Excerpt of If Two Are Dead
CHAPTER 1
Tuesday,
March 23, 1762
“Dead,
you say?” my employer spluttered.
All the hubbub in our busy office halted. It was
exactly what the man had said.
“But that’s impossible!”
“I’m afraid it must be so, Mr. Leavering,” the man
persisted, the curiosity of his Scottish accent dissipated by the substance of
his message. For a second, he and Leavering stared at each other in grim
silence.
“What on earth brings you to believe this could be Mr.
Sproul?”
“It’s—”
“Sproul is the very portrait of health—a man of
enormous vigor!”
“Mr. Leavering, I know nothing of him, but this
pamphlet was found on the man’s person.” He held out a slim, bound, new-looking
tract. Leavering grunted uneasily on seeing the spine, and he appeared
unwilling to take hold of it. The visitor turned the cover. “It was this—”
Leavering gasped on beholding the bookplate and reared
backward as if struck.
Glasby practically threw Mapes out of his chair in
order to get it behind Leavering. “Do sit down, sir!” he begged. Leavering
collapsed so heavily, I feared the chair would splinter to the floor. “Thomas,
brandy!” Glasby whispered urgently. “And, uh …” He nodded at the
dumbfounded group of clerks, agents, and carters in a frantic hint that I should
try to manage some privacy. While pouring from the decanter, I reciprocally
whispered to Mapes to clear everyone from the room.
Leavering took a swallow and coughed but stared
silently ahead, breathing huskily. “Do loosen your neckcloth, sir, I pray you!”
Glasby fussed. Red-faced, Leavering slowly obliged, taking measured sips. Given
his advancing years, his substantial girth, and the unprecedented disruption,
the uncharacteristic torpor that suddenly overtook him was not unnatural.
Glasby faced the tall, somber bringer-of-news. “I didn’t catch your name, sir?
I’m John Glasby, Mr. Leavering’s second at this office.”
“Liam McCraney, assistant to the public coroner. I’m
very sorry to …” He gestured awkwardly about the room.
“What exactly … ?”
“At six fifteen this morning, sir, the constable
reported a dead man—a gentleman by appearance—found in an alleyway near the New
Jersey ferry. It seems he must have been taken ill and gone there to lie down—”
“Into an alleyway?” I broke in incredulously.
“So it seems, um …”
“This is Thomas Dordrecht, my assistant,” Glasby
muttered.
“Your servant, sir,” I affirmed mechanically,
chagrinned by my impertinent outburst.
“To lie down?” Glasby resumed. He gulped. “There is no
suggestion, then, of …”
“Of foul play? No, no, none at all. Rest assured,
there!”
“But that makes it all the more incomprehensible! I
know Sproul well, myself, and a sturdier man of forty-eight or so you’ll—”
McCraney looked suddenly hopeful, as if he truly
wished to oblige in the matter. “Well, perhaps then … I came because we
must, of course, obtain positive identification, gentlemen. None of us knows
the man. Mr. Sproul was—er, is not from New York, I take it?”
“Castell, Leavering & Sproul is originally a
Philadelphia firm, sir. Mr. Leavering moved here three years ago to expand its
business. Castell and Sproul are his partners.”
“Mr. Sproul often visits here, then?”
“No, actually. This was … this is his first
appearance here. We …” Glasby suddenly looked lost.
“We are anticipating his arrival at any moment today,”
I furnished for him. “He wrote that he expected to reach Paulus Hook, or at
least Newark, last night, so—”
“There must be some error!” Leavering exclaimed,
suddenly revivified. He slammed his fist down on the arm of the chair. “Must
be! This cannot be Daniel Sproul!”
“All we had to go on was this book, sir. A gentleman
down at the Royal Exchange recognized the surname and directed me here.”
The connection of the book with a corpse made Mr.
Leavering blanch again, but he stood up, resolved. “We must attend to this at
once!”
“I shall go with you, of course, Mr. Leavering,”
Glasby announced.
A practical decision seemed abruptly to bring our
employer back to his usual self. “Um, no. Thank you, John, but someone
must be here if he … when he … and besides, Mr. Helden is due
presently to talk about the flour consignment. I’ll take Thomas with me.”
“You’re sure?”
“Of course. This is all a mistake! We’ll be back in
thirty minutes. Let’s be off, lad.”
Mr. Leavering grasped his walking stick, opened the
door for Mr. McCraney, and followed him out and down the stairs. I grabbed my
coat, exchanged a worried nod with Glasby, ignored the stares of Mapes and the
others, and rushed after them.
On reaching the bright sunshine of the street, Mr.
Leavering briefly looked about Peck Slip as if he had no idea where he was.
“What we must see is adjacent to the poorhouse, Mr. Leavering,” McCraney
tactfully asserted.
“Yes!” Immediately, he turned and strode off toward
the Common, having instantly calculated that walking would be more expeditious
than any form of transportation. Mr. Leavering is a tall and portly man of
sixty-four years, whose frankly ungainly appearance causes people unfamiliar
with his gentle nature to scatter from his approach, particularly when he is
urgently purposive, as now.
McCraney and I, however, dodged the crowds as we
struggled to keep up with him. When McCraney stepped in a horse’s leavings
crossing William Street, we fell further behind while he balanced on my
shoulder to clear his boot against a step. “I feared for your employer’s heart
at first, Dordrecht,” McCraney panted as we resumed our pursuit, “but I
perceive he remains capable of strenuous exertion.” Probably not a decade older
than me, he seemed impressed with Leavering’s stamina.
“He is a man of many surprises, you’ll find, but I
admit I, too, was concerned.”
McCraney cast me a glance of curiosity as we both
automatically jumped to avoid a cart that was being backed into a loading dock.
“Mr. Sproul is more than a partner to Mr. Leavering. Important as that relation
is, he is also his son-in-law.”
“Oh my!”
“Father to his only grandchildren.”
“Ah. How awful, then, if … You still fear for Mr.
Leavering, then, when it comes time to look?”
“I …” I wanted this to be a mistake every bit as
much as my superior did. “I’m glad he shall not be alone,” I mustered.
McCraney cast me an appraising glance, which I
interpreted as disparagement of my apparent youthful bravado. “It is not
necessary that you also view the body, Dordrecht. If you’d rather—”
“I was in Abercromby’s army at Ticonderoga four years
ago, Mr. McCraney,” I said plainly. “I can stomach a corpse.”
But his intuition was correct that I was not looking
forward to it.
* * *
The morgue
was located in a small outbuilding on the north edge of the Common, between the
poorhouse and the new barracks, which were now sitting desolately half-empty.
The main floor of the structure was apparently the headquarters of such
constables and night watchmen as the town could afford. We proceeded down to
the cellar, which, to my relief, had a full standing room and windows at the
level of the ground outside that permitted light and air and kept it from
smelling as foul as I’d anticipated. At the foot of the stairs was a desk with
a few chairs next to a door made of heavy timbers. McCraney dropped his hat and
the book on the desk, which I took to be his own. “Are you quite ready,
gentlemen?” he inquired considerately. “This can be—”
“Please do get along with it,” Mr. Leavering said
hoarsely.
“Of course, sir.” McCraney had to lift the door in
order to push it open. Inside was a room the size of a drawing room, walled
only by the rough stone foundation. In the middle was a table covered by a
coarse, woolen blanket with an all-too-familiar shape beneath it. Mr. Leavering
moaned briefly, as the shape clearly matched the slight and diminutive figure
of his partner. Mr. McCraney moved to the far side of the table, took hold of a
corner of the blanket, and again looked to Mr. Leavering for an indication. I
noticed my employer was trembling—something I’d never seen in nearly three
years of his employ—and I confess my own stomach was churning. McCraney pulled
the blanket down and uncovered the bust.
“Ah!” Mr. Leavering virtually shrieked, both
hands flying to his mouth. “No! No!” He abruptly turned, fled out the
door, and collapsed at McCraney’s desk, weeping profusely into his
handkerchief.
McCraney hurriedly replaced the blanket and we
followed. He observed my employer closely for a minute; then, evidently
convinced Leavering was not himself endangered, he produced a glass of water
from a sideboard and handed it to me to give to him. “All I have here,
Dordrecht,” he whispered apologetically.
I placed the glass on the desk in front of Leavering,
who was facing the wall, wracked with more emotion than I’d dreamed him capable
of. “I’m … so terribly …” Not looking backward, he emphatically waved
me away.
McCraney caught my eye, nodded me back into the larger
room, and shut the door. He put a glass of water into my own hands, and I was
surprised how much it relieved me. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Dordrecht,” he stated.
I merely nodded, trying to get a grip on my own emotion. “I take it we do have
a positive identification?”
“I …”
“Were you personally acquainted with Mr.
Sproul?” he asked.
I drew myself upright and faced him. “I … only
met the gentleman once, for a mere half-hour. It was near a year ago, when I
was on my one business trip to Philadelphia.”
“I see. But you, too, have no doubt that this is, in
fact, Mr. Sproul?” I must have looked baffled. “I have no wish to distress your
employer further … and it is often more certain if persons not as
intimately connected can make the identification.”
“Oh.”
“Ah, and I have not yet shown you this.” He lifted the
blanket slightly from the middle edge of the table, took hold of the corpse’s
right forearm, and, with difficulty, twisted it outward so I could see the top
of the hand … which instantly banished my last doubts. “Very noticeable,”
McCraney remarked of the old-but-terrifying scars on the thumb and top of the
hand.
I sighed and nodded. “Mr. Glasby once related to me
that Mr. Sproul was raised on a farm twenty miles out of Philadelphia that was
attacked by … Delawares, I think … His father was killed, and a
savage was about to brain the boy as well when his mother, having managed to
reload the musket, shot him dead. But the tomahawk dropped on his hand, and his
dexterity was impaired all his life.”
“You do make positive identification, then? We could
spare Mr. Leavering, you see. Your signature will be as adequate as his, if you
would.”
“Of course.” He produced a printed form from inside
the sideboard and filled it out. After inspecting it, I signed. Then there was
another paper, which he completed and gave me, explaining that it should be
given to the undertaker, so the body and clothes could be reclaimed. I placed
it inside my jacket. These formalities completed, we both seemed at a loss for
words.
Mr. Leavering was still sobbing inconsolably, and I
was reluctant to disturb what little privacy he had.
“Mr. McCraney, have you not got any notion what on
earth brought Mr. Sproul to this pass?”
McCraney looked relieved at the prospect of more
dispassionate discussion. “Frankly, Mr. Dordrecht, it is as baffling a matter
as any I’ve ever seen. You say the man was in good health?”
“Mr. Leavering and Mr. Glasby say so, and certainly
that was my impression a year ago.” I recollected my brief conversation with
the deceased, which had not touched on our mutual business at all. “In fact, he
and I shared the recreation of canoe-paddling—which can be rather demanding
exercise.”
“Particularly for a man of his years. Near fifty, I
believe Mr. Glasby said?”
“My understanding, yes.”
“Looks considerably younger. Hair’s barely touched
with gray. And his face is … remarkably composed for an individual
suddenly overtaken.”
“How so, sir?”
“A man suddenly stricken with a fatal apoplexy or
asphyxiation or befouled food usually expires with an expression of great pain
or alarm on his face. Not to mention vomit on his person. I hope I’m not
distressing you?”
Had I been as close to Sproul as Mr. Leavering, I
daresay he would have been, but my curiosity was now regaining the fore. “No, sir.”
“Whereas Mr. Sproul appears perfectly calm, indeed
asleep, and his corpus was found to be clean.” A thought struck him. “The book
suggests he was of the Quaker persuasion. Is that so?”
“Oh, very definitely. But not at all a zealot. His
father-in-law would not have loved him if he were a zealot.”
“I ask only because there was no hat found. His
garments are what you’d expect of a Quaker—well-made, but plain cloth without
embellishment—but don’t they always wear those odd, flat hats?”
I tried to think of the men I’d seen leaving the
Friends’ Meeting House on Crown Street. “I’m not sure it’s required of them,
Mr. McCraney, but come to think of it, Mr. Sproul was wearing just such a hat
during the one interview I had with him.”
“Strange. You’d think a man traveling, particularly,
would want his hat?”
“Aye … Surely there must be something to
explain this calamity?”
“Well, can you bear looking again? I was planning to
wait until you were gone, but …”
We moved back to the table. “Can you at least estimate
when Mr. Sproul was deceased?” I asked, blurting a new thought. “He was
found at six fifteen? That’s nearly four hours ago now.”
McCraney pulled the blanket down to the waist, and I
forced myself to look as if through his eyes—the eyes of one who had no
personal relation to the corpse. It was hard not to think ill of oneself for so
purposely invading another’s privacy. Yet Mr. Sproul’s fine features were as
serene as if an undertaker had already prettified him. I jumped, however, when
McCraney pulled an eyelid open to examine the eyeball. “Sorry!” Finding nothing
to remark, McCraney attempted to open the jaw—Mr. Sproul’s lips were parted,
but the mouth was nearly closed—but soon gave up. “Rigor mortis is in
full force, here. I think he must have yielded up the ghost earlier in the
night, but I’ve really no idea when exactly.”
“Uh huh.”
“Can you help me turn him up on his side?” He pushed
as I pulled. I had to banish grim memories of handling the dead and wounded
during my stint in a provincial regiment. McCraney examined the back and legs.
His nether underlinen had been left on him; all I noted was that it was
unsoiled. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” We settled it—him—back down,
and shook our heads. “I wondered if perhaps he was struck by lightning …
but my understanding is that the victims always have burn marks on their skin
somewhere.”
“And there was no storm last night.”
“Grasping at straws!”
“Ah! Actually, Mr. McCraney, correct me if I’m wrong,
but I did handle corpses up north, and … Does this body not strike you as
unusually cold to the touch?”
McCraney looked a trifle surprised, but immediately
pressed his palm onto the corpse’s midriff. “It’s not a warm day, Mr.
Dordrecht,” he said cautiously.
“Aye, but for the first week of spring, it’s blessedly
pleasant.”
“That’s so.” He pressed his palm back onto his own
forehead, perplexed. “I know: we’ll compare him with the other one!” As he
moved toward the far wall, I realized with a start that the dark heap of rags
I’d barely noticed on the floor against the wall … was another corpse.
“This one came in just an hour after Mr. Sproul,” McCraney said almost
cheerfully. “I was just about to walk out in pursuit of kinfolk of Mr. Sproul
when Jennet brought this bravo in.” He squatted down, grasped the
blanket, then checked himself. “Oh. This fellow’s not as composed a sight, Mr.
Dordrecht!”
I gulped. “Very well.”
He casually pulled the blanket back, revealing the
snarling and bloodied face of a thickset man not much older than me, with wild
hair, a fortnight’s stubble, a deep, old scar across the forehead … and
numerous holes in his filthy shirt surrounded by dried blood. “No question what
did in this lout!” McCraney said, opening the shirt to put his palm directly on
the chest. “Hmph!” he grunted. He stood up, walked back to the table,
felt Sproul’s chest again, and repeated the action on the stabbing victim. “I
can’t imagine why, but it does seem to me that this one is not as cold
as Mr. Sproul.”
“Where and when was this one found?”
“What did Jennet say? He was spotted on the Hudson
riverbank just north of town, shortly after dawn, by a workman on the Greenwich
road. But no one called the constable until somewhat later.”
“A knife fight, do you suppose?”
“Could be. But they know who this one is, at least.
He’s spent many a night as a guest of the city fathers—the jail, not the
poorhouse.” He attempted to manipulate the corpse’s arm, but found it
resistant. “Probably been dead since well before dawn too. But I … I can’t
explain why there should appear to be a difference in body warmth, Mr.
Dordrecht.”
Just then, there was a commotion outside that brought
a fresh spate of weeping from Mr. Leavering. Another voice was heard.
“A woman?” McCraney asked. He automatically
straightened his neckcloth, and then thought to cover the two corpses again.
I recognized the voice with warm relief. “Mr. Glasby’s
wife,” I explained, “a great friend of the Leaverings.” There was no reason to
add that Adelie Chapman Glasby was also a great friend to me. We were about to
open the door when I realized that she, too, was in tears. I turned back to the
assistant coroner and cleared my throat. “This constable, Jennet? I might want
to talk to him. It’s all just … so peculiar.”
“I don’t know what help Jennet could be to you, Mr.
Dordrecht. I’m afraid his mental acumen is naught to speak of, although he’s at
least one of the honest ones. But his shift is from midnight to noon, so you’ll
find him just upstairs daily at midday, when he reports in.”
“I see. Thank you. And … you’ve been very
helpful.”
“Not an easy matter for anyone,” McCraney said
modestly. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed, striking his palm against his forehead.
“His purse, his effects!” He rushed to unlock a cabinet opposite the door, from
which he extracted a leather coin purse, the contents of which he spilled out
onto the sideboard. At his request, I counted up the score of coins, which
totaled two pounds, eight shillings, sixpence—substantial proof that Mr. Sproul
had not been molested either before or after his demise. “Could you bring the
clothes over, please?” he requested, nodding at a table in the corner and
pulling out an inventory sheet.
I moved to collect the garments, wondering how
severely affected my own reason must be, given that I’d not previously noticed
them and, worse, not thought to inquire about them. But I’d not taken two steps
back when I was stopped cold. “Mr. McCraney! These garments are reeking of
liquor! Of rum!”
McCraney turned to me, quill in hand, looking
perfectly stunned. “But that’s …” He met me in the center of the room,
lifted the bundle to his nose … and gagged. He absently set them back in
my arms. “I … I don’t see … There’s no trace of alcohol on his
person, Mr. Dordrecht.”
“You’re certain? But how could—”
“Perfectly certain. I always check for that.”
“Surely you must have noticed when you removed the
clothes for the examination?”
McCraney looked ill with embarrassment. “The slave
does that,” he said. “Given the absence of wounds on the body, I barely even
looked at his clothes.”
“How could there be this much of spirits on the
clothes, and yet no trace on the man? None on his undergarments!”
“Well, I can hardly say, but I dare not be squeamish
about offenses to my olfactory sense, Mr. Dordrecht, I make a point … If
you can stomach it, I suggest you compare the bravo to Mr. Sproul, in
that regard.”
Though greatly tempted to take him at his word, I was
now just dubious enough of McCraney’s abilities to feel compelled to make my
own inspection. Stifling my repugnance, I knelt beside the wild fellow’s
corpse, pulled back the blanket, and inhaled next to his mouth. It was quite
foul, but there was one predominant odor. “Rum!”
“Aye,” McCraney said. “The bane of this city, Mr.
Dordrecht!”
I summoned more courage and repeated the effort on Mr.
Sproul’s corpse … and detected nothing.
“I doubt Mr. Sproul ever even indulged in tobacco,”
McCraney observed.
I tried again, and again noticed nothing. “I recollect
Mr. Glasby remarking as much once,” I said, glad to replace the cover. “And it
was common knowledge that he never drank. But how … ?”
“I can only suppose the liquor was spilled on him in
some accident.”
“Which … may have occurred after his decease, as
well as before?”
McCraney shrugged. “That’s as plausible as anything.”
I sighed heavily, rather exhausted by the accumulation
of imponderables. McCraney completed the inventory, and I signed it.
The voices outside were calmer.
I opened the door and heard Mr. Leavering moaning,
“How am I ever going to tell her?” He was still facing the wall, shaking his
head.
Adelie Glasby, one hand on his shoulder, turned toward
me, her handsome face stricken. “Is there any—” she mouthed.
Doubt, I
knew she meant. I shook my head and gestured to indicate the scars on the corpse’s
hand.
“Oh dear heaven!” she breathed. She looked back at
Leavering. “Does he need to stay here?” she said softly, asking both McCraney
and myself.
“No ma’am,” McCraney answered. “Mr. Dordrecht’s
handled all the immediate matters. Does he live far away?”
“Hanover Square,” I asserted.
“We have a wagon outside. I’ll have the slave drive
you home.”
“That would be most kind, sir,” Mrs. Glasby said
warmly.
McCraney ran up the steps to make arrangements, and
Mrs. Glasby and I began cajoling Mr. Leavering into walking out to the street.
It took upward of ten minutes to get him into the wagon with her beside him.
Even in the wagon, Mr. Leavering kept his face buried in his hands. It was
horrible to see a man of such fortitude and enterprise—I rather hero-worshipped
him—brought so fearfully low. I gave the slave a tuppence, and gave the purse
to Mrs. Glasby. “What happened?” she whispered.
“They don’t really know, Adelie,” I said, having long
before been excused the presumption of informal address. “I’m at a loss too.
I … If you need me, I should go back to the office.”
Leavering moaned, and she turned to comfort him. I
nodded to the slave, and finally they were off.
I was fifty paces on my return, when I heard McCraney
calling my name. He ran toward me, waving the very book that had first led him
to our office. “It fell onto the floor,” he explained breathlessly.
“Ah! Thank you yet again,” I said, taking it and
waving farewell.
He touched my elbow. “Have I seen that extraordinary woman
somewhere before?” he asked.
I smiled. Mrs. Glasby certainly does make a strong,
positive impression. “You may have, Mr. McCraney. She is possessed of a fine
singing voice and has several times appeared in concert at Trinity Church,
among other places.” Absently, I gestured southward with the book, as if every
New Yorker did not know perfectly well where Trinity was.
Something flew out of the pages, startling both of us.
I bent over and picked up—four playing cards … of an unusual design that
struck me as possibly foreign. Mystified, I turned them over several times
before stuffing them back into the book.
“I thought Quakers disdained playing with cards?”
McCraney said.
I could only shrug and shake his hand as we parted
again.
* * *
My
supervisor and patron, John Glasby, was horrified when I confirmed what he’d
surmised from our extended absence—that McCraney’s corpse was in fact Mr.
Sproul—but he dutifully managed to preserve his outward manly composure.
“Adelie’s gone back to the house with Benjamin?”
“Aye. Thank you for sending her. Her arrival was a
great solace to us both. They should be home by now, and I expect they’ve
broken the news to Mrs. Leavering.”
“Sproul dead!” Glasby exclaimed breathlessly, his face
slack. “I simply can’t … can’t …”
I shrugged helplessly.
“And this man, the coroner, has no idea what
caused it?”
“He said it would probably be ruled a misadventure.
All that can be observed for certain is that his heart ceased beating.” Glasby
sat heavily on his desk. “And if that’s not implausible enough, his coat was
saturated with rum.”
“Rum! Impossible! Sproul was adamant in—”
“I know, John, I know. But there it is.” We sat
speechless for a minute, no consoling phrase coming to mind.
Finally, Glasby shook his head, sighed, and stood.
“Well! We’ve got to decide what to do here. I’d like to set you and Mapes in
charge for the rest of the day, Thomas. I think I should go to the Leaverings’
directly, in case I can be of any assistance. Helden’s straightened out, so you
needn’t worry about that.”
I handed him the form for the undertaker. “Benjamin
Leavering is not his usual self,” I asserted.
“No doubt. I can’t imagine what this will do to him.
We should be closed, tomorrow, Thomas, for at least one day—a show of respect.
The man was a partner of the firm.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you handle all the staff, then? Oh, and get some
crepe for the door? And post a notice?”
“Of course. Would it be appropriate for me to come
over after work?”
“I’m sure. If they’re indisposed, they’ll be frank enough
to tell you.”
As Glasby collected his effects, summoned, and spoke
to Mapes, I resolved to raise a matter of purely personal concern. I caught him
at the door. “I’m sorry to be so forward, Mr. Glasby, but … do you imagine
this event will change the plan to have me voyage with the Dorothy C.?”
I was already entered as the supercargo on her next voyage to Santo Domingo in
the Caribbean. It would be my first international business trip—my first ocean
trip—and I’d been anticipating it for over a year.
Glasby looked blank for just a second. “Ah, I don’t
know, Thomas. Shouldn’t think so, although … with one partner dead and
another incapacitated by grief … Who knows how long it’ll last? He and
Mrs. Leavering will travel back to Philadelphia, I feel sure of that,
but … I know how much you want to go, but … it’s too soon to decide
that.” He knew as well as I the ship would be laden and ready within a week.
“If Mr. Leavering can spare a moment to think about the business, I promise
I’ll ask him. Certainly, Helden’s flour will have to go, one way or another.”
He straightened his hat and departed.
I gritted my teeth, almost ashamed to contemplate the
pettiness of my hopes when compared to the turmoil facing the Leavering and
Sproul families, but it would be a bitter disappointment if this tragedy were
to prevent me from sailing.
There was no point in fretting it. I threw myself into
the tasks at hand. When the church bells struck twelve, I recalled that I’d
contemplated stepping out to see if the constable McCraney had named might
alleviate some of my perplexity. Not possible. Perhaps the morrow would offer a
better opportunity.
* * *
An
extraordinary, but very pleasant friendship had developed since the fall of
1759, when I had been taken on as a de facto, though not a legally-bound
apprentice by Castell, Leavering & Sproul, between Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin
Leavering, Mr. and Mrs. John Glasby, my eccentric cousin Charles Cooper, and
myself. Neither the Leaverings nor the Glasbys had any family in the city, and
Charles and I were as yet unmarried and unencumbered. Though separated by
decades in age, we six found ourselves largely harmonious in sensibility,
interests, and opinion. I, the youngest of them, felt enormously privileged to
be included in their supper parties, discussions, and excursions—blessings over
and above my opportunity to learn the lucrative and challenging business of
importing and exporting goods by ship.
I therefore had no hesitation in presenting myself
early that evening at their handsome home on fashionable Hanover Square, in the
East Ward, to offer my condolences. Mr. Glasby met me at the door. “Ah,
Thomas!” he said softly. “You just missed your cousin. All settled at the
office?” I nodded affirmatively. “Very good. Mr. Leavering took to his bed
immediately on his arrival here, but Mrs. Leavering’s bearing up, despite the
awful shock of it. Adelie and I have done what we could, but it’s a sad, sad
household.”
“Ah. I should like to pay my respects.”
“Yes, yes, come in, of course.”
Hermione Leavering was, like her husband, a large,
rotund, and plain person of some three score years. If anything, however, she
was usually even more gentle, bright, candid, and jolly of disposition. Since
moving to New York, she had thrown herself into some of the charitable
endeavors that have supporting women’s auxiliaries, making many friends—several
of whom, having seen the tokens of mourning I had posted on our office door,
had apparently already visited to extend their sympathies. Mrs. Glasby, sitting
next to her in the drawing room, rose upon seeing me and encouraged me to take
the seat while she fetched me a glass of cider.
“Thomas, my good lad. Thank you for coming!”
Though she was able to get the words out, I could
sense that she was still reeling from the blow. “Please accept my profoundest
sympathy, Mrs. Leavering.”
“Thank you, Thomas, I …” She clutched my forearm.
“Thomas, I understand it was you who … at the coroner … Benjamin was
so overwrought! Is there any, the slightest, doubt that …”
I had to look away before facing her. “Dear madam, I
grieve to tell you, there may be others whose comely face and figure might be
confused with his, but … the scars on the hand were not mistakable.”
“The right hand?” she demanded.
“Aye, ma’am, the right.”
She clutched a handkerchief to her mouth with both
hands for half a minute, struggling to restrain an outburst of tears. I fear I
had just extinguished a last ray of hope. “Oh, I wasn’t really dreaming
that … We have already posted a letter to my daughter. The hardest thing I
have ever written! Adelie had to transcribe it for me, I couldn’t hold the pen!
It’s all so unfair, so unjust! If it wasn’t blasphemy, one would … We—none
of us—even have the slightest inkling what Daniel was doing, coming to New York.
He’d written us to expect him, but … Evelyn will presently turn forty, but
he need hardly have traveled here to arrange a celebration. In March,
for heaven’s sake! No one travels in March when it’s not necessary!” She was
not normally a babbler, and she shortly caught herself. Mrs. Glasby handed her
a small glass of brandy while her husband added a log to the fire.
It seemed a not inappropriate moment to change the
subject. “I have to return this object to you, ma’am,” I said, producing the
book, “which was inadvertently separated from his purse and effects at the
coroner’s.”
“Very odd of Daniel to travel with only two
pounds!” she exclaimed. “Nothing makes any sense!” This thought took me aback.
Were I to carry two pounds eight and six in my purse, I’d think myself quite
flush; but on second consideration, Mr. Sproul was a well-to-do businessman in
the middle of a trip that would have to last at least a week … “I’m sorry,
my dear. The book?” I put it in her hands. She winced on beholding the ex
libris. “Ah! We had Mr. Franklin—Doctor Franklin—print these up as a
Christmas present, oh, fifteen years ago.” She turned to the title page.
Despite my customary infatuation with books, I’d not ventured so far, being
greatly busied at the office. It was a volume by the Quaker minister John
Woolman—widely regarded in New York City as an obstreperous madman—entitled Some
Considerations on Keeping Negroes, Part Second. “Oh, of course,” Mrs.
Leavering said mildly. “Daniel thought the world of this gentleman, and this is
just published. It was Daniel, you know, who persuaded Benjamin to manumit his
three slaves before we moved here. That’s not even legal in this province.
Daniel could be very convincing!” Glasby nodded sadly. Mrs. Leavering
absently began to read the book.
I cleared my throat, a recalled curiosity getting the
better of me. “If I may, ma’am,” I said, taking the book again and riffling its
pages, “I wonder if you’ve any idea how these came to be stuffed inside?”
The sight of the playing cards did not seem to disturb
her at all—though both Mr. and Mrs. Glasby’s eyes widened with surprise. “Hmpf,”
she grunted, amused. “Well, we all have feet of clay, you know! If my dear
son-in-law had a peccadillo, it was cards. He just loved to play card
games. The other Quakers were most disapproving. Even my daughter was most
disapproving! But he was very sociable, and he found it agreeable and relaxing,
so I thought, wherever was the harm, eh?”
“That … couldn’t have anything to do with there
being only two pounds in his purse?” Glasby asked tentatively.
“Oh no! Daniel was emphatic that he never ventured
more than a penny a card, though it sometimes irked his playing partners. He
said he was flayed for risking too much on the one hand, and not enough on the
other!”
“He certainly knew his own mind!” Mrs. Glasby said
admiringly.
“Oh yes! Well, thank you, Thomas. These must belong to
a deck they have at home. I’ll give them to Evelyn.”
I knew a little about cards. “They seem to be from a
continental set,” I ventured. “These are the four Varlets, not Jacks.
Probably pulled out for a game of Whist.”
“Really? Curious! Are you a regular player, then?”
“Oh no, ma’am, but you may recall, my family owns a
tavern over in Kings County. And tavern-keepers always maintain a deck or two for
the amusement of their clientele.”
Mrs. Leavering’s eyes were glazing over. “I think it’s
time we should leave our hostess alone, gentlemen,” Mrs. Glasby said.
The lady whimpered slightly, but did not protest the
idea. “All the arrangements are made, ma’am,” Mr. Glasby said gently. “Adelie
and I will be back at eight in the morning to do what we can. The weather looks
to hold, so I thought it would be easier to sail to Perth Amboy and go overland
from there. Happily one of our own coastal boats—the Janie, Captain
Ford—can oblige us. Even has a reasonably comfortable cabin. Barring the
unforeseen, you should be in New Brunswick tomorrow night, and Philadelphia by
Friday Noon at the latest.”
“Oh, that’s good. And the, uh—”
“The undertaker will bring the casket directly to Peck
Slip by eight thirty. High water will be at nine thirty.”
“Ah. Thank you all so much for everything.”
Under a lighted tavern sign at the corner of Nassau
Street, I bade goodnight to Adelie and John Glasby. “I don’t know whether the
inexplicability of his death makes it harder or easier to bear,” Adelie sighed.
“On the one hand, you have no one and nothing to blame, so you can concentrate
on simple grief, but—”
“But on the other hand,” John continued for her, “it’s
just maddening that you can’t explain it. Can’t begin to explain it!”
“It nags so at you!” she concluded with a shrug.
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