Winter Sisters Read online

  “This is the same whore who suggested they might have been taken in the first place?” he asked.

  Mary flinched at the ugly word, but said, “It is.”

  “And she didn’t ask you for money?” Farrell said.

  “No.”

  “So Mantel was wrong about that,” the policeman mused, sounding surprised.

  At the mention of Mantel, William said, “She mentioned something about the police captain.”

  Farrell narrowed his gaze. “What did she say?”

  “Something about certain appetites.”

  Farrell’s gaze went suddenly flat. He sniffed and hitched up his pants. “Might be the captain’s a lonely man. Might be he likes company.”

  “And he such a crusader against prostitution,” Mary said.

  “We can’t all be as angelic as you two, now can we?” Farrell said, but with respect.

  “Listen, we’ve just come from the hospital,” William said. “James Harley is gone, and no one remembers quite how that happened. There is no record of any other physician dismissing him. Of course, a patient is free to come and go as he pleases, but Harley was in no shape to get himself anywhere.”

  Farrell nodded, the muscles working in his strong jaw. “But why would anyone move a wounded man from a hospital and plop him in a whorehouse?”

  “To hide him?” Mary said.

  “Maybe.”

  “Do you know the house Darlene described?” William said.

  “Oh, I know it,” Farrell said. He thought for a moment. “Could be the man Darlene’s talking about read that story about Harley in the paper, and took it on as his own.”

  This so precisely echoed what William had said earlier that Farrell’s repetition of it undermined Mary’s confidence. “Please, can you just go and see?”

  “I’ll try. I have to get permission from Captain Mantel. He’ll be furious. I haven’t told him yet about finding the girls.”

  “What? You haven’t?”

  Farrell shook his head. “Wasn’t sure yet that a crime had been committed. Now, though, I’ll have to tell him. But just so you understand if—if—I make an arrest, you won’t be able to keep the girls’ survival and situation quiet. You’ve had a night of reprieve, but as early as tonight it could be all over the police blotter and then the newspapers. People don’t often come back to life. It’s an event of some note, and with wee ones, it’s a story of hope, even if—” Farrell’s facade of dispassion fell. He refastened his helmet and adjusted his belt, fiddling with the placement of the brass buckle, gleaming in the shabby grimness of the clinic. “Will the little ones be—will they get better?”

  Mary and William exchanged a glance. “We hope so.”

  Farrell did not seem convinced. After all, he had seen some of what they had seen, though not as intimately.

  “There’s something else,” Mary said. “Claire said there were two men.”

  “Two? Two men where?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “You’ve not asked her yet where she was?”

  “They’re not in a state to talk. But she said there was a good one and a bad one.”

  “That’s important. Or not.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Farrell shrugged, apologetic. “You realize, it’s going to be hard for people to believe what those girls say?”

  “I beg your pardon?” William said.

  “A good man and a bad man? I’m sorry, but unless you can get her to be more specific—what I’m saying is, she’s going to have to be clear, do you understand? For anyone to believe her. It doesn’t hold. If there was a ‘good man’ then why didn’t that ‘good man’ help them to get away? It sounds—well, to my ears, it sounds like a fairy tale.”

  Mary could hardly draw breath. “Fairy tale?”

  “I’m just saying. I’m trying to help. All of us know something happened to them, but it’s not an easy thing to get charges filed for something like this. Men are accused every day. Sometimes falsely. The courts are sensitive to that. And you have young girls talking about good and bad men—”

  Indignation boiled up inside Mary. “I believe them. You saw them.”

  “Well that’s all good and fine for you, and I believe them, too. But I’m telling you, the issue isn’t whether or not you or I believe them. It’s whether or not everybody else will. So, be careful who you tell that to, is all I’m saying. And I’ll keep the information in mind.”

  “Emma has always been a smart girl,” Mary said. “She is not frivolous—”

  Farrell cocked his head, his gaze once again sympathetic. “Would you rather I didn’t tell it to you straight? Would you rather I sugarcoat the whole nasty tangle of something this sordid? You’re a doctor. Both of you are. I’m shocked you’ve not figured this out for yourself. And all I’m saying is maybe she made up the good man so that she could get through it. You see? Someone she could believe in? I’ve got daughters of my own. I’m not talking out of my left foot here.”

  Mary swallowed and looked at William, who raised his eyebrows in return. The possibility had never occurred to her, and Farrell’s assessment unnerved her. He might be right—what child didn’t try to imagine their way out of desperate trouble like the kind Emma had just suffered? If so, Emma was more disturbed than Mary already worried she was. She cleared her throat. “There’s one more thing. Darlene doesn’t want to be arrested. She says police demand bribes, and she hasn’t any money to pay you.”

  “I’m not one that takes bribes, thank you very much. But in any case, I can’t see why I’d arrest one whore over another—”

  Mary bristled. “Why don’t you call her something less derogatory?”

  Farrell stared and then said, “Look. If I took one—lady—I’d have to take the whole bloody house. But mind you, there will be other trouble for Darlene. She won’t be able to stay where she is after the madam figures out that she’s the reason I’m there. Especially if Harley is someone important enough to keep him in her bed.”

  It occurred to Mary now that if word of Darlene’s actions got out, she wouldn’t be able to work anywhere in Albany again. No madam would tolerate a whore who caused the police to arrive at her doorstep. She might have to go to a house in Schenectady or Troy, though more than likely she’d have to escape to Manhattan City’s anonymity. And if she wanted to escape the profession, she had little hope of doing it here. Few people would hire a woman who’d worked as a prostitute. Unless, Mary thought, she sent her to the House of Shelter. She would ask Gerritt Van der Veer for his help.

  Outside, Mary locked the door behind them. Farrell, his long face lined with exhaustion and strain, surveyed the narrow alleyway, his eyes coming to rest on the small red cross beside the door.

  He would be in touch, he said. Until then, they were not to do anything or say a word to anyone.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The precinct vestibule reeked of kerosene and dust, and the lantern had burned low, but it was light enough for Colm Farrell to read Mantel’s keen interest.

  “But those girls are dead,” Mantel said, his dark eyes slit with both challenge and suspicion. The entryway of the police station was uncharacteristically deserted in the aftermath of the flood, nevertheless Mantel beckoned to Farrell to follow him down the narrow hallway to the privacy of his office, a low-ceilinged closet of a room crammed with crates of loose paperwork, piles of tattered arrest logs, and an arsenal of firearms large enough to arm a posse of volunteers, should he ever require one. Farrell ducked under the doorframe and took a seat across from the captain, who had squeezed into his chair, the brass buttons of his uniform clinking against the edge of the desk.

  “Now, tell me what the hell you’re talking about,” Mantel said.

  “They’re not dead,” Farrell said.

  “God in heaven, Farrell, if they’re not dead, t
hen where are they?”

  Farrell told the whole story from beginning to end, including Mary Stipp’s assertion that Emma had been raped.

  “Let me understand this. You knew yesterday that those O’Donnell sisters are alive and you didn’t tell me?”

  Mantel’s gaze had turned flat and steady, betraying a far cooler mien than Farrell believed the man ought to be displaying under the circumstances, but he found it even more interesting that the captain had exhibited no horror or surprise at what had befallen Emma and Claire, only outrage at not being informed in a timely manner of their resurrection. He returned the captain’s taciturn gaze, an effective interrogation tactic; people could stand anything but silence. But Mantel was well acquainted with the technique, too, and he wanted his answer. Finally Farrell gave in. He’d been working since seven in the morning, and he was hungry, weary, and sick to death of the mystery surrounding the O’Donnell girls’ disappearance. “I didn’t know then that a crime had been committed,” Farrell said evenly.

  “That excuse is a little thin, Farrell. You find dead girls that aren’t dead, that’s information, especially since we’d been searching for them. And as if it isn’t already a nightmare around here, now the whole city is going to be screaming about this. And you want to go hunting for James Harley in a whorehouse? The city’s new hero? The one good thing that happened to Albany all week?”

  “If you’ll allow me to.”

  “Why isn’t that man in the hospital?”

  “I stopped by there on the way here. The nurses said you were there yesterday. Maybe you can tell me why he isn’t still there?”

  “When half the city of Albany was looting storefronts, we had a genuine hero on our hands. I went to thank him.”

  Farrell stared at the captain, undeterred by the man’s deflection. After the initial wave of unrest had passed, they had arrested all of six men for looting, and one of them turned out to be a shop owner who had been retrieving a dozen blankets from his own store to distribute to the less fortunate at City Hall. “I’m sure Mr. Harley appreciated the visit.”

  Mantel frowned, hesitating before choosing his next words. “I’m not convinced he’s guilty. You can’t trust a whore to tell the truth, and everyone saw Harley save those two boys. But go retrieve him, if you can find him. I’m more interested in whether or not those O’Donnell sisters said anything to you about where they’ve been.”

  “You haven’t asked me yet how they are.”

  “Who are you? A doctor? Why would I ask you?”

  “I’m not sure how old the older girl is. She might be underage,” Farrell said, with emphasis.

  Mantel made a dismissive notion with one hand. “It happens. Children—it happens. You can’t be soft about these things, Farrell, do you understand? It’s more important to flush out what those sisters know. Have they said anything about who did it? Did they mention Harley?”

  “They’re hardly talking, Captain. You should have seen them—I’ve never seen a child in such a state.”

  “Get on with it then,” Mantel said, waving a hand. “Go find Harley. Arrest him if you have to. But whatever you do, don’t arrest that madam.”

  “Why would I?”

  “Don’t be coy. One more thing. You’re certain that those sisters are going to stay with the Stipps?”

  Farrell had already risen. With one hand on the door latch, he looked back and regarded the captain. “Does it matter?”

  Mantel offered a nonchalant shrug. “They’re orphans. It’s our responsibility to find them a home that we can trust. I’m not certain the Stipps are the place for them. She’s a doctor who goes out all over town at all hours of the day and night, hardly reliable as a homemaker. We might need to turn them over to the nuns at St. Vincent’s.”

  “I think the good doctors would put up a fight if you tried to take those girls away from them.”

  Mantel shrugged again and busied himself, shifting piles of paper around his desk. “It was just a thought.”

  —

  Farrell commandeered a police wagon and took along a fellow officer named Kiernan O’Brien and drove out to New Scotland Plank Road. It was pleasant to be away from the ravages and turmoil of the river cleanup, but the spring road was rough going. Some of the planks had deteriorated after the blizzard and the road company hadn’t yet replaced them. After rattling past the forbidding gray stone of the penitentiary and the dark red brick of the almshouse, the officers were happy to reach the newly plowed fields that lay beyond.

  When they reached the whorehouse, they followed the lane lined with oak trees down to the picturesque, turreted dwelling painted a pretty shade of pale yellow that gave an incongruous impression of prosperity. It was past five o’clock, and a dozen carriages were parked in the yard. The flood had deterred no one, and may have even spurred those who wanted to escape their watery troubles. Heavily curtained windows prevented prying eyes and provided the discreet cover patrons expected. Admittance through the front door of a bawdy house was usually under control of the madam, but no policeman ever entered through a public parlor. Farrell and O’Brien drew up around back.

  The madam, a worn-out slip of a thing who called herself Melody Addison, said, “Early, aren’t you?” She thrust her hand between her breasts and fished out a wad of greenbacks, and counted out the regular quarterly bribe for Captain Mantel that Farrell usually collected on the first of June. Farrell palmed the wad of bills and pushed past her into the tidy kitchen. The stove and table and chairs were well scrubbed and gleaming in the waning light streaming through two sets of uncurtained windows. Upstairs, bedsprings squeaked. Evening and its happy profitability was upon the house.

  “Maybe you want something extra this time?” Melody said, letting drop one shoulder of her robe to reveal a swath of breast.

  Farrell ignored her.

  The madam denied everything.

  Farrell threatened to knock down every door in the house if she didn’t reveal where her special guest was hidden.

  Reluctantly she showed him across the back vestibule into a bedchamber. It was handsomely furnished with a brass bed, a tall highboy, and an oak armoire with a rippling mirror set into its door. A stout, bald man lay in bed clutching a cup of tea in one trembling hand. His untrimmed beard gave him the look of a vagrant, and the rumpled bedclothes were rife with the stink of fever and sickness. His eyes had sunk into his cheeks, and a purple bruise curled around his neck, though the bandage at the back of his neck was clean. Someone, it seemed, had been taking care of him. His hands shook as he set the teacup on the bedside table, a flash of alarm lighting up his pale face.

  “I don’t know why you’re after him,” Melody said. “Don’t you know he is a hero? He saved two little boys. And he’s hurt besides. There was an article about him in the Argus yesterday.”

  “So I understand.” Farrell eyed the man whom Melody had just unwittingly identified for him as Harley. Farrell ushered the madam to the door and locked it behind her and took a seat in a caned chair. Through a window open to the evening breeze, a farmer was sowing a distant field row, a burlap bag heavy with seed slung across one shoulder.

  Farrell said, “Your doctor is worried about you, Mr. Harley. She couldn’t find you at the hospital this morning.”

  “She?” Harley said, his voice guarded.

  “You didn’t know that your doctor is the famous lady doctor?”

  “No. I—I didn’t. I didn’t notice anything for a while.”

  “And how are you feeling now?” Farrell said. “Need to go back to the hospital?”

  Harley blinked, and Farrell waited, extending the silence until Harley said, “How are those boys?”

  Farrell had no idea where the boys were or how they were faring. “You remember rescuing them, but not who your doctor is?”

  “Saving children isn’t a thing you forget.”

 
“I bet not. They’re fine. Back with their mother. You’re quite the champion of children, aren’t you?”

  Harley leveled his gaze and shrugged, wincing as he did. It was obvious that he was in a great deal of pain, but he had his faculties about him. The intoxication of the previous night that had propelled him into confession—if indeed he had made one—was no longer a factor.

  “Since you love children so much, you must have been heartbroken when those other children died.”

  Harley blinked. “Other children?”

  “You work for Gerritt Van der Veer, don’t you? At least that’s what the paper said.”

  “I do. Yes.” Harley shifted in bed, pushing himself up against the single pillow, keeping a wary gaze on Farrell.

  “Then you must remember those two little girls, Emma and Claire O’Donnell, who disappeared in the blizzard?”

  Harley blinked again.

  “Their father, David O’Donnell, was a stevedore in Van der Veer’s yard. He died in the March storm.”

  Harley grimaced, the muscles of his jaw working. “Right. Oh, yes. O’Donnell. Sorry. Yes. We all miss him.” Harley gestured distractedly toward his neck as an excuse. “I’m not myself.”

  “It’s a funny thing to leave a hospital when you’re not feeling your best.”

  Harley shrugged and winced again.

  Farrell nodded, as if he agreed that leaving a hospital to stay in a whorehouse were a logical move. “Here’s another funny thing. Your doctor, when Emma and Claire disappeared? She bothered the precinct captain to distraction about them. Those Stipps looked everywhere for those girls. She wouldn’t believe they’d gone into the river after the blizzard. Tireless, that woman.” Farrell shook his head, as if to lament what a bother a woman of determined nature could be. “Anyway, we’re all proud of you, for taking care of those boys. Shame, though, about your house. You live in the Pastures, yes?”