and join you.”

Lydia approved with an unenthusiastic nod.

Jennings addressed Pamela. “You express yourself well, madam. I look forward to further conversations. Now I'll excuse myself and prepare for dinner.”

“Before we go, sir, may I ask a personal question?”

He looked surprised but not displeased. “Why, yes, you may.”

“I've a serious interest in fine jewelry. Would you allow me a closer look at your unusually attractive lapel pin?” She couched her request in a deferential tone.

He nodded, unclasped the pin, and handed it to her. It was a simple, round piece, consisting of a large, multifaceted, pure diamond mounted on 14-karat gold.

“Exquisite,” she said. “And the artist?”

“A jeweler at Tiffany's. It's a charm and brings me good luck.”

She thanked him and returned the pin. He gave her a warm parting smile, and the two women left the room.

Out in the hallway, Lydia clasped Pamela's hand and whispered, “Well done, my dear. You showed spirit. That pleases him. He likes challenges. Life's a struggle, he says, and only the strong and clever can thrive.”

Pamela felt that she could cope with him. Earlier, she had hoped that someone, other than she, would punish his evil deeds. Now she wondered if hubris so profoundly afflicted him that he was likely to bring on his own destruction. His lucky pin would not save him.

 

Late that afternoon, her chores finished for the day, Brenda Reilly rode with Mr. O'Boyle into the village. As often before during the past few weeks, she accompanied him as far as the town library on Main Street. He drove on to his home for supper and would pick her up on his return to Broadmore in the evening. Meanwhile, she would browse among the books.

She had become great friends with the librarian, Miss Jenny Krouse, even looking after the desk when she left early to run errands. “Stay as long as you like,” she said. “Just turn out the lights and lock up when you leave.”

Brenda was alone in the library, lost in Mark Twain's
Adventures of Tom Sawyer,
and barely heard the front door open. Someone approached the desk. When Brenda finally looked up, her father stood before her and said softly, “Brenda, I have much to tell you. I've locked and barred the door. We won't be disturbed. Come, follow me.”

He started toward a storage room in the back. She remained at the desk, acting as if she hadn't heard him. Fear paralyzed her. He returned, stood behind her, and put his hands on her shoulders, at first gently, then with more pressure. “I said, come.” This time there was ice in his voice.

She still refused to move. “No, I'll not leave this desk. I'm on duty here.” Her voice trembled. She could hardly speak. “If you have no library business, you must leave.”

“I'll not leave until you've heard me out.” He dragged a chair over to the desk and sat facing her. His deep-set, dark eyes seemed to smolder. “Brenda, I'm a free man again, a Christian, and I'm fit. I've taught myself how to read and write. I've given up drink. I do honest work. Therefore, I intend to recover my rights as your father. Mrs. Thompson has poisoned your mind against me. But I'll not allow her to stand in my way. Like a dutiful daughter, you must repudiate her and submit to my authority.”

“Never. She's my best friend,” cried Brenda. “You killed mother. You're no longer my father. Now leave.”

“You're a rebellious daughter and that proud woman's slave. Unfortunately, you will remain under her control until she is destroyed. If you truly care about her, then submit to me, and she will be spared.”

Brenda could think of nothing to say—the man seemed mad. Yet he spoke clearly and cogently. And he obviously meant to kill Pamela.

At this moment, there was a loud banging on the front door. “Open up, Reilly,” shouted O'Boyle. “I know you're in there. If you harm Miss Brenda, I'll break your neck.”

For a moment, Reilly seemed stunned. Then he rallied, stared at Brenda, and spoke in a high-pitched, nervous voice, “Remember what I said.” He hesitated and added, “Come with me to the front door and show yourself to O'Boyle. I haven't hurt you.”

She went with him to the door. Reilly opened and was about to step out, but O'Boyle stood in the way. He glanced at Brenda, then moved aside. As Reilly passed, O'Boyle clenched his fists, as if about to strike, and growled, “Let her be. I mean it.”

Reilly looked straight ahead and walked on.

Feeling faint, Brenda leaned on O'Boyle.

He patted her shoulder and said, “Don't worry, miss. From now on, I'll keep a closer watch on him.”

Brenda nodded thankfully but added, “I fear for Mrs. Thompson.”

 

Late that night, Pamela was at her table, writing in her journal. The door opened and Brenda brought in a tea tray. There was a worried expression on her face. “This evening at the library, my father threatened to kill you.” Her voice trembled as she described the incident. “He scared the wits out of me. Are you watchful?”

Pamela nodded. “I take his threats seriously and often look over my shoulder when I'm outside Broadmore. I wish the town would make him feel unwelcome and he would leave. Unfortunately, he has won over his landlady. She thinks he has been misunderstood and treated unjustly. Others agree with her. Still, he may find it difficult to carry out his threat against me. He lacks access to Broadmore. I feel safe here. We've also warned certain people in the village that he's dangerous. They help keep an eye on him.”

Brenda seemed skeptical. “He could hire a stranger, or someone else you wouldn't suspect.” She left the room, shaking her head.

C
HAPTER
17

 

I
n the morning, Pamela arose, still not rested. Dennis Reilly's snarling face had troubled her sleep. She fretted about Brenda, who wasn't safe even in the library. What would Reilly's next move be? He seemed impossible to anticipate.

Soon, Pamela was so busy that Brenda's warning and Reilly's threats slipped out of her mind. Preparations for the Fourth of July celebration were becoming intense. At a desk in her study, Lydia involved Pamela in discussing the guest list and writing invitations. A hundred carefully selected men, women, and children, plus servants, were expected to attend. Most lived in the village or the great cottages; a few would come from New York City. They would be treated to food and drink, music and dancing, sports and games. The celebration would conclude in the evening with spectacular fireworks.

Pamela asked, “What moves Mr. Jennings to produce such a lavish celebration?”

“It's his answer to the Lenox Club for denying him membership. When he was nominated ten years ago, someone in the club blackballed him.”

Pamela expressed surprise.

Lydia sighed. “My husband's rough, ruthless manner earns him enemies as well as wealth. He makes light of the club's insult, but he has never forgotten or forgiven. He seizes every opportunity to get even. On the Fourth of July, the club has an elaborate, exclusive, and deadly dull luncheon. All the members are expected to attend. So Jennings has organized his own, much grander and exciting celebration. It's said that many members of the club would prefer to go to his festivities rather than to their own.”

Pamela pointed to the guest list and remarked in a neutral tone, “I notice that Helen and George Allen have been omitted. A few days ago, I believe you mentioned that Mr. Jennings was expecting them to come.”

“Yes, he will be disappointed,” said Lydia with a note of satisfaction. “I am not sending them an invitation. We can't invite everybody. Mr. Jennings has asked to see the list before he leaves tomorrow for business in New York City. Please take it to him.”

Pamela was troubled but didn't show it. Jennings would surely realize that his wife's snub to his mistress was an affront to him. Would he react in anger? With growing apprehension she walked to Jennings's study. He was at his desk, a newspaper spread out before him. His diamond lapel pin was lying to the side on a green velvet pad in a small opened case.

He glanced at the list, frowned, and penciled in the Allens. “I invited them weeks ago,” he growled. “They will be here.” Next, he struck his son, John, from the list. “You may take the list back to my wife.” In a high-pitched, strident voice he exclaimed, “Tell her that I do not recognize John Jennings as my son. If he comes to the celebration, I'll ignore him.”

His outburst shocked Pamela.

Jennings glowered at her. “You should know that my self-indulgent son refuses to marry and have children. He doesn't try to get ahead in the world but prefers to live on his stepmother's largesse. And he refuses to assume any responsibility for the business that I've spent the best years of my life building. What will happen to it when I'm gone?”

Pamela acknowledged his remarks with a slight nod of her head. This family was beginning to resemble a pit of vipers. She returned to Lydia with the altered list and related her husband's remarks.

She sniffed. “I'll not quarrel about the Allens. He can have them—he has his reasons, I'm sure. But I shall welcome my stepson, John, regardless of his father's opposing views. On second thought, I‘ll add Jeremiah Prescott to the list—though Henry dislikes him. I may need his skills.”

 

Late in the afternoon, the guest list was finished and the invitations were ready for the mail. They would go out the next day.

“Now let's have tea,” said Lydia and rang for Brenda Reilly. With the tea Brenda brought the
Berkshire Eagle,
a Pittsfield newspaper. Lydia spooned sugar into her cup and nodded to Pamela.

“Tell me the news.”

Pamela read aloud the headline: “ ‘Lizzie Borden on trial. Selecting a jury commenced today in New Bedford.' ” Lydia put down her cup and listened intently. Pamela went on to describe the tense scene in the courtroom and Miss Borden's somber appearance, and then summarized the heart of the case: “The prosecution will try to prove that no one but she could have killed her parents. The defense will argue that an unknown assassin could have done it.”

Lydia and Pamela had both followed the case since August of last year when Lizzie's father and stepmother were found hacked to death in their Fall River home in southeastern Massachusetts. The case drew national attention. The crime had been gruesome. The victims were wealthy, prominent citizens. No eyewitnesses or convincing evidence could be found. Still, within a week, the police had arrested Lizzie, a thirty-two-year-old spinster, chiefly because at the time of the crime she had been in a nearby barn and was alleged to hate her stepmother over the distribution of an inheritance.

Lydia shook her head. “I just can't imagine Miss Borden, a proper, well-mannered woman, attacking her parents with an ax. There are other, more likely suspects, such as the Irish maid, Bridget Sullivan, who was actually in the house at the time.”

“She claims to have been resting and says that she didn't hear anything,” Pamela countered.

“That's hard to credit,” argued Lydia. “The victims' screams should have awakened her. If it wasn't she, then the Bordens must have surprised a burglar or a shiftless tramp, and he killed them to escape detection. These days, it could happen anywhere, even in the Berkshires.”

Pamela thought that Lizzie—her gentility notwithstanding—could have swung the ax at her parents if she were mentally ill at the time and sufficiently provoked. In any case, murder among the wealthy and socially prominent was rare. Lydia had no reason to be concerned. Nonetheless, her chin was rigid; her mind was set. So Pamela said merely, “The trial will hopefully shed more light on what really happened.”

That evening as Pamela walked by the stables, O'Boyle joined her. “You should know, ma'am, that Maggie the pantry maid has been seen with one of the tramps infesting the neighborhood.” He explained that they generally had a bad reputation. At the least they were troublesome nuisances who should be driven away.

“How should we deal with them here at Broadmore Hall?”

“Mr. Jennings calls them ‘thieving pests' and has ordered us to report them to the police, who will arrest them as vagrants.”

Pamela had already heard that tramps were increasing locally in number and criminal activity since the severe nationwide economic depression began early in the year. Their huts could be found on the outskirts of the village along the railroad tracks near the Housatonic River, a mile east of the estate.

Pamela thanked O'Boyle, then spoke to the housekeeper and the cook and learned that food and supplies were missing. She suspected tramps were pilfering, possibly with inside help. Lydia would want her to investigate.