Brooklyn on Fire (14 page)

“And what, pray tell, Mr. Vanderbilt, has my lovely daughter told you about me? Nothing scandalous, I hope.” Then she laughed, as if “scandalous” were the absolute last word that would come to mind when anyone spoke of her, especially her daughter.

At this point, Mary interceded. She knew that George was too much of a gentleman to repeat what was told to him in confidence, but she also didn’t want to make him lie.

“George, we better be going or we’ll miss our train.”

George picked up his cue like a veteran actor onstage and checked his pocket watch. “Mary, you’re right as usual. Mr. and Mrs. Handley, I want you to know that though I am quite taken with your daughter, there is nothing untoward about this trip. It’s strictly business.”

“Business, what business?” Elizabeth hadn’t meant to voice her thoughts out loud but somehow the words sprung from her mouth.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you, Mother? I’ve hired George as my assistant.”

After a few quick good-byes, Mary and George were out the door. “Confusion” was too mild a word to describe Elizabeth’s state. She was completely nonplussed.

“My daughter hires a Vanderbilt as her assistant. The sky might as well be green and the grass blue. Nothing makes sense anymore.”

She walked off, shaking her head and muttering to herself.

M
ARY HAD NOT
done much traveling. Growing up, there was just one short journey: the infamous and also fortuitous sojourn she had taken with her family and their neighbors the McNishes from Brooklyn to Long Island when she was twelve. It was infamous because on the way home she had discovered the body of a dead Frenchman whose murder she had eventually solved years later while on the Goodrich case. It was fortuitous because that was when and how she discovered her passion for detective work.

As far as other trips were concerned, the recent one she had taken to Chicago had been beyond unpleasant. Since Mary was paying for it, she had purchased a third-class ticket. It would be an understatement to describe the excursion as crowded and uncomfortable. It was brutal. There was a basic wooden bench where she was squeezed together with other passengers, almost unable to move, and their car was so close to the engine that they were on the receiving end of every bit of noise and smoke it emitted. The only convenience provided was a single filthy toilet. To avoid it, Mary had waited for a stop and had risked missing the train by running into the depot for her bathroom needs.

Her only other significant travel was during the Goodrich case. The Brooklyn Police Department had sent Mary to Philadelphia in search of the killer. They had paid for a ticket in second class, which was much roomier than third class, and in addition to that, her wooden seat had the ability to recline. It was certainly a reasonable way to travel and pleasant enough, if you hadn’t experienced first class.

When traveling, dining, or really doing anything with a Vanderbilt, there was generally only one class—the best and the finest. The train they took to Richmond had comfortable sleeping quarters and porters to serve one’s every need. It was equipped with a car from the Pullman Palace Car Company called the Delmonico, which served food that rivaled in quality the famed restaurant of the same name. During their waking hours, George had suggested their non-dining time be spent in the Ladies’ Car. It wasn’t strictly for women. Male companions could be present, but the logic behind it was that it would spare ladies from the gruff language and the smoke emanating from cigars, cigarettes, and pipes in a male-dominated car. Mary didn’t mind those things. In fact, she was guilty of tossing out a very unladylike obscenity every now and then herself. The Ladies’ Car was a little too feminine for her, but there was absolutely no chance Mary would object. With its upholstered, cushy chairs and excellent amenities, it was infinitely better than anything she had ever experienced. Besides, George was being incredibly generous and gracious. It was unthinkable for her to respond with anything but gratitude. Unlike some men, his behavior was genuine and not a sleazy attempt to buy a woman’s affections. He continually impressed Mary.

When it came to sleeping, George had arranged for separate quarters. As she lay down in her extremely comfortable bed, it occurred to her how easy it would be to get used to this lifestyle. Then thoughts of guilt washed over her consciousness, and she had trouble falling asleep. She couldn’t help wondering about the people in third class and the tortuous ride they were no doubt experiencing. There seemed such a vast contrast between rich and poor. She realized that not everyone could be rich, but it would be nice if the poor were less poor and could experience a bit more comfort in their lives.
Maybe the burgeoning union movement will do that,
she thought. That seemed to give her some peace, and she fell asleep. The next morning she met George for breakfast, and they had just finished eating when they arrived at the Richmond train station.

They hired a carriage and set out to meet Emily Worsham. As they traveled, it struck them how quickly Richmond was growing. There was building going on everywhere.

“Look, George,” Mary said. “That trolley is running on electricity.”

“Impressive. We don’t have anything like that in Manhattan.”

“I had read that they have the first electric trolley system in the United States. Poor Manhattan, so behind the times.”

“I must admit that many of our residents are apelike in their behavior. But they’re mostly bankers, industrialists, and politicians, so that doesn’t take up a large section of the population.”

“I certainly hope you’re not including the Vanderbilts in that group.”

“Mary, I know you grew up poor—”

“Not just grew up, still am.”

“True, but look what you’ve made of yourself, and I’m not referring to money.”

“Thank you, George, though I do feel I have a long way to go.”

“And that’s exactly how people who achieve greatness feel, or they wouldn’t achieve it.”

Embarrassed by George’s implication, Mary attempted to lighten the conversation. “I’m at a complete loss for words, so cherish this moment. It occurs as often as Halley’s Comet.”

George stayed serious. “Mary, I’d never be presumptuous enough to say I wish I had an upbringing like yours.”

“I hope not for your sake. If so, five more minutes with my mother would make you dearly regret you ever had that thought.”

What Mary didn’t understand was that George had something he had to get off his chest. He turned to face her, and it was apparent how earnest he was. “I grew up in a family where my grandfather did the achieving, and the rest of us are either living off his spoils or trying to add to his accomplishments. I hope to do something different. If I succeed, people will point to the money I had at my disposal. If I fail, they’ll call me the idiot rich boy who squandered his inheritance.”

Mary put her hand on his. “Maybe there is something I can impart to you from my painfully torturous and challenging childhood.”

“You forgot ‘disadvantaged.’ ”

“Yes, that too. And there is one simple fact of which I’ve had to keep reminding myself. It doesn’t matter what people think, George. It’s what you think that counts.”

George digested her words. “Thank you, Mary Handley. You always make me feel better.” He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

E
MILY
W
ORSHAM LIVED
in a section of Richmond called Shockoe Bottom. It was a mostly commercial area on the James River near the docks where ships regularly came and went. Since sailors frequented the neighborhood, many of the businesses catered to one’s basest needs. There were a multitude of bars and gambling establishments, and several houses of ill repute. As their carriage rode along, Mary was transfixed by the surroundings.

“Can you imagine, George? Arabella Huntington grew up here. The woman has more than transformed herself. Her behavior suggests she has a self-induced amnesia of her past.”

“From what I’ve seen so far, I don’t blame her.”

Emily Worsham’s house was painted gray and was small but well cared for. It had a recently mowed green lawn and a flower box across the front devoted to Virginia bluebells. It even had a white picket fence. When Emily Worsham greeted them at her door, Mary was first struck by her appearance. She was far more slight and feminine looking than Abigail Corday ever was. However, she looked to be in her late twenties, about the same age, and her accent and her mannerisms were almost identical. It occurred to Mary that Abigail Corday must have been a very fine actress, and she couldn’t help wondering what she might have accomplished if she hadn’t been murdered.

“Thank you so much for informing me of your visit, Miss Handley and Mr. Vanderbilt. I appreciated the notice, but what I really enjoyed was getting a telegram. It was my first, and I must say it provided me with some excitement.”

Mary had sent her a telegram stating when they were going to arrive, that they had a few questions, and making it perfectly clear that she expected no compensation.

“I hope it didn’t cause you any concern, Miss Worsham—”

“My name is Lancaster now. I’ve been married for almost ten years. I have no trouble getting mail under my maiden name because the postman—well, he and I have known each other since we were children. That boy gave me my first kiss.”

Apparently, Abigail Corday had either by accident or design in her portrayal landed on a personality trait of the real Emily Worsham: wandering conversation. Mary realized she would have to keep her on track or she and George were going to learn facts about her life that they had no desire to ever know.

“What I meant, Mrs. Lancaster—”

“Oh please, call me Emily. I hate bein’ that formal, don’t you, Mary? It’s okay if I call you Mary, isn’t it?”

Mary decided to abandon the topic of the telegram and get to the reason they came as soon as possible or they might never get there.

“Yes, Mary’s perfectly fine, Emily.”

“And please call me George,” George added to avoid any discussion about his name.

“That’s nice. It feels so much friendlier now, doesn’t it?”

“Much more,” Mary hastily replied. “So, Emily, about your uncle—”

“Oh, you two must think I’m an awful hostess. Would you like some lemonade or perhaps something a bit more potent?”

“That’s very kind, but no, thank you,” Mary quickly responded. “Now, your uncle. You said he was buried down here?”

“Yes, the poor man died in ’78,” Emily replied. “I was a mere teenager then. You know what they say. Time flies.”

“ ’Seventy-eight?” Mary asked. “Are you sure it was that year, 1878?” She pronounced it slowly and clearly so there could be no mistake. After all, it was eight years later than what any of the Huntingtons had told her, and 1870 was engraved on the headstone in New York.

“I’m one hundred percent, positively certain. It was the year of my Sweet Sixteen, only I never had a party because we couldn’t afford it. I was devastated, simply crushed, and…”

As Emily Worsham rambled on, Mary and George caught each other’s eye. The new date was yet another wrinkle in the case. Every new piece of information radically changed the situation. Now John Worsham not only had two different graves in two different states but also two different dates on which he had died. The confusion was multiplying. It was hard to believe what anyone said at this point, and that made Mary even more determined to get at the truth.

Several minutes later, Mary and George left with only one more pertinent fact other than the time of John Worsham’s death: he was buried in Hollywood Cemetery on Cherry Street. According to Emily, her parents, who were deceased, had never told her much about Uncle John except that he owned a faro gambling house. That was something the fake Emily Worsham had already told Mary.

Their next stop was Hollywood Cemetery, where they were directed to John Worsham’s grave. On the tombstone it read,
J. A. WORSHAM, BORN 1821, DIED 5/27/78, AGED 57 YEARS
.

“This is it,” Mary said.

“What does the ‘A’ stand for?”

“Archer. He named his son after him.”

“And yet he never knew him. That’s sad.”

“At least we may be able to provide Archer with a certain amount of closure as to how his father died.”

“What now, boss?” George asked with a combination of wryness and genuine curiosity.

“We don’t know anything about him after 1870, but I do know this isn’t the end. After what happened in New York, there’s no question that having him exhumed down here is a must. If his body is there, maybe there will be enough preserved to determine when he really did die, and whether his death was due to heart failure or something more sinister.”

Mary had very cleverly thought ahead and had brought a notarized letter from Archer Worsham Huntington granting permission to exhume his father’s body. It wasn’t easy working through the complicated bureaucracy that was put in place to discourage people from accomplishing something out of the norm, but by the end of the day, they had achieved what they had wanted: John Worsham’s body was due to be exhumed at ten o’clock the next morning.

George had gotten them two rooms at the Ballard House, a hotel on Franklin and Fourteenth Streets, and of course, they were the best two rooms available. The Ballard House wasn’t terribly luxurious, but it was certainly more so than what Mary had ever experienced in her pre-Vanderbilt days and she was still feeling pangs of guilt.