“Don’t worry about privilege, Mr. Young. I was a scholarship girl in college. I grew up in a mill town without a pot to— I mean, a penny to my name.”
“Excellent,” said Henry Young. He had been misled by the young woman’s striking poise. “The general business you will read for will include occasionally appearing as a housemaid, wielding a feather duster, in Mr. Hyde’s library, and standing by to be strangled on a regular basis. See if you can put this over.”
He handed her a page of playscript. “Take your time. Tell me when you’re ready.”
“I’m ready.”
“Go on, then.”
She rolled the paper into a cylinder, which she held like a feather duster, lowered her eyes as if timid or dazzled by her employer, and read, “‘Mr. Hyde hasn’t come home yet, Dr. Jekyll.’”
“You’ll do.”
“Do you mean I get the role?”
“You will be paid twenty dollars per week, take your meals on the train, occupy an upper berth in the Pullman car, and buy your own clothes.”
Isaac Bell cleared his throat. It sounded like a growl.
“All right, Mr. Bell, we’ll provide costumes, and she may descend to the first lower berth that becomes available.”
James Dashwood talked his way into the Clark Theatre and wandered around asking for Henry Young until he found him.
“Detective Dashwood.”
“You remember me?”
“I’m a stage manager, I can never forget a face even when I want to. It was in Boston. You were wondering whether Anna Waterbury read for me, and you thought you had seen me before. Did you figure out where?”
“Syracuse. Obviously, I didn’t ‘see’ you: I was still a kid out west when you were the Syracusan Stock Company’s treasurer.”
“You must have seen an old wanted poster.”
“Do Barrett and Buchanan know?”
“All of it. The ticket fraud. The gambling that drove me to the fraud. The foolish going on the run. The arrest. The prison sentence.”
“Why did they hire you?”
“They say I learned my lesson.”
“So they trust you.”
“I’ve never given them reason not to.”
Dashwood raised a skeptical brow.
Young said, “They are decent men, Detective— Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to load eighty people and two sensational scenic effects featuring the height of mechanical realism onto a railroad train.”
Isaac Bell gathered the Cutthroat Squad in his car.
“We’ve infiltrated both tours and narrowed the field of suspects. Harry Warren and Grady Forrer exonerated the Alias Jimmy Valentine head rigger, Bill Milford, and scenic designer, Roland Phelps, who grew up in New York and were definitely living in the city during the Ripper’s rampage in England—Milford in the Tenderloin, Phelps in his family’s Washington Square town house.
“Helen Mills has eliminated the actor Lockwood, from Alias Jimmy Valentine, by establishing that he is neither strong enough nor quick enough to overwhelm his victims. On the other hand, she has learned that Lucy Balant is getting ‘coached’ by the star of the show, Mr. Vietor. Her roommate, Anna Waterbury, was coached by the Cutthroat. So we keep the book open on Mr. Vietor. Fortunately, Jimmy Valentine will catch up with us in St. Louis the day after tomorrow.
“Meanwhile, Grady discovered the Deaver brothers spent their college years, in the late eighties and early nineties, in England after being kicked out of schools in Pennsylvania and Massachusetts. But the time I spent with them convinced me that neither Joe Deaver nor Jeff Deaver has the brains not to trip himself up for twenty minutes, much less never get caught in twenty years.”
“Are you sure it’s not an act, Mr. Bell?”
“Edwin Booth could not put over such an act. Now, what about Mr. Rick L. Cox, the lunatic writer?”
“Cox,” said Forrer, “was locked up in a Columbus asylum before Beatrice Edmond was murdered in Cincinnati.”
Bell said, “Scudder and I couldn’t pry much out of Jackson Barrett and John Buchanan.”
“Opaque,” Smith interrupted. “No clue that either’s from London.”
Dashwood relayed Henry Young’s claim that Barrett and Buchanan trusted their stage manager not to defraud them.
“Go back and find out what he has on them. What’s his leverage? Somehow they have each other by the short hairs.”
Archie Abbott said, “Gossip says Henry Young rarely leaves the theater ’til it’s time to board the train to the next city.”
Bell wrapped it up. “We are down to Barrett, Buchanan, Vietor, and Young— Back to it, everyone! See you tomorrow in St. Louis!”
They were trooping out of the car when an explosion rattled the windows.
“That was close.”
Isaac Bell said, “Better see if we can help. Go first, James, you’re the detective. The rest, remember to act like regular helpful citizens.”
They hurried into the station hall, Dashwood in the lead.
People were crowding out the front entrance. From there, they saw a pillar of smoke lit orange by flames rising several blocks over. They joined the mob running toward it. Bell forged ahead, with a sinking feeling it was on Plum Street. He caught up with Dashwood, and they reached Plum just as teams of wild-eyed fire horses pulling steam pumpers thundered toward the smoke. It was gushing from the field office’s shattered front door and windows and from the building next door.
“Our chief works late most nights.”
Bell shoved through the crowds. He skirted the firemen, who were stringing their hoses and raising ladders to the next-door windows, and cut down the side alley. The back door had been blown open. He ran into the dark, shouting for the chief.
“Sedgwick! Jerry Sedgwick!”
No one answered. Bell soaked a hand towel in the lavatory, covered his mouth and nose, and ran up the hall to the front office. The interior was demolished. Plaster had fallen from the ceiling. The cellar door was open. Flames were leaping from the stairs.
He pushed into the front room, where a wall of smoke and flame stopped him short. Through it, he thought he could see a figure slumped over the desk. At that
