Words Spoken True: A Novel Read online

  “A woman at any rate, my good sir, and I do hope I’ve not come at a bad time.” Her eyes touched on his cluttered desk.

  Blake scrambled to his feet to properly receive her. “No, of course not, madam. Please do have a chair, such as it is.” He moved a pile of papers and dusted off the seat of the chair with his forearm before he presented it for Grace’s use.

  “Don’t put yourself to any bother, Mr. Garrett. I assure you I have sat on worse.” She smiled as she sat down, settled her skirts, and allowed her lace shawl to drop off her shoulders. The little woman looked even smaller than Blake remembered as she perched primly in the straight wooden chair and looked over her shoulder at the press in the room behind them. In her lap she carefully held a small package.

  “Newspaper offices are such grand places,” she said before Blake could ask the nature of her visit. “I’ve thought so ever since I first visited the Tribune offices years ago. I’d dealt with words all my life as a reader, you know, and then a teacher, but I’d never imagined the excitement of churning them out on newsprint.”

  “A lot of it is merely hard work.”

  “A lot of nearly everything is merely hard work.” Grace’s eyes came back to rest on Blake’s face. “But to give life the proper meaning, we must make sure it’s work that has a purpose.”

  “I intend for the Herald to be a service to the community.”

  “I have no doubt of that, Mr. Garrett.” Again a smile lit up her small, angular face.

  “How may I be of service to you this morning, Mrs. Compton?”

  “Well, sir, I’ve never been one to wait too long on anyone, so when you didn’t show up on my doorstep for your promised bread and cheese, I brought it to you.” She held out the package. “Actually not bread and cheese, but a few tea cakes. While they cannot compare to Mr. Silverman’s confections down the street, I do promise they won’t break a tooth.”

  With a laugh, Blake took the package, tore it open, and pulled out one of the cookies. “Won’t you join me?” He held the package out toward her.

  “Oh no, I ate quite more than my share while baking them.”

  He chewed slowly, knowing the cookies were not free. He’d read the woman’s pieces in the Tribune. Well written, to the point, but totally out of step with the accepted thinking in the city. Most of the city’s finer citizens felt owning slaves a divine right and did not welcome an abolitionist view even in a short letter buried on the back page. As for the rights of women, no one anywhere was giving that cause much credence.

  That aside, Blake liked the little woman in front of him and the way she was studying him as intently as he was studying her without showing the least bit of unease. Even more important, he had a feeling she might prove a powerful ally in his fight to keep Adriane out of Stanley Jimson’s clutches. As he swallowed the last of the tea cake, he decided he’d publish whatever she gave him. A few angry readers would be a small price to pay for such an ally.

  “That was delicious, Mrs. Compton.” He smiled and leaned across his desk toward her as he asked, “How can I repay your kindness?”

  She laughed as she pulled a folded paper out of her reticule. “I thought it would take at least two tea cakes.” She quickly popped up from her chair to hand the article across his desk and then remained standing as he skimmed through it. “It’s not too inflammatory. Just a bit of a treatise in regard to the evils of slavery with the focus on how that institution has bogged down the South.” She came around the desk to peer over his shoulder and point out a couple of lines. “Here we have the convincing argument that all men were guaranteed freedom by our great Constitution.”

  “Did you write it, Mrs. Compton?”

  “No, no. The author is Mr. Harrison Fremont of the Philadelphia organization for the freedom of the slaves. He’s a very talented lawyer and a trusted friend of the downtrodden.” She reached into her reticule yet again. “I have a letter here stating his desire to have this published in your worthy paper.”

  Blake looked at the second letter. “Very well. It will appear in the Herald tomorrow if space permits. The next day if space runs short.”

  Grace Compton’s face lit up. “Thank you, sir. I could tell you were a forward-thinking gentleman when I first laid eyes on you. Do I dare hope you might have some abolitionist leanings?”

  “You might hope so, but it’s not a fight I wish to take on in this city at this time. I prefer to pick fights I might have a chance of winning.” Blake laid the two letters on his desk.

  Grace’s eyes followed. Then she quickly stepped closer to peer down at the articles spread across his desk. “These are the stories of those dreadful murders Adriane told me about.” Without asking permission, she picked up his list of the victims and the dates of their deaths. “The same killer?” she asked.

  “There’s little doubt of that.”

  “Any connections between the girls?”

  “Nothing notable other than being poor and Irish.”

  “And young.” Grace peered up at him. “Pretty?”

  “So their friends say. I only knew Kathleen. She was pleasant enough.” Blake hesitated before he went on. “How can I say this without offending you?”

  “My sensibilities are not that easily offended, Mr. Garrett. What you’re trying to say is that poor Kathleen was not adverse to sharing her favors for a price.” Grace raised her eyebrows at him. “True of them all?”

  “Perhaps, although Megan’s friends are reluctant to say so.”

  “I read in the Tribune that Chief Trabue says we no longer have reason to worry.” Grace’s eyes swept over his desk. “Obviously you do not agree.”

  “No. I fear the murderer is out there, biding his time and waiting for the proper opportunity to strike again.”

  “And what is that opportunity, Mr. Garrett?”

  “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be rereading these articles for the hundredth time.”

  “Of course not. And at any rate, it’s hard to guess what is in the future.” Grace stared down at the paper in her hand for a long moment. “What you must determine is what opportunity presented itself on these other dates. You need to not only study the papers on the days the bodies were discovered but the news on the days preceding as well. What was going on in the city on those days? Was it storming? Was the moon full? What?”

  “It’s not the moon. I checked that,” Blake said.

  “It’s doubtful it would be that easy.” Grace placed the paper back on his desk. “Besides, there may not be a pattern, or even if there is, one only the wretched person who did the crimes could possibly determine. Our best hope and prayer is that Chief Trabue is right, and the murderer has been scared away.”

  “We can hope so,” Blake said.

  “If it can be figured out, you’ll be able to do it.” Grace lightly touched his shoulder before she began gathering her shawl closer about her. Then she smiled and pointed to the article she’d brought in to him. “Your kindness in helping our just and honorable cause will not go unnoticed in the North.”

  “Or in the South, I daresay.” Blake stood up. “I’ll see you to the door, madam.”

  “Would you be so kind?” she said with another smile. “I don’t want to disturb your work, but as a matter of fact, I do have another favor of a more personal nature I would ask of you, and I wonder if you might not walk out into the sunshine with me for a moment. I’ve always favored a bit of a constitutional to clear the cobwebs out of one’s mind, and perhaps it will help you to think more clearly about these dreadful murders.”

  Outside on the street, Grace kept her eyes straight ahead with a small frown wrinkling her brow as she spoke. “I never had children, Mr. Garrett. My husband and I did not worry over that unduly in the first years of our marriage as we put all our efforts into gaining him some recognition for his paintings. My Aaron was a very talented artist. The two of us were much in love and thought the Lord would bless us with children in his own good time. But then war fever swept the city as
the reports came in from Texas of the Mexicans invading. Aaron was not a soldier, but he had a brother in Texas and he felt compelled to volunteer to fight.” She peered up at him. “Did you serve in the Mexican War, sir, or were you too young for that conflict?”

  “I was old enough,” Blake said. “And young enough to think it would be the opportunity of a lifetime for a reporter.”

  “And did you find that to be true?” She kept her eyes on his face.

  “The stories I sent back gained me some notice, and since I was lucky enough to live through the war, I suppose it was.”

  “Aaron was not so lucky.” Grace turned her eyes back down toward the sidewalk. “I, of course, was reluctant to see him march off in his royal blue colors with the Louisville Legion, but at the same time, I don’t think I could have felt any prouder. He was stepping up for his country. For his family.” The woman’s small sigh was a whisper of sadness. “I have since come to realize that the heart-swelling response to the playing of a patriotic tune can be most dangerous and one politicians are not hesitant to use in order to gain their ends.”

  “Was Mr. Compton killed in one of the battles?”

  “No. Nothing so glorious. Disease. His health had never been very strong.” She shook her head a little as if to clear it of worrisome memories. “At any rate, I knew then I could never be disloyal to the memory of what we had shared by remarrying. So there would be no children. I opened a girls’ school, which with my enlightened views did not find a welcome place in this city, but it did bring me Adriane. She was fifteen at the time and so totally fresh and open, unmarred by the accepted social restrictions usually taught little girls from an early age.”

  “Hadn’t she been to school before then?”

  “Just the school of her father’s library of books and the newspaper office. She learned to read before the age of five. She was never sure how, but could remember Wade reading the newspaper to her. Even as a little child, she must have had an extraordinary gift for words. A certain unusual maturity if you will.” Grace walked a few steps in silence before she went on. “Whatever it was, her stepmother could never accept Adriane as she was. I think she was a bit frightened of such a child, and she punished what she feared.”

  “Her father allowed that?” Blake said.

  “He did what he could, often taking Adriane to the shop with him where Beck watched out for her. Dear Beck.” Grace smiled. “He became an adoring uncle of sorts to Adriane, and I, eventually when our paths crossed, an equally adoring aunt.”

  “And her teacher as well.”

  “I suppose so, although it was always debatable which of us taught the other the most new things. When she first came to me, her mind was filled with the most amazing facts. She knew the schedules and records of dozens of steamboats. She knew the names and political leanings of most of the senators and representatives in Washington and the names of the mayors in all the bigger cities. But only the most basic math.”

  “She’s a very interesting young woman,” Blake said as they neared the end of the first block from his offices.

  “Do you think so?” Grace glanced sideways up at him, but gave him no time to answer her inquiry as she went on. “Do you know the Jimsons?”

  Blake’s voice hardened a bit. “I know them.”

  “It’s odd how having a fortune, no matter how that fortune might have been obtained, can make a man seem respectable to his fellow citizens.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My father was associated in business with Coleman Jimson once. I was young at the time, too young to understand exactly what happened, but I do know the man stole my father’s business.” Grace paused a moment. “And destroyed his will to live. Father shot himself in what they kindly called a hunting accident not very long afterward and Mother had to take in boarders to survive. I learned to make hats.”

  “Your father is not the only person Jimson has destroyed on his way to the top, but you can rest assured that his road to the state senate will not be clear,” Blake said. “I have been gathering information and will soon be ready to reveal to the voters exactly the sort of man he is.”

  “You’d best be very ready, Mr. Garrett.” Grace gave Blake an appraising look. “Coleman Jimson is not an adversary to take on lightly.”

  “I’m keenly aware of that.” Blake’s jaw tightened.

  “Yes, I can see you are.” Grace turned her eyes away from him and stared straight ahead as she continued. “I’ve never told any of this to Adriane. There hardly seemed any reason to. It all happened so long ago. And as much as I dislike Coleman Jimson, at least one can understand the basic greed ruling him. Stanley is not so easily understood, but the young man worries me.”

  “In what way?”

  “I’m not sure. He has money, position. He could have married any girl in the city, and yet he chooses Adriane who has no connections, no family wealth.”

  “Perhaps he loves her. She is a beautiful woman.” A vision of Adriane floated into his mind.

  “I suppose that is possible, but from what I hear about town, I can’t see young Stanley going against the social conventions for love. He would want a proper wife. And though her beauty is hardly in doubt, there are times when Adriane—as you have discovered—does not bother to practice sweetness and light. I have difficulty believing Stanley is not a man who would prefer sweetness and light. I sense some sort of deal going on here.”

  “Surely Adriane’s father would not bargain her hand in marriage.”

  “Not unless he thought it was for her own good, and you can see why he might think such a match with Stanley Jimson would be to Adriane’s advantage. The worst part of it is that Adriane thinks she can handle Stanley. She thinks he is weak.”

  “And you do not?”

  “Again I’m not sure. I don’t really know Stanley, only what I’ve heard from my hat customers. You know how some ladies do enjoy repeating tidbits of stories and rumors they’ve heard in the parlors, especially when it’s about one of the better known families in the city.”

  “What stories?” Blake asked. Maybe he could add to his arsenal of weapons against Coleman Jimson.

  “Nothing I could substantiate since one can’t really give such stories much credence. But of one thing I am absolutely sure.” Her voice got a bit stronger and took on the tone of the teacher she had once been as she went on. “Stanley is not a good match for Adriane.”

  “I can agree with you there,” Blake said. “Although of course, I’m barely acquainted with Adriane.”

  “Acquainted enough, I daresay.” Grace sent another sideways glance up at him. “However, at last, I come to my favor, Mr. Garrett. I’ll only be in town a few weeks. Since Adriane knows I disapprove of this union, it’s doubtful she will write me anything about it. So I was wondering if I might count on you to keep me informed if the date is moved up or anything untoward befalls.”

  “Of course, madam.”

  “And I know it’s more than I have a right to ask.” The little woman touched his arm and stopped walking. She stared up at him intently. “But I beg you to watch out for her. She needs a friend right now, and I rather feel I’m deserting her in her hour of greatest need, but I must return to Boston. I have commitments.”

  “I fear the lady doesn’t want me as a friend. She avoids me at all costs.” Blake saw no reason to sashay around the truth.

  “Then you have to find a way to make her talk to you. Your newspapers are warring. Make that war more personal so she’ll have to respond.”

  “Are you suggesting I intentionally make her angry with me?” Blake raised his eyebrows as he looked down at the woman.

  Her eyes twinkled a little as she answered him. “Last time the two of you had a duel of words, it ended with you kissing her hand. Who knows how the next duel might end?”

  “You’re taking a lot for granted, madam,” Blake said.

  “So I am, Mr. Garrett, and I will pray that yours and Adriane’s paths will often cross.” S
he looked up at him with guileless sincerity. “Do you believe in prayer?”

  “I don’t spend much time on my knees,” Blake admitted.

  “There are many postures of prayer. But never fear, I will pray doubly hard for your endeavors in the weeks ahead.” Her mouth twisted in an amused little smile as she reached out to squeeze his hand. “I will send you my address when I return to Boston.”

  As the slight woman walked swiftly away, head high, others on the street gave way to her determined progress. Blake shook his head and turned back toward the Herald’s offices. With women like Grace Compton leading the charge, who knew what women would be asking for next?

  She’d certainly asked enough of him, although making Adriane angry should be easy enough. But he didn’t want her to stay angry. Perhaps some kind of trick might not be out of line.

  All at once he remembered an old New Orleans paper he had come across when he was gathering the river slasher articles. He’d read it because it detailed a murder as well. Nothing like the Louisville murders, but it had made sensational headlines in New Orleans. He would press the wrinkles out of the paper and send it by messenger to Adriane as if it had just arrived on one of the steamboats from New Orleans. Then just to be sure she realized the story was suspect, he’d credit a record-breaking run to one of the slowest, leakiest steamboats in the harbor, the Douchester. That should get a response.

  Perhaps she would even storm into the Herald offices to demand he apologize for his subterfuge. Which he would readily do. Then if the moment was right, he could offer more than an apology. He could offer her a way to escape Stanley Jimson. He could almost feel her head against his shoulder, her soft hair brushing his lips. He’d be more than willing to go down on his knees if he thought prayer could make that happen.

  He let out a short laugh at the idea of praying Adriane into his arms. His father had been a praying man and what had it got him? A bullet in the street for printing the truth. Blake pulled open the door and went back inside his building. The clank and rumble of the press greeted him like an old friend as he made his way back to his desk to find the old New Orleans paper. What was it someone had told him once? That sometimes a man had to give his prayers legs.