The Case Book of Emily Lawrence Page 3

  “We have been discussing the puzzle you showed me.” Her father indicated the file that still lay on his desk.

  Charles said, “Professor Lothrop told me you had discussed the case earlier and he showed me the work you had already done.”

  “Have you asked Professor Peirce how he solved it for the Howland case? Peirce is one of your teachers, is he not?” he asked Charles.

  As Emily had expected, her father had looked into Charles’s academic career.

  “Oh, yes, how could I not?” her father admitted when she raised a questioning eyebrow. “I am about to lose my most-intelligent daughter to an unknown quantity from Vermont, of all places. And a Universalist to boot.”

  Emily lifted her chin. Why should his religion make any difference? But perhaps this wasn’t the best time to fight that particular battle.

  Charles ignored the comment. “Professor Peirce told me to solve it myself. If he is involved, the solution is mathematical.”

  “Yes, but…” Professor Lothrop stopped in mid-sentence. “Look at the quality of the paper.” He put one of the genuine bills under the one they suspected was a forgery. The intense black of the signature showed through the thin paper.

  Emily went to the bookstand and drew out a sheet of onion skin paper from the top drawer. She put the onion skin over the bill and traced Morgan’s signature. “We know how it was done. How do we prove it?” asked Emily.

  The three of them stared at the papers spread over the desk for some minutes. Charles had added his own three signatures to the paper with Emily’s and her father’s.

  Emily broke the silence. “Look at this. Of all the signatures each of us has written no two are alike.” She circled the top loop and the final down stroke on ‘Emily’ and the final stroke on ‘Lawrence.’

  “Now look at this,” she went on. She held up her tracing from the bill of sale. “These two are identical.”

  Professor Lothrop held the forged bill in turn over the three others. “Here, these two are a match.”

  “That must be where the mathematics comes in,” said Charles. “Surely the Peirces calculated the probability of two signatures being identical. That would be evidence that would satisfy the court.”

  At length, Emily’s father slid the letter from Mr. Lawrence out of the envelope, read it with care, scribbled a few lines on the bottom, and handed it to Charles.

  “I have replied to your father’s request for an interview by inviting him to dinner tomorrow night. You will, of course, come with him.” Emily’s father handed the envelope to Charles and ushered them from the sturdy. “Go introduce your young man to your mother,” he told her as they made their way down stairs.

  * * * *

  Papa Lawrence arrived by cab the just after dark the next evening. Short like his son, he was bald and jolly. Perhaps a gnome, rather than the ogre Charles had described. Emily liked him at once.

  “Dinner is ready. The apples for the pie are from Vermont. I wonder if they are yours.” Emily’s mother led them to the dining room.

  “There’s a good chance that they are. I pride myself on the quality and quick transport of my goods.”

  Conversation flowed easily among the older generation but Charles and Emily sat like stone statues, answering questions with a single syllable.

  At last the pie with its tart juicy Vermont apples was gone and the talk turned serious.

  “My son wrote to me in the spring that he had spotted a young lady who might very well suit him. I think he has chosen well, if her parents are any indication.”

  What? Emily stared at Mr. Lawrence. Had Charles been watching her all summer? But he had only made himself known to her in September.

  “I haven’t decided how to handle this milk problem that he figured out, with your help it seems.” Mr. Lawrence nodded toward Emily. “When Charles announced his desire to become a detective, I couldn’t fathom his decision. I still can’t, but at least I understand that his intention is to help people. It is his choice and he will have to fight his own fight. But if it comes to pass that he and Emily choose each other, I can give the union my blessing.”

  Washington City, March 15, 1873

  Dear Anna,

  While I feel that I must keep my letters to Mother and Father cheerful, I can lay my heart open to you. Please take this in the spirit it is intended. I simply need to say this to someone who will understand. I am not asking you to take any action in my behalf.

  Since Charles and I moved to Washington, I feel like I have fallen into a pit from which there is no escape. Charles lives well with the poverty, and refuses to ask his father for money. He does not have to face the day-to-day chores of putting a dinner on the table every night and paying the rent.

  Lawrence Research is eking out a living for itself, but not supporting us very well.

  We have taken three rooms in the attic of Mrs. Johnson’s house. Two men share the second floor. Mrs. J.’s husband was killed in a longshoreman’s accident, and she is trying to raise five children on almost nothing, all crammed into the first floor of a not-very-large house. She is kind, and I try to repay her by teaching her children. They are intelligent enough but have no access to education. Her son, Tom, is our office boy and her daughter Maggie helps me keep our rooms in order so I can spend three or four days a week at the office.

  As much as I hate the poverty and deprivation, I love my work. Who would have guessed that being a detective could be fun? I am learning to follow people in the street and write reports of what I have found. Charles gave me a little gun as a wedding present and once a week he takes me to a farm to practice shooting it and the bigger gun he owns.

  Most of our cases are merely fact finding for the lawyer in our building who, himself, is just getting started. We actually solved a case where we had to find a bundle of letters for use in a lawsuit. The letters were by a man who had died, but it turned out he had been murdered and we brought the murderer to justice.

  Washington is beautiful in the spring, but not so wonderful in the winter. Many of the streets are unpaved, and the mud can be quite deep. I’ve already told you how dreadful the summers are. The city empties out and little business is done. It gave us time to get the agency up and running before we had much business. The city is full of parks, but most still bear the scars from the war when they were used for livestock or encampments.

  There are lots of new buildings going up, some faced with the Vermont marble provided by Mr. Lawrence. I would be happy if he came to visit us, but Charles still wants to have nothing to do with him. How I wish I could do something to heal that rift.

  Lest you think I regret my marriage, let me assure you that I did, in fact, marry the man I love. You were right about marriage being a game, that if played correctly, both players win.

  I pocketed enough money from petty cash to buy a copy of The Watcher. Your latest poem is wonderful. That makes five poems you have had published, am I right? Will you have your own collected works soon?

  How are Timothy and Emma? Having little ones under foot can hardly be good for the business of writing poetry.

  Love,

  Emily

  INDIAN AFFAIRS

  Washington City, May 1873

  Maggie Johnson put away the brooms and the dust rags. Emily handed her the last two pennies from the bottom of her purse. The girl certainly earned her money and Emily didn’t begrudge it, but there was little enough to go around. Dinner would be sparse again.

  Dropping into a kitchen chair, Emily took in her kingdom: an ice box with a leaky pan that dripped continuously, a cupboard full of other peoples’ discarded dishes, the kitchen door that lead down two flights of stairs to the necessary in the back yard. Even the almost perfect cup in her hands, half full of tepid black coffee, brought no comfort. Tears began to gather. Why had she ever agreed to this hopeless venture into poverty?

&
nbsp; Gasping for breath in the stifling room, she flung the offending cup at the wall next to the ice box. The shards fell to the floor, the wall stained a darker brown. She fled down the back stairs and out into the street.

  Running blindly, she headed for the Potomac. Perhaps she could breathe again if she were away from their shabby rooms.

  Wheels rumbled on the pavement just before a gig struck her and sent her flying into the gutter.

  “Missus, are you all right?”

  Was she? Nothing was broken, but she was shaking.

  The driver, a swarthy, clean-shaven man in a good suit, jumped down and lifted her to her feet. “Can you stand? You ran out in front of me. I couldn’t stop.”

  “I’m fine,” said Emily.

  “Let me take you home.”

  He helped her into the gig. Emily gave him her name and an address. It was a short drive across the Mall and up past the Treasury to H Street.

  “This isn’t a house, ma’am.”

  Emily stared at the office building. Had she been so rattled she had given him the wrong address? She muttered, “Second floor.”

  The man handed her out of the gig. She was shaking so badly that he had to hold her securely all the way up the stairs.

  “Here,” she said, indicating the frosted glass door that announced ‘Lawrence Research’ in bold black letters. Inside the office he sat her down on the sofa that faced the office manager’s desk.

  “Lordy!” said Mrs. Briggs, coming out from behind the desk. “Are you hurt, Mrs. Lawrence?”

  Mrs. Briggs was their first full-time employee. She was a widow with grown children. In the first year, Charles had poured what little money they had into a comfortable office suite and Emily always felt more at home here than anywhere else in Washington.

  “I don’t think so,” said Emily. “This nice man brought me here in his gig.”

  “After I ran her down in the street.” He spoke to Charles, who had come out of his office to see what the commotion was.

  “My name is Kenneth Rivers. Mrs. Lawrence ran out into the street and I couldn’t avoid her.”

  After everyone was satisfied that Emily was bruised but not seriously hurt, Mr. Rivers asked, “What kind of research do you do at Lawrence Research?” He indicated the name on the glass door.

  Charles began his well-practiced description of the agency, as he usually did, with: “We could all use a cup of coffee.” Mrs. Briggs bustled off to the kitchen.

  “We are like the Pinkertons, only we use brains, not brawn. We work for lawyers, business owners, and sometimes private individuals to solve problems. Pretty much anything the police don’t do.”

  “I see.” Mr. Rivers looked thoughtful for a moment. Then he handed Charles his card and said, “I’m so sorry for any pain I caused Mrs. Lawrence. Thank you for your kindness. Good day.”

  * * * *

  The next morning Emily found it painful to move. Her left side was covered with bruises and there was a clear image of the hub of the wheel on her hip. Charles spent a few precious pennies for a cab to the office. The clocks were striking eight when they arrived. Mr. Rivers waited for them.

  Charles took Mr. Rivers to his office while Emily made a fresh pot of coffee. The office cups were second hand, but of a better quality than those at home. She carried three cups into Charles’s office and took the seat at the side of his desk as she always did.

  Mr. Rivers was less at ease today than yesterday. Or perhaps Emily was more aware of her surroundings. He was about the same height as Charles, short for a man. His face looked familiar, though she was sure she had never met him.

  After inquiries about Emily’s health, Mr. Rivers explained his presence. “Yesterday when I ran into Mrs. Lawrence I was on my way back from the docks. I had picked up a small shipment of artifacts from New Mexico for the Smithsonian. I am responsible for cataloging and preserving Indian artifacts.”

  Emily’s cheeks warmed. That was why he looked familiar. He was an Indian. She had seen his image, or one like it, dozens of times in newspapers but she had never come face to face with one before.

  Fear pricked her palms and the soles of her feet. He seemed nice enough, but she had never heard anything good about Indians. They were a savage enemy. Except for his stylish clothing, Mr. Rivers resembled the Indians portrayed in the newspapers.

  Yet her father’s admonition to reserve judgment until she had all the information echoed in her mind.

  Mr. Rivers smiled at her. Instead of offering an explanation of why he had come, he drew a beaded piece of leather out of his pocket.

  “This is a Crow faceplate for a horse. It was part of our collection. My wife found it in a pawn shop in North West about half a mile from our home.”

  The piece consisted of a circle five or so inches in diameter. Two rays of the circle continued beyond the circumference forming a tab at the bottom. The circle would sit between the horse’s eyes and the tab hang down its face. The piece was covered in a geometric pattern of brightly colored glass beads and was fringed all around with yellow beads.

  “Someone stole it and pawned it?” asked Charles, as Emily wrote the name and address of the shop in her notebook.

  “It would appear so. Of course, it could be one that looks like ours, but ours is missing from the Crow collection. Is this the kind of thing you look into?”

  “Why don’t you contact the police?” asked Charles.

  “Perhaps later, if I can present more facts to them. If this were known, they would assume I stole it. I don’t know how to prove it wasn’t me.”

  “We can look into it if you like, but as soon as we have anything definite we will take it to the police. Let me get some background.”

  After Emily had written the names of Mr. Rivers’s fellow workers and the location of the artifacts and how they were catalogued and stored, she asked, “Could you show us around? I’d love to see behind the scenes at a museum and we could interview a few people without looking like we were snooping.”

  After their new client left for work, Emily groaned and rose carefully. “I need to keep moving or I will turn into a block of stone.”

  * * * *

  Emily went first to the pawn shop and explained that she was looking for a gift for her husband. Did they have anything made by Indians? They didn’t, but if she left her name and address they could let her know if anything showed up.

  Next she went to the address Mr. Rivers had given for his home. It was a freestanding house, all on one floor. The bright white of its new coat of paint stood out like a diamond fallen among beach sand. Its weathered neighbors were falling down around the ears of their inhabitants.

  In front was a small fenced area full of plants Emily didn’t recognize. As she stood gazing at the garden, a woman opened the door and stepped into the yard. She had the same complexion as her husband, but while he was blocky and short, she was tall and slim. She wore her dark, lustrous hair in a single braid down her back. She was dressed in a cotton print dress not unlike those the country women of New England wore in the summer.

  “May I help you?” asked the woman.

  Oh, dear. Emily had just wanted to look over the place to get a feel for it, and its owner, before speaking to Mrs. Rivers. Was she up to an encounter with another Indian, a woman this time, and in her own home?

  Emily replied, “I was just walking by and I noticed your garden. I don’t know these plants. I’m from New England. Do they grow there?” Had she covered her surprise and discomfort well enough? No.

  The woman smiled and said “They are herbs from a warmer and dryer climate than you are used to.” Mrs. Rivers was well spoken and seemed educated. She spoke carefully, and while the words were pronounced without an accent, the cadence was unusual. Emily’s fear turned to curiosity. Who was this woman?

  “My name is Emily Lawrence.” Emily held ou
t her hand which the woman took.

  “You are the woman who ran out in front of my husband’s gig yesterday. Were you badly hurt?”

  “Bruised, but I will live. Are you Mrs. Rivers?”

  “It is actually Three Rivers. My husband is named for the place he was born. Would you like to come in and meet the children?”

  Why was Mrs. Rivers opening her home so casually? Yet, if Mrs. Rivers could be so welcoming, she could respond in kind.

  “Yes, I’d like that.”

  When the door closed behind them, Emily looked around at the unusual room. On the far wall a massive bookcase was built around the back window. An old, much-abused desk and chair stood near the bookcases. The wall to the right of the front door was covered by shelves as well, but these shelves bore artifacts, some old, some well-worn, as though they were in daily use. There was no other furniture in the room.

  Two young children sat on the floor playing with items that Emily didn’t recognize. “Joseph, Polly, this is Mrs. Lawrence. She and her husband know your father.”

  Mrs. Rivers inclined her head toward a curtained doorway.

  “You have never met an Indian before, have you? Come into the kitchen and we can talk over some tea made from the herbs you admired.”

  The kitchen was one you might find in any middle-class home, and Emily smiled. There was a pot of fragrant stew simmering on the wood stove. Emily failed to recognize some of the implements on the open shelves. They were made of strange material and she could only guess at their use. Others were the same as she had in her own kitchen, only of a better quality.

  Mrs. Rivers indicated a seat at the table and poured two cups of dark, steaming liquid.

  “You have come because my husband consulted your agency this morning about the item I found in the pawn shop?”