Death of a Robber Baron (20 page)

“Through the haze I watched the two of you and wished I were with you in that boat. Miss Brown appeared disturbed. Tell me about it.”

“She's angry that George Allen exposed her, so she gave him an ambiguous alibi. Yes, they went to bed together. But he could have drugged her and stolen away while she was asleep.”

“Then, he remains a suspect in Jennings's death.”

C
HAPTER
32

 

T
he next morning Pamela awoke early, yesterday's supper with Prescott still on her mind. She had dreamed during the night of the rain beating on the boathouse roof and the fond expression on his face as he gazed at her. Now a warm feeling began to stir in her heart. She abruptly rose from the bed and threw open a window. The view of Lake Mahkeenac turned her thoughts to willful Clara Brown, staring dejected out over the water. Was there still hope for her?

A note had been slipped under the door, inviting Pamela to Sunday breakfast downstairs. Lydia wanted to hear how the investigation into her husband's death was proceeding. When they were alone at the table, Pamela spoke briefly of Tom Parker's judicial proceedings in Pittsfield. “He will face a hearing in the district court tomorrow to determine if he should be held for trial.”

Lydia frowned. “Might he be set free and other suspects investigated?”

“That's possible,” replied Pamela. “No one actually saw him kill Mr. Jennings, and he denies doing it. But even if the judge releases him tomorrow, he will remain a suspect while the investigation is widened. Yesterday, we questioned George and Helen Allen. Others will follow.”

Lydia appeared distressed. “The district judge absolutely shouldn't release Parker. He fled to New York. Isn't that a sufficient confession of guilt?”

“Perhaps not.” Pamela cautiously played the devil's advocate. “At the time, he believed he couldn't receive a fair trial in the Berkshires. A typical jury would be biased against him. Since then, Prescott and I have persuaded him to trust the court.”

Lydia vigorously shook her head. “Who else could conceivably have killed Henry? The cottagers can't be suspect. Even those whom I don't like are too concerned about their reputations to have committed such a crime.” She hesitated. “Of course, I can't vouch for the Allens, neither of whom are truly respectable. Among our servants, Mr. Wilson has a bad character and a strong motive to take revenge on Henry. And then there's Maggie, a good servant up to recently. I was thinking of promoting her to housekeeper. But to judge from her familiarity with the tramp, she might be his secret accomplice. I would like you to investigate her background.”

Pamela agreed, but she reminded herself to keep an open mind.

As breakfast was ending, Lydia asked Pamela, “Will you join me for church this morning? My stepson, John, has excused himself. He claims that a long swim in Lake Mahkeenac would cleanse his soul better than an hour at Trinity.”

“I'll go with you, Lydia,” Pamela replied. “Would you mind if Prescott accompanied us?”

“Not at all. It might do him good.” She met Pamela's eye. “After church, you could have a chat with Maggie. I've asked her to go with us.”

The weather was mild and calm, so they left Broadmore in an open coach. Maggie was reluctant to ride with them. “A servant should know her place,” she said.

“Nonsense,” insisted Lydia. “In the eyes of the Lord we are all on the same level. That should be especially true on the way to church.” She introduced Maggie to Prescott.

He tipped his hat to her. “We've seen each other from a distance, Maggie. I'm pleased to meet you.” For the rest of the short ride, he entertained the women with amusing small talk. By the time they arrived at Trinity, Maggie appeared at ease with the others. Prescott had a way with women, Pamela thought wryly.

During the service Maggie was seated between Pamela and Prescott. “I'm a heathen,” he whispered to the maid with a twinkle in his eye. “You must help me through the service so that I don't make a fool of myself or distract others.”

She smiled and said softly, “You're teasing me.”

Prescott winked to Pamela. She understood. As Maggie gave up her habitual reserve, it would be easier to probe into her secrets.

 

After the service Pamela and Maggie went by coach to a rustic hilltop gazebo overlooking Lake Mahkeenac. Prescott and Lydia had excused themselves. The air had grown warmer, and the sky was cloudless. The lake shimmered in a light breeze. From Broadmore, Pamela had brought along a fine white wine. Maggie supplied bread, cheese, and fruit.

During the meal Pamela led the conversation toward Henry Jennings. The minister at Trinity had announced a memorial service for him. Maggie had frowned.

Now Pamela remarked, “At the church door on the way out, I inquired about the Jennings memorial. The minister told me that he didn't have the details yet. Mrs. Jennings was making the arrangements.”

Suddenly, Maggie began to tremble. Her jaw became rigid with rage. “Jennings! That monster! How can the church dare to honor him? His widow knew him as a base rogue. She's a hypocrite to pretend he was a good and great man.” The maid began to sob.

Pamela laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I share your view of Jennings. How has he hurt you?”

Maggie shook her head, at first unable to reply. Pamela remained still for a moment, then gave Maggie a handkerchief. The maid dabbed away the tears from her face and met Pamela's eye. “I'll tell you about Jennings.”

Her story began in Michigan's Upper Peninsula on Christmas Eve, 1887, during a bitter labor dispute at Jennings's copper mine in Calumet. She had just returned home from her first semester at college in Chicago and was going to the striking miners' party in the social hall above a tavern.

“On my way I passed the company office, its rooms ablaze with light. I imagined Mr. Jennings in there, scheming to break the strike. A few days earlier, he had arrived from New York in a private railroad car. Since then, violent clashes between his scabs and the strikers had taken place daily.

“As I approached the tavern, a man stood near the door, thickly wrapped in fur. I couldn't make out his features. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, fighting off the bitter cold. Was he expecting someone? I wondered.

“I lowered the scarf from my face and walked up to him to offer help. He leaped back to prevent me from looking closely at him. I grew suspicious. Should I challenge him? Just then, someone opened the door and music drifted out, distracting me. So I left the stranger and climbed up the long, steep stairway.”

Maggie now seemed engrossed in the story and seemed to be reliving every detail. “At the far end of the crowded hall two fiddlers were playing a jig. To their right was a large buffet table. Father was slicing ham, and Mother was pouring punch.”

“Were your parents involved in the strike?”

“No, they were sympathetic to the workers but didn't speak out. The company school had only recently hired them. If they supported the strike, the company would fire them and close the school. The children would suffer.”

“Why were the workers on strike?” Pamela asked. “They must have been desperate to take on a powerful company.”

Maggie explained that several accidents in the mine had angered them. A recent cave-in that killed seven men had been the last straw. The workers demanded more pay, greater safety, and a union. The company wouldn't even talk to them. Most of the workers voted to strike. The company locked them out and hired scabs to take their place.

At that point Maggie paused, staring into her glass. She seemed to shiver, her eyes focused on an inner, dreadful vision.

“Please continue,” said Pamela softly.

Her face drawn with sorrow, Maggie drew a deep breath. “I was searching in the crowd for friends when suddenly I heard a cry, ‘Fire! Fire!' Men, women, and children rushed screaming to the stairway. I struggled to a niche in the wall, and the crowd surged past me. People fell and were trampled.

“I edged along the wall to the stairway. . . .” She stopped, overcome by the horror she was reliving.

Pamela leaned forward and touched her hand. “Rest for a moment, Maggie. Continue when you can.”

Maggie took a bite of the bread and a sip of the wine. “I must go on,” she said. “The stairway was filled to the top with writhing, moaning, and screaming men, women, and children. I felt sick—my parents might be in that carnage. Then I realized that there was no smoke—and no fire! Someone had provoked the panic, perhaps the stranger I had met at the door. The next day I learned that at least seventy persons had died, including my parents.”

“Did an official investigation find the man who called out ‘Fire'?”

“No. Jennings's lawyers persuaded the state's investigators to blame a nameless anti-union worker. But I blame Mr. Jennings himself or someone he hired.”

“How would you know?” Pamela's mind balked at the conjecture. “Was there any proof?”

“None that a court of law could use. Like a puppet master, Jennings remained out of sight in his private railway car or his office and worked through trusted henchmen. Still I grew convinced of his guilt. Back in college, I kept in touch with a committee of concerned citizens who carried out a private investigation. In the end the committee was convinced that none of the miners, including the few who didn't support the strike, could or would have committed the crime. By a process of elimination the committee settled on Jennings, who had been near the scene and was known to be hateful and ruthless. Of course, he would have ordered someone else to actually cry ‘Fire.' ”

Still skeptical, Pamela poured more wine into the maid's glass. “Jennings might be as guilty as you believe. But why did you decide to pursue him to the Berkshires? It doesn't seem practical.”

Maggie took a thoughtful sip. “I got the idea from Tom Parker in Chicago. On Christmas Eve, 1888, I was sitting in a church brooding on my parents' dreadful fate. Tom came and sat next to me. We had become friends, so he invited me to Ahern's Irish restaurant near the Water Tower. I told him what had happened to my parents. He declared that Jennings was the same rich man, ‘the Copper King,' for whom he had once worked in Massachusetts. When Tom had protested against poor pay and conditions, Jennings had called him an anarchist, ordered him off the property, and poisoned his reputation. He had moved to Chicago, but he hadn't forgotten or forgiven Jennings.

“A plan for revenge began to grow in my mind. Tom told me all he knew about the man. For a few weeks in the summer, he vacationed in a great cottage, Broadmore Hall, in the Berkshires at Lenox. Tom had worked there. Jennings's wife Lydia, a decent, capable woman, had built Broadmore Hall. She and her husband were now virtually separated. He was a bully, but she stood up to him. I thought if I could work for her as a maid, I might find opportunities to punish him.”

Pamela couldn't conceal her doubts. “Why would Mrs. Jennings hire a perfect stranger?”

“My parents were from this area. I had relatives here who could recommend me. Tom also said the pay was poor, so there was frequent turnover among the servants. I would persuade her to hire me on a trial basis.”

Pamela still wasn't convinced and said so.

Maggie persisted. “The way to expose Jennings was probably through his wife. She disliked him, probably knew his secrets, and might want to bring him down.”

“What did Tom think of your plan?”

For a moment Maggie chewed on her lower lip. “He thought it was a fool's errand and said he would miss me. It was hard to leave him. But punishing Jennings was something I had to do. Whenever I grew discouraged, I thought of my parents and carried on.”

“Then I must ask. Did you kill Mr. Jennings?”

“No. I wanted to, but someone else did it before I could. I also have no alibi. After the fireworks I went to bed and slept through the night. That's all I want to say.”

Her face had taken on a defiant expression. Their conversation at an end, the two women packed the remnants of the picnic into baskets.

As they left the gazebo, Pamela asked, “By the way, have you figured out who hollered ‘Fire'?”

“I thought you had forgotten to ask,” Maggie replied. “The workers' own investigation pointed to a clerk in Jennings's office. But he disappeared before the investigators could question him. Four months later, a decomposed body was found in Portage Lake and identified as the suspect.

“Since then, I've come to believe that the dead man was a vagrant who resembled the clerk. The clerk most likely changed his name and his appearance and moved to another part of the country.” She paused; her eyes seemed to narrow and darken. “I've found him. Here in Lenox—Mr. Wilson.” Her voice dropped to a throaty whisper. “He killed more than seventy innocent men, women, and children. Sometimes in the middle of the night, I hear them cry out for justice.”