Boston Metaphysical Society Read online

  Elizabeth wondered if she could summon a vision without Rachel or falling asleep. From what she’d learned so far, she needed to clear her mind and focus on something. So she closed her eyes and willed the world to be silent other than the sounds of the surrounding garden. Soon all she heard was the sound of water dripping. It intrigued her. She concentrated on each drop, imagining she was a single tear falling from the sky and that right before it hit the earth she leapt onto the next one like playing leap frog. She did this a number of times, enjoying the pleasure of being free, but when she reached for another drop, it wasn’t there. Instead she fell farther and farther into a watery abyss.

  Worried, Elizabeth forced open her eyes and realized she was no longer in the garden. She was back in the room where she had first seen the blinding light that had burned her. Once again, she was lying down on a cot, but this time she faced a boy who slept across from her. That she had slipped into a vision without Rachel’s help or being asleep astounded her. Giddy with excitement, she wanted to leap out of the bed and jump for joy. The thrill of being in control was a heady experience.

  Not wanting to alarm whoever she inhabited, however, she moved only her eyes to find out what was around her. She saw several boys sleeping on nearby cots. Testing her abilities, she moved one finger then another in front of her face. It looked like a boy’s finger, maybe around ten or eleven, and fortunately he did not react to her intrusion. She reached into his mind and to her surprise found he was asleep. Hoping whatever she did would not wake him, she pushed herself up with great care so she could get a better look at her surroundings.

  Cots filled the majority of the room, with tables set up at the front by the door. Utensils and plates were stacked on the tables, so she assumed that was where they received food and water. People of all ages slept in the cots, which appeared to be evenly divided between men and women, or boys and girls. No matter the gender, all wore beige linen smocks over brown woolen pants, even though there was a stack of regular clothing piled next to one of the walls.

  The basement windows were high, narrow, and barred. Elizabeth strained her neck to see if she could spot the girl she’d inhabited before, but that cot was empty. Perhaps she hadn’t been kidnapped yet.

  A sleepy occupant stumbled out of one of the two privies at the end of the room. A key in the lock of the only door in and out startled her. She lay back down again, closed her eyes, and pretended to sleep.

  The heavy footfalls of two men walked in. She heard a tapping sound, then a shoe skidding on what she could only presume was a wet surface.

  “Damn floor.” A clipped and educated younger man’s voice complained. “Any problems?”

  The tapping stopped and a tired older man with a heavy Irish brogue responded. “Nah. They sleep sounder than death.”

  “Good. It’s working.” The younger man sniffed. “Has anyone else been here since I left? Something’s changed.”

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

  Elizabeth had to find out who these men were and where they were holding all these people. She opened her eyes to sneak a peek but only got a glimpse of the older man. Stooped, gray bearded, and wearing a frayed brown woolen coat and pants, his eyes were pure white. He was blind. The younger man was not in her field of vision. She closed her eyes again.

  “She’s here.”

  Who’s here? Elizabeth wondered. Another kidnapper? Someone he’s working with? She tried to relax into the boy’s body, but his knee jerked. Elizabeth didn’t notice the younger man had moved closer to her. It was only when she felt his breath on her cheek that the boy’s knee stopped moving. The intruder’s breath moved up her cheek and to her ear. A sensual gesture, the heat from it excited her, and to her surprise a shock of pleasure shot up her spine.

  “Gotcha.”

  Terrified at the encounter and her feelings, Elizabeth pulled her mind from the boy’s with such force that hers wandered in blackness. Lost in a sea of nothingness, she flailed about trying to make sense out of what had just happened and where she now was, but nothing worked. All she knew was that she had to get back to Samuel and the garden. Grasping on to that fact, the image of her husband took shape in her thoughts. She held on to it and focused on the garden and what it meant to her. The sights and scents of the living, green place flooded her senses . . .

  Gasping, Elizabeth’s eyes flew open to see she was back in her mother’s garden. Flushed and perspiring, her head whipped around searching for whoever had spoken to her in case he’d been able to follow her back. Once she calmed down, she realized that was impossible. He was in another time and place.

  Or was he?

  Disturbed by the incident, Elizabeth hugged her shawl around her, fled the garden, and rushed into the house. As she hurried through the parlor and neared her father’s study, she overheard Samuel and her father still talking. Both were engrossed in something concerning her uncle and Thomas Rochester. Torn between wanting to share her success at entering her visions on her own, and feeling ashamed at the excitement she’d felt, she stopped before she reached the entryway. The one thing Elizabeth desired most in the world was to make her husband and her father proud of her. However, the ability to keep secrets was at the heart of every powerful House. Both her mother and father had taught her this.

  Elizabeth decided she would tell Samuel and her father once she had a better grasp on what she’d seen and how she could enter her visions at will. One way to accomplish that was by controlling her abilities. If she were successful, she reasoned, then she could find the missing Irish. It was also the one thing in her life that was uniquely hers. She could not share it or give it away, nor would she want to. For the first time, Elizabeth possessed a sense of freedom over her own destiny and, quite possibly, the ability to shape the future of House Weldsmore.

  ***

  Jonathan pointed to one of the compound bows on his office wall while holding a glass of port in the other. “I took down a two-hundred-pound buck in a single shot with that one.”

  “I don’t doubt it. That bow must pack a lot of power,” Samuel remarked. “I’d love to give it a try sometime. If you don’t mind.”

  “Do you think you could handle it?” Jonathan quipped.

  “I think I can handle much more than you give me credit for,” Samuel replied.

  The two men stared at each other for a moment until Jonathan gave him a brief nod. “Touché.”

  “I assume this banter of ours is leading up to something,” Samuel walked over and sat down.

  “Hal and Thomas.”

  “Ah, that makes more sense.”

  Instead of sitting behind his desk, Jonathan pulled up one of the guest chairs across from Samuel. “I need you to find out if Thomas has any debts. And if yes, to whom and what for.”

  Samuel raised his eyebrows. “Why me? I thought you had enough resources of your own.”

  “Normally I would use them, but I’m concerned that my network is becoming sloppy or compromised.”

  Samuel scratched his chin. “I’m curious. Why do you think Thomas has money problems?”

  “He told me he did, but I want to be sure.”

  Samuel was obviously taken aback. “You think he’d lie about being broke? Why?”

  “I never take anything at face value.”

  “I presume this is to protect Elizabeth’s interests.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d be happy to, but then I might not have time to escort her to her lessons on the South Side.”

  Jonathan pondered this. He did not like the idea of Elizabeth going to the South Side without Samuel, yet there was really no one else he could trust.

  “Are you satisfied with the men you hired to guard her?” he asked.

  Samuel nodded. “They practically worship her. She seems to have that effect on almost everyone she meets.”

  “Her mother did as well. I’ve sometimes found it inconvenient that I do not possess the same qualities.”

  “I have previously had in
formants at a few of the larger banks, but if Thomas is hiding money somewhere, it will probably be in one of the Negro-owned ones in Liberty Row. They’ll be harder to obtain information from. And I’ll need cash to get into some of the more high-end gambling establishments he may frequent,” Samuel remarked. “However, since I’m no longer with the Pinkertons, I might not be able to find out if he’s got bank accounts overseas. Or if he’s hiding from his creditors and anyone else, for that matter. You might have better luck than I.”

  Jonathan reached into a drawer. Inside was a small combination safe, which he opened. He pulled out five thousand dollars in twenties and handed it to Samuel. “Here. I think this should take care of any bribes or other expenses.”

  Samuel counted it. “Do you need me to sign a note?”

  “No. Whatever you don’t use, spend it on Elizabeth.”

  “I’ll get this information to you as soon as possible.” Samuel tucked the money away in his inside jacket pocket. “And thank you, Jonathan, for trusting me with this.”

  “It hasn’t been easy. Learning to trust you with my daughter.”

  “I understand. Let me check on her.” Samuel nodded then got up and left.

  Jonathan reached over and shut the safe and the drawer. When he looked back up, Sampson stood by the chair that Samuel had vacated, holding a silver tray with a steaming cup of hot mint tea. He placed the tray on the desk next to Jonathan.

  “As per Mrs. Owen’s instructions. She insists you’ll sleep better drinking this with all ‘the ruckus’ going on. Is there anything else you’ll need this evening, sir?”

  “No. Thank you, Sampson.”

  Sampson sighed. “You really should take him hunting, sir. A holiday outside the city will be good for both of you.”

  “Perhaps after this thing with Thomas and Hal is over.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sampson gave him a slight bow of his head and left.

  Jonathan leaned over and sipped the tea; its fresh and yet biting flavor relaxed him. As he stared into the opaque green liquid it occurred to him that whatever was going on with Hal would never be over—not until one of them was dead.

  13

  By the time Samuel got to bed that night, he thought Elizabeth was fast asleep. He tried to be as quiet as possible, but when he crawled in she turned and snuggled up to him. She stroked his cheek and leaned in to kiss him. He responded and, feeling their passion rise, took her in his arms as she slipped out of her nightgown. For the first time, Elizabeth took the lead in their lovemaking and Samuel, though surprised, found that he didn’t mind.

  The next morning he told her about the task Jonathan wanted him to take care of.

  “I’m very disappointed in Thomas,” Elizabeth remarked as she adjusted her Middle District dress. “It seems he’s more like my uncle than I hoped.”

  “Even good men make mistakes.” Samuel sat on the edge of the bed and tied his shoe. “But yes, I know what you mean.” He stood up. “So you have the interview list?”

  Elizabeth pointed to her notebook. “In there. When I’m done with that, I’ll stop by Rachel’s and check up on the food and clothing distribution. We can go over my notes after dinner tonight unless you’ll be back sooner.”

  He shook his head. “I doubt it.”

  Samuel left right after breakfast and drove one of the Weldsmore cars downtown. He did not want to use his contacts at the Pinkertons unless he needed to. They had a habit of calling in their markers for any favors they handled, and he worried about what they would ask him to do whenever that happened. Plus, just being anywhere near other Pinkerton agents set his teeth on edge. They liked having power over others too much.

  On his way to Liberty Row, Samuel thought about where Thomas might be hiding money, if in fact he was. Thomas would have had difficulty obtaining a bank account in Beacon Hill and the Middle District even though he was associated with a Great House of the size and influence of Tillenghast. A Negro man would be required to produce a letter of introduction from his employer if he wanted to open a bank account in those neighborhoods. If Thomas was squirreling away money without anyone in Boston, or elsewhere, knowing about it, Liberty Row was the logical choice.

  The corner of Beach Street and Harrison was the unofficial dividing line between the white and Negro sides of the Middle District in Boston. Locals called the Negro neighborhood Liberty Row even though it took up eight square blocks and stood a few blocks north of the channel. The same brownstones, window boxes, and flowers were on one side as the other. The white families who lived across from Liberty Row were much like their neighbors; most were skilled workers or owned their own businesses. Neither side displayed family emblems nor had guards or doormen at the entrances like the Great Houses in Beacon Hill. Horses and steam-powered buggies shared the road, though there were more horses here than in Beacon Hill, which was many blocks and a large park away.

  As he drove down Harrison, he noticed the easy flow of Negros crossing the invisible border. Many of the residents worked all over Boston but found living here more hospitable. He had sailed with a few Negro tradesmen while on a merchant ship when he was younger. A few had even served as sailors. Impressed by their professionalism, he knew his opinion was irrelevant to most of them. They lived their lives, and he lived his. It was simply the way it was.

  He caught a whiff of the smoke that drifted across the channel from the coal-fired power plants on the South Side where most of the Irish worked. They spewed a horrific combination of soot laced with chemicals that, if it landed in your eyes, burned for hours. For most of the Middle District and those on Beacon Hill, the ocean breeze forced the acidic air out to sea. However, if the wind shifted, those who lived closer to the South Side closed their windows and brought their children inside to play. The Irish bore the brunt of it, but Liberty Row wasn’t exempt.

  Samuel parked the car down the block from the four banks located in the area. Both were family owned and had been established right after the House Wars. He suspected the locals didn’t deposit their money in white-owned banks, and he couldn’t blame them. Most of the inhabitants were descended from former slaves. Why would they trust anyone outside of their own community?

  His first stop was the First Liberty Bank, a simple three-story brick building with a brass sign with its name engraved on it. He entered behind several other gentlemen, one of whom was white. The lobby ceiling soared up all three stories with balconies circling the room on the second and third floors. Open-air offices took up most of the space, with two closed-in ones toward the middle. On the right-hand side of the first floor were the teller stations. All the way to the back, past two locked iron gates and four Negro guards, stood the bank vault.

  Samuel’s plan was to open an account with some of the money Jonathan had given him. It would ingratiate him with the manager and enable him to ask questions about the bank’s clientele. However, he needed to spend time inside just listening to conversations without it looking suspicious. He often found eavesdropping could garner a wealth of information.

  One of the white men who’d entered ahead of him asked a teller for a Mr. Larsen, but was told he was in a meeting and asked if he would mind waiting. He did and left in a huff. If a white man was requesting someone in particular in a Negro-owned bank, it meant that this Mr. Larsen handled more delicate transactions. Samuel took that as his cue and approached the teller. A short young Negro man with a short haircut and plain tan woolen suit, he smiled politely as Samuel walked up.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Larsen. I believe he’s one of your account managers. Is he in?” Samuel asked.

  “No, sir. He’s currently at a meeting outside the bank. Mr. Mason can assist you if you like?” the young man responded.

  Samuel pretended to look annoyed. “No. I was referred to Mr. Larsen. Will he be long?”

  “About a half hour.”

  That was plenty of time to get a sense of what type of customers the bank had.

  “Fine.” He sighed. “Where can I
wait?”

  The young teller pointed to a group of upholstered chairs off to the side by an oak coffee table holding a pitcher of water with glasses and several newspapers.

  “Thank you.” Samuel replied and headed over. He sat in the chair closest to the door so he could overhear anything being said as people walked in and out. He grabbed a newspaper, opened it, and feigned reading, turning the pages from time to time. This kind of detective work was boring and not terribly glamourous, but could be very effective. In the first fifteen minutes, he learned one of the account managers was having an affair with his secretary, the young teller he spoke to was an up-and-coming employee, and another secretary was training to be a teller. As for the clients who wandered in and out, most talked about the weather, how busy they were, and that they needed to get back to work. The majority of them were employed either in the Middle District or had businesses of their own in Liberty Row.

  As he sat there for over an hour, he learned something even more important: Mr. Larsen was held in high regard for his discretion.

  A man clearing his throat caught his attention. “Sir. I’m Mr. Larsen.”

  Samuel looked up and saw a lean Negro man about five feet eight inches tall with short black hair that was graying at the temples. His skin was jet black and matched his black woolen jacket and pants, which had a single copper thread running through the cuffs and lapels. Samuel guessed by his clothes and his age he was more than just a mere account manager.

  Samuel stood and offered his hand. “Yes. I need to open an account for my . . . sister.”

  Mr. Larsen shook his hand. “Of course. We can handle that for you.”

  The account manager turned and led him up two flights of wrought-iron stairs to the third floor. Two of the four enclosed offices were labeled President and Vice President on the glass doors. The other two were left blank. Mr. Larsen escorted him into one of the latter and gestured for him to sit while he shut the door.