Brooklyn on Fire (16 page)

M
ARY AWOKE IN
the Richmond hospital with a concerned George at her side. She was in a private room, of course, but the luxury of it didn’t help the burning sensation she felt in her back.

She sighed loudly and turned restlessly in her bed. “What’s that in my back?”

“It was a bullet. You were shot.”

“It feels like I’m being prodded with a hot poker.” She started to move some more, and George stopped her.

“You need to rest, Mary. Luckily, it didn’t hit any vital organs, and they were able to extract it without doing any further damage. But you’ve lost a lot of blood, and you had to have a transfusion.”

Mary looked alarmed, and George quickly continued. “Yes, I know it was risky, but it was the only way to save you, and it seems to have worked.” Blood transfusions were something science hadn’t perfected yet, and only about fifty percent of them were successful.

“Did you choose an appropriate bull to be my donor?” Though Mary was joking about her bullheadedness, her question wasn’t that outrageous. Scientists had been experimenting for years with transfusing animal blood to humans.

“They couldn’t find one stubborn enough. Instead, they took mine.” He showed Mary his arm, which had a bandage on it.

“I’ve always wanted blue blood. Does this mean we’re related?”

“I certainly hope not. I despise most of my relatives.”

Mary started to laugh, but it soon turned into a cough. She was still very weak and this short conversation had sapped her energy. George called the doctor in to check her, and when he was assured she was fine, he left. Mary needed to rest.

Later, George gave Mary the details of what had transpired. After Jeremy shot her, he went inside. He told his father that he was weak and not in his right mind, so Jeremy had to take action to protect him and his secret. Instead of getting the congratulations he was expecting, John Worsham had been irate.

“In my sixty-nine years, I have bamboozled, cheated, even robbed, but never once,” he shouted, “not once did I physically harm anyone. And I never ever killed a soul!”

“She couldn’t be trusted, Father. I did it for you.” Jeremy was at a complete loss. He thought he had finally done something to satisfy a father he could never seem to please.

“Then do this for me. Help me put that girl’s body in the buggy.”

Worsham quickly threw on some clothes, and when Mary’s body was in the buggy and he was at the reins, he turned to his son.

“I’ve tried for forty-three years to turn you into a man and failed. You’re on your own now. Good luck.” He felt adrenaline flowing through his veins. It reminded him of old times, and he was oddly enthused as he galloped off in the buggy with Mary.

Jeremy knew his father was going to tell the authorities what had happened. Since he had also taken the only transportation, Jeremy packed some supplies and headed off into the woods, where he figured he could get lost for a while until he could come up with a plan. Unfortunately for him, the next day he wandered too close to a black bear and her cubs, and she attacked, killing him in seconds.

John Worsham got Mary to the hospital just in time. It was almost a relief that the people of Richmond would find out he was alive. He figured his heart would probably get him before any riverboat men would at this point. Besides, he was warming to the idea of spending his last days in the town where he had lived most of his life and raised more than his share of hell.

While Mary’s adventure was unfolding, George was back at the hotel awaiting her return. His worry increased, and he eventually went outside and randomly searched the streets of Richmond, looking for her. Quickly realizing the low possibility of success, he went to the police station. They had no information about Mary. His next stop was the hospital, and he was inquiring about her at the front desk when two orderlies carried her in. Having been to hospitals many times because of his mother’s bouts with malaria, George was in very familiar territory, and he knew exactly what to do in order to assure Mary received the best care possible.

Just a few days later, while Mary was still recuperating in the hospital, she got a surprise visit from Emily Worsham. Apparently, John Worsham had notified what family he had left in Richmond of his return and the circumstances.

“My family and I want to thank you for bringing my uncle back to us. We are very grateful and have much catching up to do. And we’re all simply devastated that one of us caused your condition. Jeremy was always trouble. I remember when I was eight years old…”

Mary didn’t feel well enough yet to endure listening to Emily Worsham’s wandering conversation. She very courteously thanked Emily for visiting her and for the information that led to discovering her uncle. Mary suggested they correspond after she returned to Brooklyn.

A week later, when Mary was well enough to travel, George convinced her to go farther south with him to Asheville and see his dream being built. Mary still needed to recuperate further, but she could do it there, at his burgeoning estate, which he had decided to call Biltmore after his family’s ancestral home in Bildt, Holland. Then they would return to New York, and she could continue her detective work once she had fully healed. He knew that Mary still wanted to find out who hired Abigail Corday and, of course, who killed her. Judging from what they had just learned in Richmond, certainly Collis and Arabella Huntington were high on the list of suspects.

L
ELAND
S
TANFORD WAS
in Manhattan for both pleasure and business, after having promised to help Republican senator William Evarts plot his reelection campaign. He was staying at the renowned Fifth Avenue Hotel and had just been informed of an unexpected visitor: Collis Huntington. An assistant showed him into the living room of Stanford’s suite, then left. Stanford stood by the window overlooking Fifth Avenue. He had no desire to sit or to invite Huntington to do so. That would suggest Huntington was welcome.

“So, Collis, what brings you here?” bellowed Stanford, putting on his best jovial tone. “You’re not contemplating a run for the senate, are you?”

“You know me better than that, Leland.”

Hearing Huntington’s dark tone, Stanford rolled up the welcome mat and revealed his true, hostile feelings. “Yes, I do. Make it quick. What is it you want?”

“Just the answer to one question, then you’ll be free to pursue your politics or university business or whatever it is you’re doing in New York.”

“And that question is?”

“Someone is prying into my private affairs, affairs that concern my family. If they have the slightest bit of intelligence, they may have contacted you, hoping that you might want to divulge information due to our differences over the years.”

“I’m well aware of our sad little story, Collis. Will I be getting your question sometime in the near future?”

“Have you been contacted about such matters?”

Stanford succinctly answered, “Yes.” He strategically paused, then continued. “Now that I’ve answered your one question, I can get back to my own affairs. A pleasure as always, Collis.”

Huntington saw how much enjoyment Stanford was getting from dangling the information in front of him. He refused to give Stanford the satisfaction of begging him for more, no matter how much he may have wanted to know the details. As Huntington headed for the door, Stanford softened. It was a family matter, and family meant a lot to him. Stanford had lost his only child to typhoid when the boy was just a teenager, and not a day passed where he didn’t think of him. He had named Leland Stanford Junior University after him and was put out that it was becoming better known as just Stanford University.

“I don’t like gossip….I didn’t respond.”

Huntington stopped and turned. “Thank you, Leland.”

“The person who wrote to me was a detective. A woman. Her name was…” Stanford paused, trying to remember.

“Not necessary. I know who she is.”

As Huntington opened the door to leave, Stanford said, “God help her for committing the cardinal sin: incurring the wrath of Collis Huntington.”

As Huntington entered the hallway and closed the door, he was already planning Mary Handley’s fate. Whatever it was, he didn’t want it to be quick. He wanted her to suffer.

R
OBERT
D
AVIES HEARD
the words the lawyer was telling him, but his mind was on Abigail. He smiled when he thought of her. There was no doubt that she had been crazy, but it was mostly a fun crazy, except, of course, for the fact that it had gotten her killed. Robert felt no guilt about it. He had warned her, but she was too far gone. Yet, she
had
left him something very significant, something of great value.

Upon her death, on that very night, he felt a sadness, a depth of emotion of which he had never thought himself capable. He embraced it and cultivated it. No one doubted what he was feeling, not even the police or that lady detective. He had always secretly felt that Hamlet—the role he had always wanted to play—was beyond his abilities as an actor, and that he would never emotionally understand the scene where Hamlet grieves over Ophelia. Now he did, thanks to Abigail.

“Did you hear me?” the lawyer asked, bringing Robert back to the conversation.

“Yes, I did, sir, every word. Thank you. Thank you very much.”

“You’re a lucky man, Mr. Davies. Few receive such a generous inheritance.”

They shook hands and Robert had started to leave when something occurred to him. “I won’t be receiving it for a while, but could I take this information to the bank and get a loan?”

“I don’t see why not. With this kind of money, a lot of people will want to do business with you. If you can wait, I’ll prepare the proper papers.”

As Robert left the lawyer’s office, his head was soaring, feeling an energy he had never felt before. He could quit his job and start his own theater company: the Robert Davies Players. He liked that name. He liked it very much. And their first production would be
Hamlet
. Too bad Abigail wouldn’t be around to play Ophelia, but again, he reminded himself, he had warned her about getting too lost in her role.