Emily sat behind the heavy black typewriting machine, hands in her lap, listening to yet another lecture. All around her, the other students were typing industriously, almost drowning out the sound of commerce on the street one floor below the Pittman School.
Apparently she had been wrong when she told Clara that Miss Richards wouldn’t question her.
“There is already reluctance to hire women typewriters,” Miss Richards said in a forceful undertone. “You are one of the pioneers. If you don’t set a good example, you are hurting not only your own career but those of the women who would follow after you. Pioneers can’t afford the luxury of feeling unwell each month.”
Emily cast down her eyes so Miss Richards could not see the expression in them.
She’d begun to question her plan of becoming an assistant in someone’s office. The idea of spending her days following a rigid routine, recording and transcribing someone else’s thoughts, was stifling. And it might not be her only way to be part of the business world after all.
Perhaps she could become a reporter like Mr. O’Hearn. It was true there were very few women reporters, but Mrs. McLagan was a reporter as well as being the manager of the Daily World. There was no reason she couldn’t be a reporter too.
Her father would argue the point, of course. He was already worried by her desire to engage in trade. In his eyes, the business world was no place for a lady. But given Papa’s restricted definition of a lady, Emily had long been sure that was the last thing she wanted to be.
In fact, it was probably a good thing her engagement to Granville wasn’t real. His wife, when he eventually chose her, needed to be every inch a lady, someone who’d never even consider taking typewriting lessons. So why did that thought make her hands clench?
“You need to be committed,” Miss Richards finished.
“I’m sorry. I’ll try to do better.”
“I know you will,” Miss Richards said, patting her shoulder. “It isn’t easy, but I know you have the persistence to do well.”
Her kindness made Emily feel guilty, and she gave the woman a weak smile. Her teacher walked on, leaving Emily to wrestle with the typing exercises she’d missed in the last few days.
As her fingers flew, her mind was equally busy. Granville hadn’t settled for a career that stifled him. Why should she? She was enjoying the challenge of searching for Mary.
Could that become an option for her? She’d love to work with Granville and Mr. Scott as a detective, or perhaps as a detective’s assistant, since she didn’t think she’d ever heard of a woman detective.
Still, there was no real reason a detective had to be a man. All she had to do was convince Granville of that fact.
It was a new century and it was time for things to change. Surely he would see that? After all, he was an English aristocrat working as a detective in the colonies; it wasn’t like he was a stickler for the old ways.
Thinking about Granville brought back her worries as to how he was faring in Denver, and whether they’d found little Sarah. Would it be dangerous for him?
“Oh, drat it,” she muttered as a clump of keys stuck together again.
“Miss Turner?”
Emily jumped. She’d been concentrating so hard she hadn’t heard Miss Richards come up behind her again. Now what had she done? “Yes?”
“A message for you.”
Emily opened it, scanned the few lines. O’Hearn had some information he thought she’d want to hear immediately. Had something happened to Granville?
Emily stood up and shook out her skirts. “My mother is ill. I must go,” she said, the words out of her mouth before she’d even thought what to say.
“Of course. I hope it isn’t serious,” Miss Richards was saying, standing aside to let her pass.
Emily hoped so too.
“You got me out of class to tell me you’ve tracked down Mr. Morgan’s mother?” Emily asked Tim O’Hearn in a fierce undertone. She was glad to see he looked even more uncomfortable than usual, sitting at the small table set for high tea.
Much as she enjoyed the occasional visit to Stroh’s Tearoom, it was becoming far too frequent a haunt. She was getting tired of the attention it drew from some of her mother’s friends, who were fond of the place, and the little buzz of gossip that seemed to follow in her wake.
Not to mention the questions she had to dodge from her mother, who was alert for any sign that she was not serious about what she called “Emily’s typewriting nonsense.”
“I thought you’d want to know,” O’Hearn said.
“You thought it would be good for your story, you mean.” She sipped her tea and gave him a social smile, just to keep the gossips quiet.
He looked chagrined. “She’ll more readily talk to you. And it’s to help Granville, after all.
“I don’t see how.”
Clara, who had been watching them, felt the need to intervene. “Now Emily, you know you were looking for information on Mr. Morgan.”
“Only as a route to Mary Pearson. We’ve learned all we can there.”
“I don’t agree,” O’Hearn broke in. “I think it most significant that he was murdered after you began looking for her.”
Emily went pale. “Do you think my questions are responsible for Mr. Morgan’s death?”
Tim O’Hearn took a hasty sip of tea. “No, no. I’m not saying that at all. I’m simply emphasizing that these things may be related. In fact, I suspect that Morgan’s murderers are the same crew who’ve been after Granville.”
Clara threw a quick glance at Emily’s drawn face, then leaned towards O’Hearn. “What makes you think so? And how would they be related?”
“I did a little research into our Mr. Morgan. His father was quite a prominent photographer before his untimely death, worked with all the society ladies, doing portraits and such.”
“Then why would he have taken the photo of Mary Pearson, who for the last five years was a maid for Mrs. Raynor? And how could she have afforded him?” asked Emily, intrigued despite her determination not to be drawn into his need for a story.
“Exactly what I asked myself. Especially when I discovered that quite a number of photos of the Raynor clan are credited to Morgan, Sr.”
“You think Mrs. Raynor paid for the portrait? But…” Emily began, her voice tailing off as her mind darted from one conclusion to the next. “If she valued her that much, why would Mary have left so abruptly? And surely Mrs. Raynor must know where she went. So why didn’t she tell us?”
“Mrs. Raynor might have been protecting Mary,” Clara said. “Think about it. If Mrs. Raynor paid for the portrait, wouldn’t it have been her address that Mr. Morgan had on file? Why would Mrs. Anders go to such lengths to give us the wrong information?”
“If the two of you worked at the World, you’d beat me out of too many headlines,” O’Hearn.
Emily gave him a speculative look. “Do you think your editor would consider…?”
“Your father would never allow it,” Clara said.
O’Hearn just shook his head.
Emily wasn’t giving up that easily, not when Mr. O’Hearn had brought the subject up himself. But now was not the time.
“Will you come with me to speak with Morgan’s mother?” O’Hearn was asking. “I think she may speak more readily to the two of you than she will to me.”
“Of course we’ll come,” Clara said. “Won’t we, Emily?”
Emily stood beside Clara on the scrubbed stoop of the careworn little house on Seventh Avenue, hoping there would be an answer to O’Hearn’s confident knock. Finally the door screeched open.
The woman facing them had thin cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. She hid behind the half opened door, staring at them in horror when O’Hearn identified himself as a reporter for the World.
Emily gave O’Hearn a look, then stepped forward so the woman could see her clearly. “Mrs. Morgan? I’m so sorry for your loss. I hate to bother you at such a time, but we haven’t much time. We’re looking for a woman your husband once photographed. Her life may be at risk, and your information could save it.”
The door wavered open another inch.
Emily stepped forward and held up the photo. “Do you recognize her?”
“Perhaps.” Lines deepened around the woman’s eyes as she peered at the photo, then a shaky hand reached out.
“May we come in?” Emily asked.
“Better not.” The voice was soft but the tone was firm. “The photo?”
With a mental shrug, Emily passed it to her. She hoped it would not be the last she’d see of it, but they needed information.
“Mary Pearson.”
“You recognize her?”
“She worked for the Raynors in New Westminster for years. Mrs. Raynor herself requested this photo be taken. My husband couldn’t believe it.”
“Why not?”
“The girl was a thief.”
“A thief?” It was O’Hearn’s voice, and out of the side of her eye Emily could see him scribbling frantically in his notebook.
She was pleased to see Clara poke him in the side, and hoped he’d take the hint. What was needed here was back stoop gossip, not a reporter’s interrogation.
“Oh?”
“The Raynors wouldn’t ever believe it of her, of course, felt sorry for her, with her ma dead and her pa off chasing Klondike gold. But there was no getting around that things kept vanishing from that house.”
Emily wasn’t quite sure which tidbit of information to ask about first, but she knew she had to play this just right, or the door would close in their face. “Things went missing?”
“Bits of silver, trinkets, a gold thimble.”
“Who did they suspect?”
“Everyone for a time. Eventually, they settled on my husband. Ruined his business. He died from the shame of it. And now it’s killed my son.” Her voice was bitter and her eyes burned in her sallow face.
Beside her, Emily sensed O’Hearn stir, but he subsided without saying anything. “I am truly sorry for your loss, and for disturbing you at such a time, but can you tell me anything of what happened to the girl?”
“She stayed on, never a whisper against her. I had to leave town and the little liar stayed on.”
“She’s not there any longer,” O’Hearn said.
“Do you know where she went?” Emily asked quickly. “I know you don’t live there any longer, but I hoped you might have heard.”
“Course I heard. She left with her uncle, didn’t she? Him as came back with stories of gold and making her rich.”
“And her uncle? Is his name Pearson too?” O’Hearn asked. It earned him a glare.
“How would I know?” Mrs. Morgan said, and slammed the door.