Death of a Robber Baron

Book 1: Gilded Age Mystery

by Charles O'Brien

Genres: Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

Set amidst the glittering enclaves of money, power, and privilege in America's tumultuous Gilded Age, this richly detailed mystery follows private detective Pamela Thompson into an elite world where fortunes are flaunted and scandals are hidden--one body at time. . . Death Of A Robber Baron New York City, 1891. In the spirit of Christmas, Mrs. Pamela Thompson has devoted herself to charity work, even taking an orphaned child into her Greenwich Village townhome. Her husband Jack, an ambitious banker, agrees to such generous acts as long as his wife allows him to invest his time--and her trust fund--in more lucrative opportunities. But when he risks their entire fortune on questionable copper stocks, Pamela ends up losing everything: her house, her inheritance, and even her husband. . . Penniless, Pamela is forced to move into a boarding house in the Lower East Side and accept a position at Macy's--as a store detective. Displaying an uncanny knack for the job, she's asked to investigate a private matter of thievery at a palatial "cottage" in the Berkshires. Ironically, her employer is none other than Henry Jennings, the infamous "Copper King" who sold bad stocks to her husband. But when the filthy rich scoundrel is found dead in his study, Pamela holds herself accountable--for sorting out this whole sordid business of money, motives. . .and murder.

Release date: August 1, 2013

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 305

Sample

New York City, Christmas Eve, 1891

Pamela Thompson sat in the breakfast room of her four-story town house on West Tenth Street, quiet and sad. A clock ticked relentlessly on the wall. She drank the last drop of her morning coffee, gazed out the window, and sighed. Rain was falling steadily, stripping her backyard garden of its soft blanket of snow. The papers predicted a heavy downpour through most of the day, casting a pall over the preparations for Christmas. She had hoped that an infusion of holiday joy would lift her bleak spirit. On this day a year ago, her daughter, Julia, had died.

Her husband sat across the table, hidden behind a page of the New York Times. “More coffee, Jack?” she asked, then began to pour.

He replied with a belated, distracted grunt. Breakfast together these days was rare and brief. Jack would usually cool his coffee with cream, gulp it down, and hurry off to his office at the savings bank on Union Square. Today, an item in the paper had caught his interest, and he lingered at the table.

“What’s so fascinating, Jack?”

He lowered the paper and stared as if surprised to see her there. “Yesterday was Henry Jennings’s sixtieth birthday. He rented the largest hall in the Union Club and had a huge, glittering party. It must have cost a small fortune. All the top politicians came and so did the cream of the business world. I would have loved to be there.”

Pamela had heard that Jennings was greedy and ruthless, as well as rich. But she feigned polite interest. “What’s special about him, compared to other successful businessmen?”

“He has an uncanny talent for making money, even where others adept at finance would fail.” Eyes glowing, Jack spoke with almost religious awe of Jennings’s triumphs, especially in copper mining. “He’s called ‘The Copper King’ for good reason. He’s also heavily invested in railroads and banks.”

For a few more minutes they discussed plans for the day. She would work on this evening’s holiday program at St. Barnabas Mission on Mulberry Street, a refuge for poor, abused women and children. He had meetings and other chores at the bank. They would spend Christmas Eve alone at home. He finished his coffee, gave her a peck on the cheek, and hurried off.

After breakfast Pamela took a tram to St. Barnabas. Caring for its clients gave her the personal satisfaction she lacked at home. In the mission’s chapel volunteers were wrapping presents in bright colored paper and loading them onto a large table. A tall Christmas tree decorated with candles stood in one corner. Evergreens hung on the walls. That evening two hundred children and their parents from the poorest families in the city would gather to sing carols, light the Christmas tree, and distribute gifts.

Assisting the volunteers was Brenda Reilly, a fifteen-year-old Irish girl, one of the children served by the mission. Pamela had looked after her since she was a toddler while her mother, Monica, was working ten hours a day, six days a week, in a garment factory. Four years ago, in January, Brenda’s father, Dennis Reilly, had killed Monica in a domestic dispute and had been put in prison. Brenda then became Pamela’s ward and moved into the Thompson home, where she lived among the servants while attending school.

Brenda finished wrapping a gift and now approached Pamela.

As she hugged the girl, she suddenly felt a profound sense of loss and began to cry.

“What’s the matter, ma’am?” The girl handed Pamela a clean handkerchief.

“Thank you, Brenda.” Pamela wiped tears from her eyes. “A year ago this very day I lost my daughter, Julia, to influenza.”

“I remember her passing, ma’am. She was my age, a beautiful girl. I’m sorry.”

In a few moments Pamela regained control of her feelings and returned the handkerchief. “Unfortunately, Brenda, I can’t join the party tonight. My husband and I will honor the memory of Julia at home.”

Pamela wished that she and Jack could have taken part. But he would be busy all day at the bank—catching up on paperwork. In the evening, he would be frazzled and not in the mood for high-pitched children’s voices.

To draw her husband into a holiday spirit, she would persuade him to join her for a festive choral Evensong at the nearby Church of the Ascension on West Tenth Street and Fifth Avenue. Afterward, they would have a quiet holiday dinner at home. Brenda would spend the night with friends.

At noon Pamela left for home. She prepared gifts for the servants, inspected the butler’s cleaning and decoration of the main rooms, and checked on the cook’s progress with the roast lamb. Pamela set the table for two.

Dining alone tonight should bring her and Jack closer together. Over the past several months they had lived like strangers under the same roof. With that distressing thought on her mind, she went to her room to dress, determined to look her best. Her personal maid joined her, and they set to work. An hour later, the maid announced, “You’re beautiful tonight. Mr. Thompson will surely notice.”

Pamela stood before a full-length mirror and gazed with approval at her red satin gown, pearl necklace, and diamond ring. Her thick, lustrous black hair, perhaps her chief asset, was set in a chignon. On closer inspection she detected a few thin silver hairs at each temple, but she declared them to be attractive, natural accents. Aside from certain worry lines on her brow, her complexion at the age of thirty-seven was still clear and creamy. Her dark blue eyes gazed back at her with good humor and generous approval, oddly unmarked by the horrors they had witnessed during her work in the tenements. Her figure was still well proportioned and slim enough for her to do without a corset. Finally, she studied her hands and groaned. Despite frequent, generous application of cold cream, they were still red and raw from chores at the mission. A sour thought flitted through her mind: Why bother? Jack probably wouldn’t notice anyway.

She gave herself an encouraging smile, turned from the mirror, and thanked the maid.

When all was ready, she and Jack went to the evening service at the church. The music was glorious. While the choir sang passages from the Messiah, Jack closed his eyes and seemed transported out of his usual anxious attitude. Pamela felt encouraged. Things were going better than she had anticipated.

Late on Christmas Eve, Pamela and Jack sat down to dinner. The table was covered with fine linen and set with their best china, silver, and crystal. Green garlands and red bows hung on the walls. They went through the motions of holiday celebration with joy on their faces, but they were intensely aware of their daughter’s absence. For a year, they had coped with grief in different ways. Pamela had increased her work with poor, battered women and children. Jack had thrown himself into financial investments to the point that they consumed him.

This had led to serious tension between them. Each reproached the other for a lack of understanding. After Monica’s murder, Jack had only grudgingly agreed to sign Brenda’s guardianship papers and allow her to live in their home. With Julia’s death his attitude hardened. “Mind you,” he had insisted, “Miss Reilly is to remain in the servants’ quarters and in no way take the place of our daughter. The memory of Julia is dear to me. I’ll not have a substitute diminish it.” He had appeared about to become emotional.

“I understand,” Pamela had said, but with a mental reservation. She believed that Brenda would eventually win over Jack and gain an honored place in the family.

To please him tonight Pamela had lighted a candle at a place set for Julia. The meal began, however, with awkward attempts at conversation followed by equally distressing moments of silence while the servants plied them with holiday dishes. When the servants finally withdrew, Jack couldn’t hold back his secret.

“I must tell you, Pamela, that I’ve found an extraordinary investment with Henry Jennings. We will become incredibly rich. You will have a new and grander house on Fifth Avenue, and I’ll join the Union Club and consort with the likes of J. P. Morgan.”

Pamela tried in vain to conceal her concern. During the past year, Jack had made similar announcements, followed by disappointing results. He gave her a reproachful smile. “You doubt me. Well, you heard me speak this morning of the respect that Jennings enjoys among the wealthy and powerful in this country.”

“Yes,” she granted. “Most of them share his values.”

Missing her irony, he lowered his voice, as if afraid that servants were listening. “I’ve recently discovered that he’s secretly investing in a new company, Copper Mountain. It’s going to mine a fantastically rich vein of copper in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Investors who buy in early, before the price of shares skyrockets, will make fortunes.”

Pamela sensed a dangerous enthusiasm in his voice. She asked guardedly, “How is this an attractive opportunity for you?”

His tone turned defensive. “A few months ago, when I was a guest at the Union Club, a lawyer for Jennings took me aside and confided that the new company was initially offering shares to selected buyers, like J. P. Morgan, at a discounted price. I’m one of the chosen few. When the company sells to the public, our shares are bound to double and triple in value. In addition, we can expect annual dividends of twenty cents on the dollar. Most investments yield only three to five percent.”

“So did you go ahead and buy shares in this company?” Pamela tried hard to keep her voice level.

“Yes, I bought twenty thousand dollars’ worth.”

“And where did you find that much money? It’s a breathtaking sum, more than you earn in ten years. Was it lying under a rock in our garden?” She was tempted to pound the table and shriek with outrage.

“Don’t be sarcastic, Pamela. It’s unbecoming. I took fifteen thousand dollars from the trust fund that I administer for you, and I borrowed the rest with this house as security. The shares I purchased and the income from them will go back into your fund.”

“Jack! Have you lost your wits! I can’t believe you’ve emptied my trust fund and mortgaged our home. This harebrained scheme rests on the doubtful integrity of Henry Jennings. Granted, he has been successful in business and is very rich, but I’ve heard that he’s a false, predatory rascal. A few years ago I noticed him in the newspapers, railing against his workers’ demand for higher wages and safer conditions in his Michigan copper mines. They’d gone on strike, and he’d hired scabs to replace them. Frankly, I wouldn’t trust him with a dime.”

“You have no head for business, Pamela. When we married, we agreed that you should manage the household; I would take care of our finances. If you were in charge of our money, you’d give it all to the poor. Tonight, we’d be outside in the cold, begging in the streets.” He paused to let his remark sink in. “Jennings wouldn’t have gained his wealth and respect if he behaved like a larcenous thug. It’s in his interest to make this new company successful. He has put his own money into it.”

“And I’m sure that he can easily and secretly take it out.” She shook her head. “Jack, I’m not a simple, shuttered housewife. I know the value of money much better than you. Honest wealth comes from service to others for the common good. Jennings and his kind strive only to enrich themselves, any way they can. Their wealth is a monstrous sham.”

Jack shook his head. “How can you condemn Jennings’s wealth out of hand? Your own father was a wealthy man.”

She stared at her husband with a mixture of anger and pity. “Unlike Jennings, my father was an honest man, a professional electrical engineer. His inventions literally brought light into the lives of many. He never cheated anyone. The trust fund that you’ve despoiled is his legacy to me. You were supposed to administer it in my interest.” Her voice was becoming shrill. She paused, calmed herself, then spoke slowly and carefully. “Jack, you have grievously insulted my intelligence and betrayed my trust. The very least you could have done was to consult me.”

He flinched as if she had hit him. “I see, Pamela, that we can’t have a reasonable conversation about this matter. In fact, for some time we’ve been at odds on almost everything. Perhaps the death of our daughter has distracted you. And I suppose it has affected me as well. I often can’t concentrate on business.” He met her eye, measured his words. “I’ve thought this over. It would be best for both of us if I were to move tomorrow into furnished private rooms near the bank. The butler will look after this property, and I’ll continue to cover your expenses.”

His words came as no surprise, but she grasped them slowly. “I’m sorry, Jack, that our marriage has come to this, and on a blessed Christmas Eve of all days. But so be it. I fear for our future.”

“Then good night, Pamela.” Slowly, deliberately, he folded his napkin and rose from the table. His chin was rigid, his lips tight. He nodded stiffly and left the room.

For a long moment Pamela sat fixed to her chair, listening to his heavy footsteps in the hall, then lighter on the stairs. Finally his door shut. She stared at his empty chair and began to wonder what to do. At first, nothing came to mind. Minutes passed fruitlessly. She began to feel utterly abandoned. Then she said to herself, “I must seek help. I’ll need a lawyer.”

22 March 1892

At home this dull, gray morning, Pamela Thompson kept herself busy with household chores, lest she give in to her worst fears. A few minutes ago, her lawyer, Mr. Jeremiah Prescott, had telephoned that he had crucial information. Could he meet her? She had agreed that he should come at midmorning.

Her husband, Jack, had deceived her about their finances. On Christmas Eve, when she had challenged him, he had grown testy and left her. The next day at church, a friend, Peter Yates, had recommended that she consult his employer, Mr. Prescott. A detective as well as a lawyer, Prescott could investigate the family’s financial situation and propose remedies.

A few days after speaking with Yates, Pamela had visited Prescott in his office on Irving Place near Gramercy Park. Dealing with him had seemed risky. He was rumored to be an unpatriotic freethinker. Still, even his detractors granted that he was a capable investigator and would take on domestic conflicts that more respectable lawyers avoided.

While describing her predicament, she had studied him closely. His brown hair was only just beginning to turn gray. His face was clean-shaven, his body lithe and muscular. He looked ten years younger than his age, fifty-three.

To her pleasant surprise, she had found no outward signs of vice in him. His lively, bluish gray eyes regarded her with respect but otherwise revealed nothing of his inner self. His price was reasonable, so she had hired him.

Now a servant broke into Pamela’s recollections. “It’s ten o’clock, madam. Your visitor has just arrived.”

Pamela hastened to meet him in the parlor. “What do you have to report, Mr. Prescott?” Her voice trembled in spite of herself.

He smiled sympathetically. “As you suspect, madam, your husband lost heavily in shares of a bogus Michigan copper mine.”

“Did Henry Jennings truly deceive him?”

“Yes,” Prescott replied. “Jennings had paid dearly to open the mine in an area of great promise. But his engineers soon told him that the vein of copper quickly thinned out to nothing. Rather than give up the project and take the loss, Jennings sold the rights to a dummy company, of which he was the hidden owner, and offered shares for sale. His glowing, false prospectus deceived many investors, including your husband. Jennings walked away with a huge profit before the company collapsed. The investors lost everything.”

“How much damage has been done to us thus far?”

“Unfortunately, your husband purchased with your home as collateral. To recoup his losses, he has continued to play the stock market—recklessly, in my opinion. Recently, he lost again. I’ve heard that his job at the savings bank is in jeopardy. As a detective, I must suspect that he embezzled.”

“This is terrible!” she exclaimed. “We’ll be ruined. Is there any way to punish Jennings and recover the stolen money?”

“None that is legal.”

“Then someone among the investors might take it upon himself to seek justice outside the law.” Her voice shook with anxiety. “Jack has recently bought a pistol.”

Prescott nodded. “When I learned about the pistol, I had him followed. He stalked Jennings but couldn’t find an opportunity to confront him. Jennings is frequently away on trips to his mines and railroads.”

“The devil must guard the rogue.” Her gaze drifted to a wedding portrait of her husband, a decent, upright man. Sadness mixed with pity nearly overwhelmed her. “How is Jack coping? He must be desperate.”

“I’m afraid so,” Prescott replied. “He has given up the idea of revenge, but he now seems bent on punishing himself. During the past few days, his movements have become erratic. He frequents a brothel, takes long walks late at night, eats irregularly, and drinks more whiskey than he should. I don’t know how he’ll survive.”

Prescott searched Pamela’s face, as if uncertain whether to continue.

“Don’t hold anything back. I must know the worst.”

“Then I must tell you that he’ll soon go bankrupt, thereby threatening the loss of your home and all your other joint assets.”

Pamela struggled to take in what Prescott had just told her. She had expected it, but nonetheless it shocked her.

“Are you well, madam?” Prescott gazed at her solicitously.

“I feel distressed that my husband has betrayed me. I should confront him. Do you agree?”

He nodded. “You must immediately get a legal separation to protect your assets from his creditors. I’ve prepared the documents to begin the legal process. He must sign them.”

“I see no other course. Let’s go to his office at the bank.”

“Do you want me to accompany you?”

“That might be a good idea. He would take you seriously.”

When Pamela and Prescott arrived at the bank, police were blocking the main entrance on Union Square. With Pamela at his side, Prescott approached a uniformed officer whom he recognized and asked what had happened.

“A man has just shot himself.” The officer added firmly, “For the time being, we can’t let anyone in or out.”

Prescott turned to Pamela. “It’s probably Jack.”

“My God! I pray that it isn’t him.”

Prescott said to the officer, “The dead man is most likely this woman’s husband, the bank cashier. I’m her lawyer. We could be helpful to the investigation.”

The officer mulled over this information, then waved them in. They made their way to the office of Mr. Fisher, the bank’s president. A private detective from the Pinkerton agency met them at the door. Prescott introduced Pamela and asked, “What happened?”

“Mr. Thompson has shot himself,” the Pinkerton replied evenly. “The bank had hired me to investigate him. I discovered that he had embezzled bank funds. Mr. Fisher summoned him to the office with me present. I presented my findings. He offered no defense. Fisher then accused him of stealing money from the bank and ordered me to call in the police. Thompson pulled a pistol from his pocket and shot himself.” The Pinkerton turned to Pamela. “Do you wish to see the body?”

“Yes.” She felt herself growing numb.

Covered by a sheet, the body still lay on the floor where it had fallen. Prescott asked, “Are you ready? It will be gruesome.”

She nodded. The Pinkerton pulled back the sheet.

“It’s Jack,” she said under her breath. Suddenly, the room began to sway. Her knees gave way. She felt light-headed.

Prescott held her by the shoulder and lowered her into a chair. “Are you well, madam?”

She breathed deeply. Then tears filled her eyes. “Thank you,” she managed to say. “I’ll be all right in a minute. Poor Jack! What a dreadful end to his life. If I’d come an hour earlier, I might have saved him.”

Prescott looked her in the eye. “Don’t blame yourself, madam. This was his choice, the last of a series of poor choices. He could have shot himself at any time. You could not have stopped him.”

Leaving the building, they were accosted by Mr. Fisher, the bank’s president, and the Pinkerton detective. Fisher glowered and said to the detective, loudly enough for Pamela to hear, “Thompson’s wife probably got some of the bank’s assets from her husband. Investigate her.”

The detective fixed Pamela in a cool, inscrutable gaze, then said to the president, “Don’t worry, sir. I’ll pursue her all the way to hell. She won’t get away with a penny.”

22 March 1893

In New York’s Marble Cemetery on Second Street, Pamela and her lawyer Prescott walked the path to a grave, leaning into a brisk, cold breeze. While Prescott stood nearby, hat in hand, head bowed, Pamela gazed thoughtfully at the site. Last year, she had buried her husband here in the family plot. Next to his name on the gravestone was an empty space for hers. It would remain blank.

Grieving had been mostly dry-eyed. She had refused to wear black. Since he had killed himself before they could be legally separated, he had left her a crushing legacy of debt and financial ruin. For several months, she had also had to defend herself in court and at the bar of public opinion from Mr. Fisher’s vindictive accusation that she had connived at her husband’s embezzlement.

She emerged a free woman but with a tarnished reputation. Still, the worst was behind her. From now on she would only look forward. As she left the grave, Prescott fell in step beside her.

“What will you do now, madam?”

From her financial wreckage, Prescott had saved a seedy boardinghouse in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. She had moved in as manager and shared a single, top floor room with Brenda. It had two sleeping alcoves, a table, two chairs, and little else.

“I’ll continue feeding my boarders and cleaning their rooms. Somehow, I must pay off the r. . .