MARCH 25, 1875, THE LAST DAY OF IMMUNITY GUARANTEED BY the new kidnapping act, came and went without any developments in the case. Only when the Inquirer noted the significance of the date did it introduce the public to William Westervelt. “Some days ago, Westervelt, the brother-in-law of Mosher, the burglar who was shot and killed at Bay Ridge, Long Island, was induced to come to this city for a conference with the police authorities relative to the case. Today he occupies a cell in Moyamensing Prison, and it is reported that there is a bill of indictment against him, based, it is said, on admissions made by him in some of his statements implying a knowledge of the abduction.” The note ran at the bottom of a paragraph reviewing slow case progress, and city papers did not publish follow-up articles providing details on the indictment.
The Philadelphia Public Ledger may not have released information about Westervelt’s arrest because it was a mouthpiece for the Republican advisers. It is curious, though, that neither the Inquirer nor the Evening Bulletin mentioned the detention of a man who authorities deemed partially responsible for Charley’s disappearance. The papers may have become more judicious about printing speculation about Charley, but they hadn’t wavered from reporting other confirmed progress in the investigation around the time of Westervelt’s arrest— like the hat discovery in Trenton or the horse at Van Fleet’s stables. The only logical explanation for the omission is that journalists’ connections in the police department must not have disclosed the importance of William Westervelt. Yet confidential case information—like the content of the ransom letters—had moved fairly consistently to reporters from their sources at police headquarters. It makes sense, then, that the press didn’t know details about Westervelt because the police didn’t know.
Chief Jones, Captain Heins, and Detective Wood were the Philadelphia officers most entrenched in the investigation. Had they kept Westervelt’s information to themselves, and had they given Westervelt the incentive to keep his mouth shut in prison, then it was plausible that the public would not realize that the biggest lead in the Ross investigation was in custody in Philadelphia. The question was why. Why wouldn’t the Philadelphia police have wanted to publicize the arrest after hearing accusations of incompetence? Westervelt was clearly involved with Mosher and Douglas. This information alone could have earned public approval. Even a few details about Westervelt’s familial relationship with one of the kidnappers could have calmed parents a bit more, and made the city appear safer in the midst of Centennial plans. But for some reason, the advisers were keeping Westervelt’s story secret, and Captain Heins, who acted more independently than anybody else in the investigation, agreed with them.
So, unaware of Westervelt’s story, Philadelphia continued to turn its attention away from what was taken from it toward what was coming to it.
Visitors journeyed to the Centennial grounds through snow showers at the beginning of April. They donned their spring best for the occasions—men dressed in white suits and ladies wore high, round hats decorated with ribbons and ostrich feathers. Parading around the freshly, constructed custom house and ticket office, visitors saw gardeners preparing flower beds and pruning shrubs. Before the winter’s first storms, the head contractor had insisted upon covering the grounds with building materials like granite and bricks; his foresight prevented the ground from freezing completely, and his men had continued erecting Memorial Hall, the centerpiece of the grounds, throughout the cold weather. Once the builders laid the foundation to Horticultural Hall, a second exhibition building, the city held a week-long fund-raiser called the Bazaar of Nations at the site. There, artisans and caterers sold crafts and food, orchestras played, scholars spoke, and African-American waiters sang spirituals.
The Centennial Commission solicited proposals from photographers and continued encouraging civic groups to hold private and public fund-raisers in neighborhoods around the city—the press called these events successful, but planners were frustrated that European countries had expressed more interest in financing displays than did any of America’s states other than Pennsylvania and New Jersey. Partnering with the Pennsylvania Railroad, local businessmen organized an all-expenses-paid tour of the grounds for their colleagues in New York and New England. The visitors walked through the construction sites, commented on the diligent work of the planning committee, and noted the camaraderie of the builders. They were especially pleased to see two of the five main buildings already occupying 3,300 square feet of ground. Before the train returned the delegation to New York at 8:00 P.M., many agreed to sponsor exhibits highlighting the soil sciences, the mines, forestry, craftsmanship, education, metals, and manufactories.
May and June passed without any publicized progress in the Ross investigation. One year after Charley’s disappearance, three thousand school children participated in a concert on a makeshift stage inside Machinery Hall. Twenty-two thousand parents, neighbors, and other guests sat in the midst of international flags, streamers, and banners bearing each state’s coat of arms. Onstage, the children held flowers and wore medals inscribed with “Liberty to All Americans, July 4, 1776.”
Not only did those out-of-state businessmen who had pledged support uphold their promises, but more western states paid to reserve display space, and city financiers received funds a year overdue from the national government. The Inquirer boasted of the money flowing into Philadelphia from around the world. “Those who have been accustomed to regard her as a sort of suburb or appendage of New York … will be apt to form a different idea of her when they learn that she is a city with a population of nearly 890,000.”