Katie Rose (5 page)

“Right here, sir.” A burly policeman ambled up from the hallway, a cup of coffee in one hand and a sweet roll in the other. “Did you need something?”

“Yes.” Charles took a step closer to the man and said through gritted teeth. “Get rid of those reporters on the steps, and make sure they do not return. Someone assaulted Miss Appleton. Find the man. I want to press charges. If I come in tomorrow and those wretches are back, I am holding you personally responsible!”

The officer jumped, nearly spilling his coffee. He opened his mouth to explain. Charles did not wait for his reply but grabbed Winifred’s hand and began dragging her down the hall.

“Mr. Howe, this is ridiculous. I am fine,” she protested, but he ignored her. Taking her into his office, he whipped out his handkerchief and dipped it in water. Pushing her hands aside, he insisted on cleaning her himself. Feeling humiliated, she stood like a little girl while he scrubbed her face.

“There.” He examined her face and was satisfied. “I think I got it all. I cannot believe someone would do such a thing.” His eyes narrowed. “Winifred, perhaps we should reconsider your working here. You should not be subject to assault.”

Panic welled up inside her. He was considering terminating her! “It was just an egg! I am not at all hurt. Really, Charles, there is no sense getting into a tizzy over this.”

“What if it had been a rock or a physical attack?” Charles’s eyes blazed. “There are a lot of people against women stepping out of their roles as wives and mothers. Tensions in the city are running high, particularly with the suffragettes agitating. Things could escalate.”

“I am sure it was just a prank, nothing more,” Winifred said smoothly, surprised at the passion in his voice. “I think this incident was only for the benefit of the reporters. Usually I miss them, since I arrive early, but they must have figured out my schedule. Now that they are gone, there is no reason for anyone to bother me. Please, Charles, let us just forget the whole thing. I am certain it won’t happen again.”

“I am not so sure.” He gazed into her hazel eyes as if considering the matter deeply. “I do not suppose I can convince you to give up because of one egg, but if it happens again, we will discuss it. I certainly do not want you walking to work anymore. If you cannot take your carriage, then I will supply cab fare. I will not be moved on this, Winifred. Otherwise everything else is off.”

She nodded, relieved that he had relented about her position. “Yes, Charles,” she said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “I will be more careful.”

He looked down at the slender white hand resting on his dark coat. Something changed in his expression, and he reached up and gently touched the cheek that he’d just scrubbed. The warmth of his fingers soothed the chafed skin, and he was looking at her with such genuine concern and kindness that her throat tightened.

“You know, you look beautiful,” he said honestly, “in spite of the egg.”

His voice betrayed a kind of emotion that appeared to mystify even him. He seemed to be fighting some internal battle—and to be rapidly losing it. Winifred started to respond, but there was a discreet knock at the door. Quickly she withdrew from his embrace and self-consciously smoothed her hair. The secretary entered, carrying a coffee tray.

“Your morning coffee, Mr. Howe. Would you like the paper?” The little man held up the
Times
.

“No, thanks, Crocker. Just leave it by my desk.”

His voice held a note of frustration as the secretary carefully placed his paper. Excusing herself, Winifred quickly took her leave. As she closed the door behind her, her heart was pounding, and she felt as if she’d had a narrow escape. Charles Howe was becoming entirely too much of a distraction.

C
HARLES TOSSED
his paperwork onto the desk, unable to concentrate. Picking up his coffee, he walked toward the window and gazed down into the street below.

The reporters were gone. At least the guard had been effective in removing them. His fingers tightened
on the cup as he thought of someone pelting Winifred with an egg. Yet instead of intimidating her, as they intended, they had only strengthened her resolve.

A begrudging smile curved his lips. He was forced to admire her—the way she held her head high with dignity, even as she tried to remove the egg from her face. Something inside him broke at that, and within a few short moments, a surprising range of emotions flooded him: fury, that someone would do this to her; protectiveness; and an overwhelming need to kiss her, love her, take her into his arms, and erase all the ugliness.

Winifred Appleton was an enchantress. It would take every ounce of his willpower to remain firm and refrain from physically seducing her. If he yielded to temptation, she would accuse him of not respecting her ambition and ideals. Besides, he had promised her that he would not make her uncomfortable working here, and he intended to keep that promise.

Yet the egg incident only strengthened his resolve to see her abandon her crazy ambition. Some of the suffragettes were openly ridiculed, showered with vegetables, arrested, fined, and imprisoned. Even Miss Anthony had found herself behind bars when she attempted to vote. While most protesters stopped short of inflicting actual harm, the line had become very thin indeed.

Somehow he had to make Winifred see that this path was not for her. He realized that he shouldn’t make her apprenticeship too attractive, for then she would never give up. She had settled in nicely over the last few weeks and was getting entirely too comfortable. And he had done nothing to discourage her; if anything, he had done quite the opposite. Maybe he had gone about this all wrong. Winifred, as a youn
glaw apprentice, was convinced that she had been sent to rescue the downtrodden masses from the inequities of the legal system. He had to expose her to the realities of the law, and show her that the downtrodden, far from being noble beings in need of help, were often the dregs of the earth. Wife beaters, thieves, drunkards, and murderers—these were the ranks that filled their docket. It was time Winifred knew about that.

“C
RIMINAL JUSTICE
, crime statistics, the county trust …”

Fighting a yawn, Winifred dutifully copied each folder, trying hard to stay awake. Yet she could not stop her mind from wandering. The tender scene she had shared with Charles yesterday morning, the way he had rushed to her defense like a knight in shining armor, and the look in his eyes filled with emotion … Winifred shook off these thoughts in alarm. What on earth was the matter with her? She would never finish her work if she kept daydreaming. More than that, she sensed something below the surface, something that could cause tremendous complications if she let it.… She quickly returned to copying, forcing herself to concentrate.

In the next file, something caught her attention. It was a fairly recent complaint. Miles must have picked it up by accident, Winifred mused, for this wasn’t one of the older ones to be copied. She was about to put it aside when she noticed that the complaint was filed against a woman who had reportedly tried to kill her husband. Interested, Winifred began reading it.

The woman, a Mrs. Black, had been jailed because her husband believed that she had tried to murder him. She had given him a cup of tea to drink, and
shortly afterward, he had become violently ill. The tea had been sent out for testing. The results had not yet been returned. More than likely, nothing would be found, and the case would never go to trial. And yet …

Putting the copying aside, she headed for the research books. It couldn’t hurt just to take a peek and see if there had ever been a case like this one. As she cracked the books, keen excitement rose within her. This was her milieu, her element. It was like detective work, looking for the clues that would solve the mystery. Excited, she surrounded herself with books and began making copious notes. She would prove to Charles that she could do it, and in the process, she would prove the same thing to herself.

A short time later, as she was just finishing her research, Miles entered her office and dumped another armload of work onto her desk.

“Miss Appleton,” he said smugly, “Mr. Howe asked if you could bring the coffee into the two o’clock meeting, since Mr. Crocker is out. What are you doing?” He lifted up a sheet of her notes and tried to decipher it.

“Nothing,” Winifred said defensively, fighting the impulse to snatch the sheet back from him. “There was a complaint here that I thought I would research. Nothing important.”

“Did you?” Witherspoon looked at her as if she had lost her mind. “Miss Appleton, I thought your orders were very clear. We have a lot of copying that needs to be done. If you cannot follow instructions, I am afraid I will have to report that to Mr. Howe.”

“But it is just a simple complaint! It will probably never even go to court—”

“Then our lawyers will not have any trouble with
it, will they? I will take this with me. The coffee, Miss Appleton. Try not to forget.”

He walked off, carrying her work with him. Winifred scowled, fighting the urge to dump the files on his head. Picking up the coffeepot, she carried it down to the kitchen and washed it in the sink, then put it on the gas stove to boil. As she assembled the cups, she tried hard not to feel resentful.

But she also felt a rush of pleasure. She had found several other poisoning cases that could help. Although her accomplishment would go unnoticed, she knew that she had succeeded in one of her personal aims.

When the coffee was ready, she put the pot on the tray and carried the assemblage into the conference room. The rumble of voices fell to an awkward hush as she entered and deposited the tray on the side table. Charles gave her a brief smile, then addressed the group of men.

“Good afternoon, everyone. Let us get started. Marton, why don’t you go over the caseload?”

Winifred placed the coffeepot in the center of the table, then set the cups where they could easily be reached. She was about to leave when Charles stopped her.

“Miss Appleton, would you mind taking notes during the meeting? Our secretary is out today.” He handed her a notebook.

“Not at all,” Winifred replied, accepting the book and taking a seat. A few disgruntled noises came from the lawyers. The elderly Whitcomb played with his mustache, thoughtfully twirling it while he gazed in her direction, the younger Marton sent her a flirty smile, Witherspoon scowled at her, and Charles acted as if nothing at all unusual were happening.

Jared Marton flipped open a file. As he was about to read the cases, he paused and looked at Charles questioningly.

“Are you sure you want me to go through this?” Jared asked. “We have some sordid reports here. I am not sure this conversation is meant for mixed company.” He looked uneasily at Winifred.

“Go on, read it,” Charles said cheerfully. “I am sure Miss Appleton would not want us to act differently in her presence, would you?”

“Of course not.” She bristled. “I have read law cases for years, and I am quite familiar with detailed descriptions of crimes. Please proceed.”

Jared cleared his voice doubtfully. “We have the Lipset case scheduled to go to trial this week. That was the one where Mrs. Lipset’s husband was missing, and she was mailed his …”

“Yes?” Charles said encouragingly.

“She was mailed a box containing his ear, packed in salt. The crime was carried out by the Bowery gang, no doubt. But the evidence against them is, as always, circumstantial. It is very doubtful that we will get a conviction.”

At the description of the macabre crime, there were a few glances at Winifred, but she continued to take the notes calmly.

Charles frowned. If Winifred was upset, she certainly didn’t show it. He glared at Jared impatiently. “What else do we have?”

“Mary Sullavin, arrested again for prostitution. The Blessington burglary. The Merrick murder.…”

“What about the Battery murder? Is that not on the calendar this week?”

Jared looked appalled. “Are you certain you want to discuss that?”

“Go on,” Charles said flatly. “The case goes to court this week. We have to discuss it.”

Jared hesitated, then began to read. “ ‘Rufus Woods has been brought up on charges before, but we have never had one stick. The police call him Slip for that reason. His last victim was found near the docks. It was a particularly ghastly murder.’ ”

“Go on,” Charles said.

Jared cleared his throat. “ ‘The victim, a forty-five-year-old male, was found lying in the gutter with his throat cut from ear to ear. Apparently, he had been there for several hours, for he was as white as a sheet, most of the blood having drained from him. Rats had eaten a good part of his face before anyone arrived, and it was difficult to make a positive identification.… Even a hardened policeman threw his guts up when he saw him.’ ”

A few of the men coughed, looking directly at Winifred, all of them expecting some display of female repugnance. Such matters were discussed only in male company, since women, far too sensitive for such graphic conversation, had to be protected from the harsh realities of life. But Winifred only scribbled her notes, intent on what she was doing. The sound of the pencil scratching was the only noise in the room. As the men looked at each other in bewilderment, she finished, lifted her face, and waited for them to continue. Suddenly, a thud drew everyone’s attention to the opposite end of the table.

Edgar Whitcomb had fallen to the floor.

“He fainted!” Winifred said, astonished, seeing the empty chair and the man’s boots sticking out from beneath the table.

“Quick, get a glass of water!” Charles rushed to Whitcomb’s side, while Jared opened the window. Winifred reached for the pitcher, then brought it to
where Whitcomb was sprawled across the rug. The elderly man looked as if he were sleeping, his eyes fluttering, his skin deadly pale.

Drew McAlister shook his head, withdrawing a flask from his jacket. “Squeamish,” he muttered, helping himself to a drink instead of providing it for the victim. “He never could take a discussion that involved blood.”

Charles glared at McAlister, then slapped Whit-comb’s wrists in an attempt to get the blood flowing. Winifred handed Charles the pitcher of water, which he immediately dumped into the older man’s face. Whitcomb sputtered, then sat up like a corpse coming back to life.