Murder On Mulberry Bend

11

DANNY HADN’T FARED WELL DURING THE TRIP BACK to Mulberry Street. He insisted on trying to escape, which meant the officers had to keep using their locusts on him. Frank was beginning to wonder if there’d be anything left to question. By the time he got the boy into an interrogation room, he was bloodied and more than a little groggy.

“Do you remember me, b’hoyo?” Frank asked him. “Your friend Billy cut me up so you could escape the last time we met.”

Danny gave him a pained grin, still cocky in spite of his condition. “You gave me whiskey the last time,” he remembered.

“Tell me what I want to know, and you could get some tonight, too.”

“I don’t know much,” he tried.

“I think you do. You started telling me about Dr. Tom Brandt. And don’t pretend you don’t know who I’m talking about.”

“I don’t gotta pretend,” the boy said. Even with the bruises, he managed to look innocent.

“The doctor who was murdered three years ago. You were telling me how somebody hired you to fetch the good doctor. Who was it?”

Danny no longer looked quite so cocky. He glanced over at the cop still holding his locust at the ready and measured his chances. He didn’t want to anger Frank, but he was afraid of someone else, too. “He finds out I ratted on him, he’ll kill me.”

“How could he find out?”

“You start asking him questions, what else he gonna think? Then he finds me and kills me.”

“Maybe you should be more worried about me right now,” Frank suggested.

But Danny wasn’t fooled. “You might beat me up, but you ain’t gonna kill me.”

“I’ll put him in jail and then he’ll meet up with Old Sparky,” Frank said, using the nickname for New York’s brand new electric chair. “You won’t have to worry about him again.”

Danny shook his head, his expression grim. “Swells like him don’t go to jail. You even talk to him, he’ll have your job.”

“Nobody’s that important,” Frank tried, knowing perfectly well it was a lie. “But if you’re that afraid, I’ll see you get out of the city safely. You can go someplace else, where you can start a new life.”

“Why would I want to get out of the city?” he asked in amazement. “This is the only place I’ve ever lived. This is where all my friends are.”

Frank sighed. He wasn’t getting anywhere with kindness. He could beat the boy, but Frank had an idea he’d hold up pretty well against brute force. He’d been taking beatings all his life, and he was right when he said Frank wouldn’t kill him. How else was he going to find out who killed Tom Brandt?

“I guess I’ll just keep you here overnight, then,” he said, rising.

“I could give you a nice reward for letting me go,” the boy offered.

Frank glared at him. “Now you’ve gone and made me mad, Danny.” He motioned for the guard to take him away.

Danny gave him no trouble, and Frank led them down to the cellar cells.

The night guard woke up at the sound of their footsteps. “You got another birdie for the cage, Detective Sergeant?” he asked sleepily.

“Yeah, but I want you to let one prisoner out and put this one in.”

Frank noticed Danny’s swagger had vanished at the sight of the cells and their inhabitants. He was still trying to put up a good front, but Frank could see the growing apprehension in his eyes.

“Who do you want to let out?” the night guard asked.

Frank pointed to the huddled figure in the comer of the nearest cell. Billy hadn’t moved, although Frank could see his eyes staring blankly at them.

The guard went in and pulled him to his feet, prodding him with his locust to get him to leave the cell. Frank had once seen some boys torture a dog to death. Billy’s expression reminded him of that dog.

“What’s the matter, Danny? Don’t you recognize your friend?” Frank asked, shoving Danny until the two were face to face.

He watched Danny’s eyes widen in recognition. Billy seemed incapable of a change of expression.

“What’re you doing here?” Danny demanded of his friend. “What happened to you?”

Billy just stared, as if he didn’t even comprehend the question.

“You’ll have to excuse Billy,” Frank said. “He’s been here for a while, and he’s not feeling too good right now.”

“Billy, say something!” Danny begged, his voice high with fear.

Frank figured the two had been through a lot together, but Danny had never seen his friend like this. It was an ugly thing to witness.

Billy’s mouth was moving, but it took him a minute to find his voice. “Danny?” he croaked.

“Billy! What happened to you? What’re you doing here?”

Billy couldn’t answer, and Frank decided Danny had seen enough. “Put him in the cell,” he told the guard.

Danny put up a fight this time, but he stood no chance against the burly guards. When the cell door slammed shut, Frank looked at Billy, who didn’t seem to comprehend what was happening.

“You can’t leave me here!” Danny was yelling. “I’ll tell you what you want to know! I’ll tell you everything!”

Frank ignored him. He knew better than to believe promises made in panic. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Danny,” he said. “We’ll have a long talk then.”

He took Billy’s arm. “Come on, b’hoyo.”

Billy went meekly, eyes lowered, steps shuffling. He stumbled on the stairs, and Frank had to hold his arm to keep him from falling.

If Frank had wanted revenge for being attacked by this boy, he would be savoring this moment. Instead he felt disgusted.

He took the boy upstairs to the lobby and out the front door. “You can go now,” Frank told him.

Billy’s blank gaze rose to him, not comprehending. “Go?”

“Yeah, go home, or wherever it is you go.”

“I thought…”

“You thought I’d send you to The Tombs,” Frank supplied. “You’re not worth the trouble. Get out of here, and if I ever arrest you again, you’ll wish I’d killed you tonight.”

For a second, the boy didn’t move. Maybe he thought it was a trick, that Frank would knock him down if he moved. So Frank stepped back and waited, slipping his fingers into his vest pockets.

Billy’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and Frank could see him gathering himself.

Before he could blink, the boy was gone, running as if for his life and disappearing into the darkness.

Frank rubbed his arm, which still itched, and walked off in the other direction.

Sarah’s mother introduced Richard Dennis who told briefly about his wife’s devotion to the mission and the work they did. Obviously ill at ease, he still made a moving speech, then introduced Mrs. Wells, who began to speak with a poise that must have impressed even the Deckers.

Sarah found herself mesmerized by Mrs. Wells’s presentation, even though she thought she’d already been thoroughly impressed by the work they were doing at the mission. She’d meant to watch the reactions of the other guests, but she forgot, caught up in the images Mrs. Wells painted of the lost children of the tenements.

Maeve and Gina stood beside her looking young and vulnerable, like the sacrificial virgins Sarah had imagined them to be earlier in the evening. They listened with rapt attention, their young faces fairly glowing with their devotion to the woman who had saved them.

Mrs. Wells told stories of some of the girls she had known. She gave no names, so Sarah could only guess which story was whose. But she had no trouble at all identifying the subject of her final story.

“I wish I could tell you we succeed with all of our girls. The truth is that some of them yield to temptation again when they leave us. One young woman came to us to escape a life of shame and degradation. She was ill and desperate, and we believed she had found a home with us and hope for the future.

“We were wrong, however. She stayed only until her health returned. When she was strong again, she left us, turning her back on God’s love and ours. We continued to pray for her. We pray for every girl who comes through our doors, in the hope that God will protect her and perhaps even bring her back before she is totally lost.

“The girl of whom I speak returned to the man who had first ruined her, believing his lies and trusting one who was unworthy of that trust. The next time we saw her, she was bruised and broken, beaten nearly to death for the sin of loving an evil man.” Several women in the crowd murmured in sympathy.

“We could have turned her away,” Mrs. Wells continued. “We could have reminded her that she had betrayed our faith in her. But we followed Christ’s admonition to forgive seventy times seven times, and we once more offered her a haven. And once again she grew strong. We prayed for her, and she began to change. We saw her accept God’s love. We saw her reject the temptations of this world. She worked hard and learned skills that would help her earn her living honestly. One morning, she set out to start her new life, full of hope and promise. It was a promise she would not live to keep. She was only sixteen when she died.” Some of the guests gasped.

“Most of us would consider her sudden death a tragedy,” Mrs. Wells went on. “Had she never come to the mission, had she died without knowing God’s love, her death would have been tragic. But she did come to the mission. She did know God’s love, and now she is in paradise. ‘O death where is thy sting? O grave where is thy victory?’ ” she added, quoting the Bible.

Several women dabbed at their eyes with lace handkerchiefs, and Sarah felt the sting of tears herself.

“The tenements hold hundreds of girls like this. We’d like to reach every one of them, but we can’t do that without your support.” Mrs. Wells continued with a moving appeal, and then she closed, offering to speak to people individually if they had questions about the mission.

A crowd quickly formed around her. Most of them were female and deeply concerned about the plight of young women in the city. Sarah stood back and watched Mrs. Wells answer their questions for a moment, until she noticed Gina and Maeve had been edged out and were standing alone. Sarah decided to rescue them again.

This time even Maeve looked glad to see her. Sarah ushered them away and got them a plate of sweets to nibble while they waited for Mrs. Wells to finish her business.

“I didn’t know she was gonna talk about Emilia,” Gina said to Maeve after she’d sampled a few of the different cakes. “She never did before.”

“Emilia wasn’t dead before,” Maeve reminded her impatiently. “She wasn’t nothing to talk about until she was dead.”

“Mrs. Wells probably thinks her story will touch people’s hearts,” Sarah said.

“You mean make them sad?” Gina asked with a frown.

“That’s right,” Sarah said.

Gina still didn’t understand. “Why would they care? They didn’t even know her.”

“And the ones who did know her are glad she’s dead,” Maeve informed Sarah importantly.

“I’m not glad,” Gina protested.

“You said you was,” Maeve reminded her. “Everybody was.”

“Just like they’ll all be glad when you’re dead,” Gina taunted.

Sarah tried not to let them see how they’d shocked her. But, she reminded herself, the young didn’t really comprehend death, not the way older people did. They saw it only as a solution to a problem. If they hadn’t liked Emilia because she bossed them around and was Mrs. Wells’s favorite, they’d simply be glad she was gone.

Or maybe one of them had decided to solve the problem herself.

Sarah recalled what she had been discussing with the girls earlier, about Emilia going out to show someone her dress. Perhaps someone had invented that story, someone who wanted to cast suspicion on another. “Girls, would you do me a favor?”

They both looked up. Gina was curious and Maeve, suspicious.

“Mrs. Wells said one of the girls heard Emilia say she wanted Ugo to see her in her new dress. Ugo was her former lover.”

“The one who beat her up, we know,” Maeve said in disgust.

“Could you find out which girl it was?” Sarah asked.

Maeve just frowned, but Gina was still eager to please her. “Sure,” she agreed.

Sarah had arranged to meet Opal Graves at the mission at one o’clock the next afternoon so she would have time to accomplish her other goals that morning. She’d debated asking Malloy to help her with her first errand, but she knew he’d just be angry that she was still involved in Emilia’s death. Since she wasn’t in the mood for a lecture, she found the small Catholic church herself. The building was nestled between the tenements a few blocks from Mulberry Street.

St. John’s was well kept, in spite of the poverty of its parishioners. She passed an elderly Irish woman coming out and held the door for her. The woman looked at her curiously, as if she could tell just by looking that Sarah wasn’t a Catholic. Or maybe that was Sarah’s overactive imagination.

The interior of the church was cold and quiet and dim. Paneled in dark wood, the room was lit by a few candles in a rack at the rear of the church and whatever sunlight seeped through the tiny stained glass windows. Her footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor as she walked down the aisle, looking for someone who could help her. She should have asked the old woman, she realized, then she heard a sound to her right.

The door to what appeared to be a closet opened and another old woman came out. She said, “Thank you, Father,” and carefully closed the door.

Could the priest be in the closet? Sarah started toward the door as the old woman hobbled away, but before she reached it, another door just beside it opened, and a priest emerged. He was young, his light brown hair plastered down so he would look more dignified, but it didn’t help.

“Excuse me, Father,” she called before he could walk away.

He looked up in surprise. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know anyone else was waiting.” He turned and started back into his closet.

“Could I ask you something before you go?” she called to stop him.

He turned back and frowned. “Didn’t you want me to hear your confession?”

For a moment she didn’t know what he was talking about, and then she remembered what little she knew about the Catholic faith. “Oh, no,” she said with an apologetic smile as she finally reached him. “I’m not even Catholic. I’ve come to ask you about one of your parishioners.”

“Which one?”

“Emilia Donato.”

His frown deepened. Sarah sensed his disapproval and hastily defended the girl.

“I know she’d behaved shamefully, but she repented in the end. She was a fine Christian girl when she died, and it would be a great comfort to her family to give her a decent burial,” she added, painfully aware she was lying in church. Sarah and the residents of the mission were the only ones likely to be comforted.

“Maybe you’d better talk to Father O’Brien,” he suggested. “Come.”

Sarah followed him out a side door into what appeared to be the priests’ private area. He took her to an office door and told her to wait while he went inside. In a moment, he returned and directed her into the room. An older priest rose from behind his desk. He was a large man whose face gave evidence of the years he’d spent bearing other people’s burdens.

“How can I help you, Mrs. -?”

“Mrs. Brandt,” Sarah said. “I’m pleased to meet you, Father O’Brien.”

He offered her a seat in one of two comfortable wing chairs by a window. The window overlooked an alley, but at least it let in some natural light. The young priest waited by the door, as if ready to rush to Father O’Brien’s aid if necessary.

“Father Ahearn said you’d come about some Italian girl?” the old priest began when he had seated himself in the other chair.

She didn’t like the way he said “Italian,” but she said, “Emilia Donato. She was murdered last week.”

The priest nodded. “Oh, yes. Her mother was here. She’s the girl who went to the mission,” he explained to Father Ahearn. Their disapproval was obvious.

“The mission can’t afford to bury her,” Sarah quickly explained, “and neither can her parents. Since her family is Catholic, I know they would be very grateful if the church would see that she was buried properly.”

“Mrs. Brandt,” the old priest explained patiently, “you must understand. We don’t even allow the Italians to worship in the sanctuary.”

Sarah could hardly believe what she was hearing. This was even worse than Georgio Donato had said. “Why on earth not?” she demanded.

“They are very different from us, my dear lady. Their customs and even their saints are different from ours. They celebrate different feast days and different holy days. They don’t even speak the same language.”

“But they worship the same God, don’t they?” she challenged, unable to conceal her contempt for such bigotry. She couldn’t believe that the Irish, who had been the victims of prejudice for so long themselves, would practice it on others.

“We allow them their own place to worship,” Father Ahearn said defensively.

“Where, in the basement?” Sarah asked sarcastically.

“Downstairs, he corrected her primly. “It’s a very nice room.”

Sarah could only gape at them, unable to conceive of so-called men of God relegating fellow Christians to the cellar to worship. “Do you at least allow them Christian charity?” Sarah asked, unable to keep the anger from her voice.

“All of our parishioners live in poverty,” Father O’Brien said. “We do what we can for them.”

“Do you bury those who can’t afford it?”

Father O’Brien’s expression was sad, although Sarah couldn’t help doubting his sincerity. “The city buries them, Mrs. Brandt. We try to reserve our resources for the living.”

“Unless they happen to be Italian,” Sarah said before she remembered her manners.

Father O’Brien wasn’t easily offended. “My answer would be the same if the girl was Irish.”

“I’ll have to take your word for that, won’t I?” Sarah snapped and started to rise.

“Are you closely involved with the mission, Mrs. Brandt?” he asked before she could take her leave.

Something about the tone of his question disturbed her. “I just recently began to volunteer there,” she said warily.

“Then you don’t know very much about them,” he guessed.

“I know they have converted some Catholic girls,” Sarah said, “and I’m sure that must make them some sort of competition for you.”

“God’s work isn’t a competition,” he said with a small smile. “Although I can understand you might think we’re jealous or resentful of the way Mrs. Wells is leading young girls away from their faith.”

“I’m sure she would argue that she’s leading them to faith,” Sarah defended her.

“I’m sure she would. I just wonder what she would say about the girls who have simply been led away.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Mrs. Brandt, that you should ask Mrs. Wells what becomes of the girls who go to her mission and are never seen again.”

He was jealous. That’s the only explanation Sarah could think of to explain the priest’s horrible accusation. No one knew anything about girls disappearing from the mission. Or at least she hadn’t heard anyone say anything about it. She had no doubt that girls did leave. Emilia herself had returned to her old life after her first visit. Surely, others had done so, too. If no one ever heard from them again, it was probably because they had disappeared into a prostitute’s life and early grave. She certainly wasn’t going to give any credence to a rumor started by a priest who wouldn’t even minister to people just because they spoke another language.

At least she knew she couldn’t count on charity from the church to get Emilia decently buried. That meant she would have to figure out something herself. Such an expense would be a small fortune to people as poor as the Donatos, but surely, she could manage the cost of a simple casket and a burial plot herself. If not, she’d borrow money from her parents. Somehow, she would make sure that Emilia didn’t end up in an unmarked grave.

Her next stop was a grim visit to the morgue to let them know she was going to see that Emilia was properly buried. Sarah was gratified to see a new attendant on duty. He was respectful both to Sarah and to Emilia’s body.

When she’d explained her purpose, he gave her papers to fill out and sign. Then he said, “You better look at her clothes and see if they’re fit to bury her in.”

“They are,” Sarah said, wanting to avoid looking at her old suit again with Emilia’s blood smeared on the back.

“Then you better make sure everything’s still there. Sometimes things disappear around here,” he said kindly. “Some folks think it ain’t much of a crime to steal from the dead.”

Reluctantly, Sarah opened the bag and pulled out each item of clothing. When she pulled out the hat she’d worn for so long, the attendant said, “Might as well take that away. We don’t bury people in hats. Shoes neither, so you can take them, too.”

Sarah didn’t want to take any of it, but she realized someone at the mission could probably use the shoes, at least. She dug them out of the bag and found a hat pin as well. A pretty metal flower adorned the end. She hadn’t donated any hat pins, so it must have come from the mission. The foot-long pin was a bit rusty, but a girl with a new hat wouldn’t mind cleaning it off and using it again. She laid it aside with the shoes and hat.

The attendant wrapped the items in brown paper, and Sarah took them with her. If she hurried, she would be just in time to meet Opal Graves at the mission. On the way, she stopped and bought a meat pie from a street vendor so she wouldn’t have to eat at the mission. No matter what Mrs. Wells said, Sarah just couldn’t bear to use anything that might benefit one of the girls.

When she arrived at the mission, Opal was already there. Sarah knew because her carriage was waiting for her at the curb and causing quite a sensation among the neighborhood children. They kept wanting to climb up and get inside. The driver was having quite a time scaring them away. Sarah found Opal inside, chatting with Mrs. Wells. Sarah greeted them both.

“I was just telling Mrs. Wells how well she did last night. I don’t think anyone who heard her could refuse to support her work here,” Opal said.

“You flatter me, Mrs. Graves,” Mrs. Wells said. “And I assure you, many people refuse to support our work. But the Lord has always provided for us, and I have faith He always will.”

“After last night, He’ll have a lot of help,” Opal said with a smile.

“I’m glad to hear our guests were generous,” Sarah said. “My mother will be happy she was able to help.”

“I was just about to show Mrs. Graves around, Mrs. Brandt. Would you like to accompany us?” Mrs. Wells asked.

“Thank you, but I promised the girls I would talk with them again today, if you don’t mind. They had a lot of questions after our first class.”

“They’re upstairs sewing,” Mrs. Wells said with a knowing smile. “I’m sure they’d be happy for an interruption. After we’ve finished our tour, we’ll all have tea in the parlor.”

Mrs. Wells escorted Opal to tour the downstairs and the yard while Sarah went upstairs. To her surprise, the girls squealed with delight when she walked into the room. She conducted an impromptu class in female health concerns, answering questions that would have shocked most women of her social status. The girls repeatedly told her how grateful they were for her willingness to discuss such sensitive topics. Probably no one else had ever done so with them.

Sarah discreetly ended the discussion when she heard Mrs. Wells bringing Opal up the stairs. Mrs. Wells introduced her guest to them as one of their benefactors and began explaining to Opal the training the girls were receiving. Sarah stepped out into the hallway, and Gina followed her.

“Mrs. Brandt, can I talk to you?” she asked quietly. She looked over her shoulder anxiously, probably checking to see if Maeve was going to stop her from speaking with Sarah. Fortunately, Maeve was busy showing off for their guest.

“Certainly, let’s go back downstairs.”

Gina followed her. As they walked into the parlor, Sarah realized she had left the package she’d brought from the morgue lying on a chair there. She’d have to remember to give it to Mrs. Wells before she left.

“What did you want to talk about?” Sarah asked her when they were alone.

“I did what you told me to do.”

“What was that?” Sarah asked, trying to recall. So much had happened since last night, she was having trouble.

“You wanted to know which one of the girls heard Emilia say she wanted Ugo to see her all dressed up.”

“Oh, yes.” Sarah had completely forgotten. “Who was it?”

“It wasn’t anybody.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean nobody heard her say that. I asked everybody, even Aggie.”

“I thought Aggie doesn’t speak.”

“She don’t, but she can hear. I asked her did she hear Emilia say that, and she shook her head no. Nobody heard her say nothing about Ugo. All she said was she wanted to get a job.”

This was just what Sarah had feared. One of the girls had lied to Mrs. Wells, hoping to throw suspicion onto Ugo. All Sarah needed to do now was find out which girl had invented the lie. She would have to ask Mrs. Wells.

“What’s that?” Gina asked, pointing at the parcel.

Sarah glanced at it. “I brought back the shoes and the hat Emilia was wearing when she died.”

Gina looked at it longingly. “What are you going to do with them?”

Sarah realized that Gina would probably appreciate having Emilia’s things. Perhaps she should consult with Mrs. Wells before making a gift of them, but she remembered what Gina had said last night about Emilia getting all the nice things when she’d been the girl in charge. Maeve would probably receive them now, if Mrs. Wells were making the choice, but Gina had earned a reward for trying to help Sarah.

“Would you like to have them?” she asked Gina.

The girl looked almost reluctant to admit that she did. Finally, she nodded tentatively.

With a smile, Sarah handed the package to her.

Gina glanced apprehensively in the direction of the door, as if afraid someone might come in and stop her, but seeing no one, she quickly tore open the package. Almost reverently, she picked up the hat that Sarah had considered throwing away and set it on her head. Her dark eyes shone with happiness and gratitude. “Maeve’ll be so jealous!” she whispered with glee. Then she kicked off the worn slippers she wore and sat down to put the almost-new boots on her feet.

She was laughing with pleasure now, and when the hat slipped off and fell onto the floor, Sarah laughed, too.

“There’s a hat pin in there, too. Do you know how to use it?”

“Oh, yes,” Gina assured her happily. “All well-bred young ladies know how to use a hat pin!”

She picked up the hat with one hand and located the hat pin with the other. “No wonder Emilia wanted her mother to see her wearing this,” she said as she stuck the hat on her head.

Sarah wasn’t sure she’d heard her correctly. “Her mother?” she asked, but Gina wasn’t paying attention.

She was staring at the pin. “What’s all over it?”

“It’s rusty,” Sarah said. “It will come off if you – ”

“That’s not rust,” Gina said, peering more closely. She ran a finger along the shaft and it came off brown and smooth, not gritty like rust.

Sarah looked more closely, too. In the dim light of the morgue, she hadn’t paid much attention. She’d simply made an assumption, but now, seeing it in the light…

She had a vision of the brown stains on the back of Emilia’s jacket – Sarah’s old jacket. Malloy had said her killer had wiped the blood off his knife – a long, thin-bladed knife – and walked away.

Sarah felt as if the room were tilting, but she forced her hand to move. She snatched the pin out of Gina’s hand. “I’ll get you another one,” she said. Her voice sounded as if it were coming from very far away. Gorge rose in her throat, but she swallowed it down.

“What is it?” Gina asked in alarm. “Your face is all white!”

“Nothing, I’m fine,” Sarah insisted. She snatched up the discarded wrapping paper and quickly wrapped it around the pin.

They could hear Mrs. Wells and Opal coming down the stairs. Gina glanced in that direction and jerked the hat from her head. “Thank you,” she whispered, gathering her discarded slippers, and darted out of the room. Sarah realized she was afraid Mrs. Wells would take away her gifts if she saw them, and once again she felt a niggling unease at the way the woman showed favoritism among the girls.

By the time Opal and Mrs. Wells entered the parlor, Sarah had drawn a couple deep breaths and managed to regain most of her composure. She tried not to think about the fact that she was holding in her hand the weapon that had killed Emilia.

“Mrs. Brandt, is something wrong?” Mrs. Wells asked the instant they came in.

Sarah tried to smile. “No, why do you ask?”

“You look quite pale,” Opal said, echoing Gina.

“Do I?” Sarah decided to take advantage of their concern. “I was feeling a bit light-headed. Perhaps I should go home. I know you were planning tea, but – ”

“Don’t be silly,” Opal said. “Of course you should go if you’re not feeling well. I have my carriage outside, and I’ll be happy to see you safely home. Mrs. Wells, I’m sorry to cut our visit short, but – ”

“Of course, you’re absolutely right,” Mrs. Wells said. “Mrs. Brandt should go right home. Please feel free to return at any time, Mrs. Graves, and thank you for your support.”

Sarah managed to say the correct things and allow Opal to escort her out of the mission. When her driver had handed them into the carriage, and they were settled, Opal noticed the package Sarah carried.

“What have you got there?” she asked.

Sarah looked down at the paper-wrapped hat pin. “I’m not sure you’ll want to know.”