Death of a Robber Baron (22 page)

C
HAPTER
34

 

T
he next morning, Pamela borrowed a one-horse coach and drove Prescott to the station. On the way, he remarked, “I had hoped to post bail for Parker and keep him out of jail. Over the weekend, however, I've noticed strong public sentiment in the newspaper against tramps in general. About Parker they write that he has blood on his hands and shouldn't be allowed out into the community. What do you think I should do?”

This public outcry against Parker distressed Pamela. She began to regret that she had persuaded him to return to the Berkshires for a possibly unfair trial. He must be strongly tempted to flee again.

“Forget about bail,” she replied. “Parker will be very unhappy in jail, but safer there than outside, until we find Henry Jennings's killer.”

 

At the station she waved good-bye to Prescott, then drove off to Wilson's boardinghouse and parked out of sight. He might recognize the coach. She asked the landlady about him. At first she frowned, but Pamela added that she had also been a landlady in New York and understood the need for caution when dealing with strangers. She showed her papers from the D.A. and explained that this visit was part of an official investigation into the murder of Henry Jennings.

That made all the difference. The landlady invited Pamela into a parlor and described her boarder Wilson as a solitary man who asked for pen and ink and spent long hours writing in his room. When he went out, it was to mail letters or to buy strong spirits. By suppertime, he was usually glassy-eyed.

He had complained at breakfast of a splitting headache. “Too much sauce yesterday,” said the landlady. “He looked preoccupied and has gone for a walk this morning to clear his head.”

“Does he have visitors?”

“No, but he receives sealed messages.”

“If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to search his room while he's gone.”

“I dare not give you permission, but his door will be ajar for twenty minutes while I fetch fresh linen and other supplies. If he returns, I'll ring the bell.”

“I understand,” said Pamela evenly.

A minute later, when no one was watching, she slipped into the room and began hunting for Wilson's secret diary and hidden papers. The small room was furnished with a bed, a dresser, a table, and two plain chairs. On the floor in a corner was a pile of books. Where would he hide anything in such a place?

In vain she lifted the mattress, looked inside the dresser drawers, and searched his clothes hanging in a closet. On the floor was his black satchel. It was locked. Curious, she shook it but heard no recognizable sounds. She had to find the key, a thing that was easy to hide. Unfortunately, she was in a race against time. Ten of the twenty minutes had passed.

She drew a deep breath and calmed her nerves. Managing the boardinghouse in New York had given her insights into the minds of her sometimes-thieving tenants. They would store stolen tableware in locked satchels like Wilson's and hide the key. She let her gaze drift slowly around the room. It stopped at the dresser. She pulled out the drawers one by one. Taped beneath the bottom drawer was the key.

She opened the satchel, and her hopes fell. Inside were neatly folded underwear, monogrammed handkerchiefs, and stockings. But she poked carefully through the clothing until her fingers touched a solid object. With a quick glance she saw that it was a small book wrapped in plain brown paper. That looked interesting! Perhaps a diary. A file box and a pistol lay beneath it.

There wasn't time to study her find. One of the books in the corner, Mark Twain's
The American Claimant,
resembled the diary in size and shape. She fanned the pages. In the margins were many marks, abbreviations, and brief comments. Passages were underlined.

She switched the brown paper to the Twain book and put it into the satchel. She began to finger through the file box, recognized the names of John Jennings and George Allen among others, but then broke off. Time was running out. She stuck the diary into her bag, locked the satchel, and returned the key to the dresser.

The landlady's bell rang, and seconds later a loud footfall sounded in the hall. In desperation Pamela threw herself under the bed and lay hidden by the overhanging bedspread. Wilson entered—she recognized him by his polished shoes. He walked directly to the dresser for the key, then to the closet, and drew out the satchel. Pamela lifted the bedspread a bit to watch him better. He thrust his hand into the satchel, seemed to feel the book and the file box but didn't inspect them. He put the pistol into his pocket, locked the satchel, and carried it out of the room.

As Pamela was crawling out from under the bed, the landlady walked in. “My goodness!” she said. “That was a close call. He was in a great hurry.”

“Fortunately for me!” Pamela said, brushing dust off her clothes. “But I found what I was looking for. Thank you.” She paused. “Could you see where he was going?”

“No, I couldn't. But I'll ask the maid downstairs. She's cleaning the veranda.”

The maid reported that a cab had been waiting for Wilson. “It set off in a great rush toward the Stockbridge Road.”

Pamela hurried to her coach and drove on the Stockbridge Road in the direction of Broadmore Hall. What could Wilson intend to do there—with a pistol?

 

Pamela kept a safe distance from Wilson's cab. He could be watching out the rear window. Just short of Broadmore, he left the cab and disappeared into the dense woods between Broadmore and the neighboring estate. After tethering her horse, Pamela cautiously followed the narrow path that he appeared to have taken. She couldn't see him. So when the path forked, she couldn't decide which one to take. She retraced her steps to the coach and returned it to the stables.

No one there had seen Wilson, nor had the doorman or the maids in the cottage.

She went to her rooms, her curiosity growing by the step. She searched the rooms for intruders or spies and locked herself in. Finally, feeling safe, she sat at her table and retrieved Wilson's diary. She groaned. It was written mostly in code that she couldn't decipher.

 

In the afternoon, Pamela borrowed the coach again and drove to the station to pick up Prescott returning from Parker's hearing in Pittsfield. She arrived a few minutes early and waited in the station. As the train approached, she remained inside. Trains sometimes spewed a dirty steam over the platform.

Her heart beat a little faster, as if she were about to meet a dear friend. That disturbed her at first. She told herself that she and Prescott had merely a business relationship. Then she admitted that they had indeed become friends and cared for each other. A romance, however, would be foolish. He might win her trust and love, then move on to another woman. How could she bear that? Her spirits sank.

The noisy arrival of the train distracted her. It pulled into the station and began to disgorge its passengers. As Prescott stepped out onto the platform, Pamela moved toward the station door. But she stopped when Prescott suddenly turned back toward the train and assisted Clara Brown down the steps. As he gazed at her, his arms reached out as if in humble supplication. Soon, her stout guardian and a maid rushed up and whisked her away.

A momentary mixture of jealousy and envy flashed unbeck-oned through Pamela's mind. She was afraid that Prescott would notice her discomfort as he came through the door. But he merely looked surprised when he saw her, then said, “Thank you for coming.”

At the coach outside, he sat next to her. “I had intended to hire a cab, but I'd rather watch you drive. When did you learn?”

She gave the horse a command and set off. “My parents gave me a small horse when I was still a young girl. I rode mostly on vacations at our Williamstown summer home. As I grew up, they also gave me a little coach. I used to drive children on country lanes near the village.” She smiled at him. “But we have more important things to talk about. Tell me what happened at the hearing.”

As they rode the short distance to the village, Prescott explained that the judge had found sufficient reason to hold Tom Parker in custody while the investigation into Jennings's murder continued.

“Poor Tom!” she exclaimed.

“Yes,” Prescott agreed. “The judge's decision doesn't surprise me. The wealthy and respectable members of society must have strongly pressed him to make an example of the tramp and to do it quickly. In private he said that I should continue to investigate other suspects. And what do you have to report?”

“I've searched Wilson's room and discovered his diary. Many passages appear to be in code. How shall we read them?”

“I'll ask Harry Miller to translate. If he can't, I'll turn to an expert.”

She went on. “I followed Wilson on the Stockbridge Road but eventually lost track of him near Broadmore. At the cottage, the servants haven't seen him. I should mention that he's carrying a pistol.”

Prescott's brow creased with concern. “Drive to his boardinghouse. Maybe he has returned.”

Pamela turned onto Wilson's street and parked in front of the house. The landlady was sitting on the veranda.

“Are you looking for Wilson?” she asked. “Well, he's not here. Looks like he'll miss supper. I haven't seen him since this morning. According to my servants, he's not been in the village.”

Prescott turned to Pamela. “Drive to the Curtis.”

At the hotel, he was in and out in less than a minute. He climbed into the coach and said in a low voice, “I think we have a missing man.”

 

It was soon too dark to search for Wilson. Pamela drove Prescott to his cabin. They sat outside and continued their conversation. Prescott asked, “Why would Wilson run off with a pistol, the supposed diary, and his secret papers?”

Pamela reflected for a few moments. “He was going to meet Jennings's killer, someone whom he feared and didn't trust, hence the pistol. But he also wanted to engage that person in a deal concerning the diary and the secret papers.”

Prescott nodded. “Wilson might tell the killer that he had witnessed the crime and had recorded his observations. For a sum of money, he would sell them. The killer might have made a counteroffer. Bargaining ensued. At some point it broke down. The killer assaulted Wilson and seized his satchel and the key.”

“How would the killer react when he discovered that the diary was missing?”

“He had to wonder where it was. I'd expect him to go to Wilson's boardinghouse and search his room.”

“We must warn the landlady.”

“I'll do it tonight without mentioning the diary. That must be kept a secret.” He gazed at her kindly. “You should return to Broadmore. It's late.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I fear for Wilson.”

 

At the door, the porter told Pamela that Mrs. Jennings wanted to speak to her. Pamela hurried upstairs. Lydia would still be waiting; she kept late hours.

As Pamela entered the parlor, Lydia was sitting in an upholstered chair, a book in her lap. She brightened when she recognized her companion. “Sit down, my dear. You must have had a busy day. You look worn out and hungry.”

Pamela confessed that she hadn't eaten since breakfast.

Lydia called a maid and ordered a small cheese omelet for Pamela. “While we wait for the food, tell me what you've learned.”

“Mr. Prescott and I have discovered that Wilson had a hiding place above your husband's study. From there he could have observed the murder or gone to the study and carried it out himself. This morning, in his boardinghouse room, I saw hidden documents that might yield clues.”

Pamela had it on the tip of her tongue to mention the diary, but a tiny inner voice urged her to hold back. “Wilson's behavior this morning is mysterious. He set out from the boardinghouse toward Broadmore, where he disappeared into the woods. Prescott and I have searched for him in vain. Prescott continues to work on new clues. We may soon know the killer.”

While Pamela was speaking, she noticed Lydia begin to frown and to wring her hands.

“How could a rogue like Wilson be a credible witness? He might accuse an innocent person in order to extort money. Even if the accusation were proved to be baseless, it could nonetheless taint the person's reputation.”

“True,” conceded Pamela. “That's why it's important to find Wilson and confront him. We should remind him that extortion and slander have legal consequences.”

The reference to slander and its punishment seemed to mollify Lydia. “I'm grateful, Pamela, for your efforts to get to the bottom of this matter. Now I'll retire. The maid will bring the food to your room.”

 

As Pamela ate her omelet, she imagined that Prescott was across the table sharing the food, exchanging opinions. She raised a glass of wine in a toast to his ghostly presence and turned her mind to Lydia. She seemed to insist too much that the murderer had to be a man from the lower class, either the tramp or the steward. Up to a point, Lydia simply shared the typical wealthy, privileged lady's fear of poor, discontented people. Or she might believe that the trail of evidence could lead to her stepson, John. Wilson could have observed him in Jennings's study. Granted, Wilson was an extortionist. He might also be a credible witness.

The omelet finished, Pamela prepared for bed. As she lay down bone-tired, somewhere in the vast building a clock struck one, probably the hour when Henry Jennings had died violently six days ago. She carried that somber thought into her sleep.