Chapter 8
However much I had wished to backtrack to town after speaking with Francis, the day had grown late and I hadn’t wanted to tax Maestro with another long trek. Angus MacPhearson would still be in Newport come morning—or, rather, afternoon. I had never known the gruff boatman to show his face before noon.
Stopping, then, at the Messenger’s offices the next morning, I discovered Ethan Merriman in the newsroom, his pony cart having been repaired. All four of our newsboys had reported to work, and the press was up and running. It seemed our luck had turned for the better after all.
Ethan, however, sat at his desk with his head in his palm as Jacob thudded away at the typewriter. I knocked on the open door and stepped inside. “Why looking so glum, Ethan?”
“Good morning, Miss Cross. Just wishing I hadn’t missed the story at Crossways, of all the rotten luck. Jacob here was telling me all about it, said you gave him the byline for the article.”
“That’s right. But Ethan, you’re our society columnist,” I reminded him. “Jacob would have taken over the story anyway once the crime had been committed.”
“Society reporters have been known to overstep their bounds,” Jacob murmured without looking up or slowing the pace of his fingers on the typewriter keys.
Had he deliberately tried to bait me? I pretended not to hear the caustic comment and continued to address Ethan. “You’ve seemed happy in your position here. Has that changed?”
He gave a half shrug and lowered his hand to the desktop. “I suppose not. I do enjoy society events. I love reporting on who’s who and what they ate and wore.” Whether he willed it or not, a smile spread across his face, but then faded. “It’s just that . . . is it important?”
Had I not been studying him I might have missed the slight turn of his head, the flick of his gaze in Jacob’s general direction. Hmm. I suspected Jacob had been denigrating Ethan’s work for the Messenger, putting misgivings in his head. If we had the space, I’d have moved them to separate offices, but as cramped as we were, Ethan would have to learn to ignore the censure of others.
“It is important, Ethan,” I replied truthfully. I myself had chafed at being relegated to the society pages at the Observer and the Herald—I had wanted more—but I had never doubted the significance of those pages to the success of a newspaper or the enjoyment of its readers. “With its excesses and its blindness to the plight of ordinary people, polite society isn’t perfect. We are all well aware of that. Yet there is something about their exploits the rest of us find uplifting, that gives us hope.”
“Yes,” he said, brightening. “Makes us feel there is something more than everyday drudgery, even if we only experience it secondhand. Like . . . looking at flowers. They don’t do us much good, but they make us happy all the same, don’t they?”
“That’s it exactly, Ethan. And your enthusiasm shines in every column you write.” I spared a cold glance for Jacob. “Don’t ever doubt that.”
Happier now, Ethan opened his calendar book, where the final few events of the season populated the remaining days of August. I left them and headed into the back rooms. The rumble of the press permeated the walls and sent vibrations across the floorboards. The last run of the morning edition was just about finished, and our four newsies would soon begin hawking them on the streets and delivering them to our subscribers on their bicycles. I came to the sturdy table where twine-bundled stacks of newspapers sat waiting. As Dan Carter and his assistants brought the last stacks to be bundled, he bade me good morning and handed me a paper.
“Right from the press, Miss Cross.”
Indeed, the aroma of fresh ink wafted to my nose. I thanked him and brought the paper to my desk in the front office. There I scanned the front page. A vague trepidation creeped over me. I turned the page and continued scanning. Turned more pages, searching . . . but not finding what I sought.
On my feet in an instant, I crushed the paper between my hands and hurried down the narrow corridor to the newsroom. I didn’t bother knocking to announce my presence, but both men had heard me coming.
“Where is it?” I blurted, glaring at Jacob. “Where is the Crossways article?”
His hands stilled on the typewriter. “What?”
I thrust the newspaper out in front of me and gave it a violent shake. “The Crossways article. It’s not here. Jacob, you were supposed to have a short version in yesterday’s afternoon extra and a more in-depth article in this morning’s edition. Why isn’t it here?”
He stared blankly back. “I . . . don’t know. Are you certain?”
“Of course I’m certain.” A weight sank heavily in my stomach. “I just went over every inch of every page.”
“But I wrote them both up and left them for the typesetters. It was there, along with every other article for the edition. I swear it.”
“Jacob, it’s not here.” The newspaper collapsed between my hands. “And by the time we put it in later today, every other paper in town will have run the story. Tell me the extra went out yesterday.” Before he replied, I had whirled around and headed for the press room, where I asked the same question of Dan Carter.
“I didn’t see an extra for yesterday,” Dan said dismally.
Jacob and Ethan had followed me, and now Jacob said heatedly, “I put it in the box for John.” He spoke of our head typesetter, John Davies. “John, come in here.” When the man appeared in the doorway, Jacob pointed an accusing finger at him. “Did you check for extras yesterday afternoon, like you’re supposed to?”
“Of course I did. There was nothing there.”
My heart sank to my toes. “We were to have the lead on this. And now . . .”
Now the Messenger could boast no advantage in reporting the facts of the case. We could not claim our information had come firsthand, but rather would be believed to have been gathered as the other newspapers in town scrambled to gather their information about the case—by attempting to track down witnesses and waiting for the police to release what they had learned so far.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have taken it personally, but I did. I saw it as a personal failure. Once again I’d let Derrick down; I’d let the Messenger and our readers down.
John Davies insisted he worked directly from the articles and advertisements placed in his boxes yesterday afternoon and last night. Each box contained slats that divided the space inside according to where in the paper each article should go. If the Crossways articles had been placed in there, he claimed, he would have laid them out in type. He could not have mislaid or missed seeing Jacob’s articles. And if they had been set in type, Dan Carter would not have neglected to run them through the press.
I had three men all maintaining they had done their jobs yesterday and this morning. Could one of them be lying? If so, to what end? I’d had unwell newsies, a malfunctioning press, a reporter with a broken-down cart, and now this. As I’ve said in the past, coincidences didn’t sit well with me. I had begun to believe someone was determined to make me fail.
But I would not. I would not allow this newspaper to fail.
* * *
With no answers at hand, I turned to the business matters that needed attending. Before I left later that afternoon, I cautioned everyone to put all distractions aside and pay especially close attention to their work. Many more events like those of the past few days and we would all be without employment. Jacob regarded me sullenly, no doubt believing I held him responsible for the lost articles. If he had asked me point-blank what I believed, I don’t know how I would have replied. He had never stated outright that he resented my taking over the Messenger, but he had made his sentiments clear enough. But allowing the Messenger to fail seemed foolhardy for someone who had already lost a position at another newspaper. I ruled out confronting him at this point. I had no proof, merely an unsettling hunch.
Later, heading along Spring Street, I turned my buggy west at Washington Square and continued on to Long Wharf. I brought two hopes along with me: that I would be able to find Angus MacPhearson and, if I did, that he would be sober.
Angus hailed from Easton’s Point, the harborside neighborhood of Colonial houses and hardworking Newporters where Brady and I had grown up. A couple of years older than Brady, Angus had been something of a ringleader among the local boys, devising no small amount of mischief that had often landed my brother in hot water with my parents and sometimes even the law, though typically the police had merely wished to teach the boys a lesson. Since those days, Brady had found his way in life, while Angus lost his after a brief stint in the Navy.
The air teemed with dust from scores of carts, wagons, and carriages—including my own—and billowed around me to coat my eyes, skin, and clothing with grit. The road brought me past rough taverns like the Narragansett, small shops that catered to mariners, warehouses and shipyards, loading docks, railroad tracks, and all manner and size of vessels. Long Wharf bustled all day long and often at night as well. Though numerous other wharves lined Thames Street, Long Wharf, as the largest, was the heart of Newport’s fiscal well-being.
I had visited Angus here before, but that had been three years ago, and it occurred to me that I didn’t know if he had changed the location of his one-man business of tendering travelers back and forth between anchored vessels and the wharf. Finding him here, amid so much activity, suddenly didn’t seem plausible. Perhaps it would be better to wait and seek him at home, a one-room flat at the back of a house on the Point.
But as I eased Maestro into a wide arc to turn my carriage around, I came face-to-face with Angus. He didn’t see me and walked on past, his unkempt russet hair feathering against his shoulders. Leaning over the side of my carriage, I raised my voice above the din to call out his name. He appeared confused at first and searched the busy, dusty thoroughfare. Upon spotting me, he doubled back with a grin that revealed several missing teeth, the rest of them yellowed by drink and tobacco.
“It’s not every day a pretty lady comes calling for me. How are you, Emma?” Despite the friendly greeting, I detected something rather cagey in his blue gaze and wondered why that would be. Perhaps he’d just come from imbibing several ales at the Narragansett or other dockside establishment and thought I’d disapprove. The wind stirred his hair back from his face, revealing a purple bruise beside his right eye.
“I’m fine, thank you, Angus. I wonder if I might have a word with you.”
His height brought him almost level with me. He wrapped a hand around the top of the carriage wheel and propped a foot on a lower spoke. “No need to be so formal. What is it?”
A train whistle shrieked. “Not here, it’s too noisy. Get in.”
“Me, in that nice clean carriage? That’d be a mistake and you know it. I’ll walk, and you can tell me when you want to stop and talk about whatever’s on your mind.”
“This feels silly,” I called down to him as I guided the buggy and he strode beside me. Gazing down at him, I wondered at the life he led. Ragged clothing, few accomplishments, no family of his own, and a scarcity of money earned literally by the sweat of his back as he rowed travelers and goods back and forth across Newport Harbor. Yet he never seemed to mind his circumstances. I supposed a man with little to lose, whose needs were decidedly few, also had precious few burdens thrust on his shoulders.
Our surroundings quieted considerably as the bustle of the docks faded and Washington Square came into view. I guided Maestro to an unoccupied space along the curbstone. Angus wiped his palm on his trouser leg and handed me down from the carriage.
“What’s this about, Emma? Like I said, it’s not every day a pretty lady calls my name. Not even a pretty lady I’ve known all my life.”
Did I notice that wariness again, as if he hoped I wouldn’t ask him about a particular matter? I believed so, but I hadn’t come to beleaguer him about his lifestyle or anything else. Instead, I dug into my handbag and pulled out the picture of Brady’s father. “I understand you had a bit of an altercation at the Narragansett Tavern a few nights ago.”
His face reddened, clashing with his bright hair. “What of it? You wouldn’t understand, Emma. Men—we fight sometimes. It’s nothing. Doesn’t mean a thing. It’s just a way to let off some steam.”
“I don’t care about that, Angus. What you do is your business.” I held out the photograph. “Was this the man you fought with?”
He glanced at the image before his gaze darted away. “I don’t remember.”
“Angus, please. Look at him. Is this him? Except, this was taken years ago. He’d be almost thirty years older now.”
“Maybe. It was dark. I’d had a few rounds.”
“Angus.” His name erupted from my lips, a sharp command to cease his prevaricating.
With a deep sigh he looked again at the photograph, then took it from me. He walked a few paces away, into more direct sunlight, stopped, and stared down at it. He shook his head, not in indecision, but in what looked to me like regret. Apology.
I followed him and spoke over his shoulder. “Is this the man?”
He sighed in defeat. “I think so.”
“Did you call him Gale? Was that why he struck you?” I reached up and gently touched the bruise beside his eye.
Angus turned suddenly to face me, forcing me a step back. “I’m sorry, Emma. I didn’t mean for it to happen. But—” He handed the photograph back to me.
“Didn’t mean for what to happen? The fight?”
“No. Brady. I told him. He said he didn’t believe me, that I was lying. I’ve never seen him so mad. And ever since . . . he’s been . . . well . . .”
I shook my head in mystification. “He’s been what? What did you tell him?”
He held his arms out. “I told him his father had returned. I figured he’d want to know. And he said the damn—uh, that is—he said the strangest thing. And ever since, well, you know Brady.”
Foreboding began at my core and radiated through my extremities. “Angus, tell me what Brady said.”
“He said his father’s died twice now, and that was more than any man can take.”
“What did he mean by that?” Yet I already knew. Being faced with the possibility of his father not having died all those years ago, but instead having abandoned his family, had sent Brady tumbling over the edge of his newly respectable life.
“Angus,” I whispered, “is Brady drinking again?”
“Well, Brady never did stop drinking, Emma. Not entirely.”
I clenched my teeth in a bid for patience. “That’s not what I mean. Is he indulging the way he used to?”
While I waited for Angus’s answer, I thought of Hannah, who cared for Brady and believed in him. I thought of Uncle Cornelius, who had also believed in Brady enough to give him a chance, although he had told me his faith had been more for my benefit than my brother’s. And I thought of Brady himself, obviously grieving so much he had pulled away from me and everyone else who cared about him.
“I think you should go pay him a visit,” Angus finally said. He avoided my gaze.
I knew then it was bad.