The Case of the Missing Maid

Book 1: Harriet Morrow Investigates

by Rob Osler

Genres: Historical Mysteries; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

The acclaimed author of the Anthony, Agatha, Macavity, and Lefty Award-nominated Devil’s Chew Toy delights with the first in a new historical mystery series set in turn-of-the-19th-century Chicago, as America is entering its Progressive Era and Harriet Morrow, a bike-riding, trousers-wearing lesbian, has just begun her new job as the first female detective at the Windy City's Prescott Agency . . .

Rough-around-the-edges Harriet Morrow has long been drawn to the idea of whizzing around the city on her bicycle as a professional detective, solving crimes for a living without having to take a husband. Just twenty-one with a younger brother to support, she seizes the chance when the prestigious Prescott Agency hires her as its first woman operative. The move sparks controversy—with skeptical male colleagues, a high-strung office secretary, and her boss, Mr. Theodore Prescott, all waiting for her to unravel under the pressure . . .

Only an hour into the job, Harriet has an assignment: Discover the whereabouts of a missing maid from one of the most extravagant mansions on Prairie Avenue. Owner Pearl Bartlett has a reputation for sending operatives on wild goose chases around her grand estate, but Harriet believes the stunningly beautiful Agnes Wozniak has indeed vanished under mysterious circumstances—possibly a victim of kidnapping, possibly a victim of something worse . . .

With Mr. Prescott pushing a hard deadline, Harriet’s burgeoning career depends on working through a labyrinth of eccentric characters and murky motives in a race to discover who made Agnes disappear. When her search leads to Chicago’s Polish community and a new friendship in Agnes’s charming older sister, Barbara, clues scattered across the city slowly reveal just how much depends on Harriet’s inexperienced investigation for answers . . . and the deep danger that awaits once she learns the truth.
 

Release date: December 24, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Harriet Morrow considered the fashions of 1898 little improved over the year before. Long bell-shaped skirts and silly, frilly blouses with puffed shoulders continued to emphasize the distinction between the sexes—as if she or anyone else needed reminding who wore the pants. The popular silhouette, wide at top and bottom with a nipped waist, fit Harriet’s midsection as well as a watermelon in a bread box. For reasons both practical and personal, she longed for the simplicity of men’s straight-legged trousers and a white starched shirt. Although acquiescing to convention with a wardrobe of plain-fronted white shirtwaists and black bow tie, jacket, and skirt from the cheaper racks in Marshall Field’s women’s department, she’d rather paste grass clippings to a straw bonnet than pay two dollars for some ready-made women’s frippery. Harriet tucked her wiry auburn hair beneath a man’s black bowler—purchased from Sears, Roebuck and Company for a reasonable one dollar and ten cents.

Although an avid bicyclist, Harriet had left her prized Overman Victoria at home—today was not a day to risk dirtying the hem of her skirt. Grabbing the streetcar’s last open seat, she sat wedged shoulder-to-shoulder between two fellow passengers on the hard wooden bench. Given the chilly March morning, she was grateful for the shared warmth of a body on either side. Anyone looking on might mistake her knees jittering beneath her handbag as shivers, when in truth she was anxious. In a quarter hour, she would meet her coworkers for the first time and didn’t doubt that most, if not all, of them would think her entirely unsuitable for her new position. She’d do herself no favors by revealing her nervousness.

Three blocks from her final destination, Harriet hopped down from the streetcar and joined the throng of mostly men—all wearing nearly indistinguishable long dark woolen coats and hats—hurrying in all directions. In her twenty-one years of living in Chicago, the city had grown to become the nation’s second largest. With miles of sidewalks swarming with pedestrians and a sprawling grid of congested streets, the midwestern metropolis throbbed with a dizzying cacophony of humanity. Not for the first time, she appreciated the city leaders’ decision to elevate the passenger train serving downtown. The first full circuit of “the Loop” had been completed just the year before. Its structure of riveted steel plate resembled that of Paris’s famed Eiffel Tower—or so Harriet had read in the pages of the Chicago Tribune.

Dodging several buggies and delivery wagons—and barely avoiding being run over by a new Duryea motorcar, a contraption that turned every head—Harriet crossed North LaSalle Street to Number 30, stepped inside the marbled lobby, and joined the huddle waiting for an elevator. Happy for the warmth, she glanced apprehensively at those around her, wondering if any of these men and women would soon be her colleagues. What might they think of her? Would they be welcoming? Incredulous? Or worse, might they be dismissive? Whatever reception she might receive, she couldn’t allow it to affect her performance. She had taken a risk by quitting her bookkeeping job at Rock Island. Although the work had been mind-numbingly boring with no prospect for advancement— and insufferably dusty from the grain elevators—it had been steady, providing just enough for both her and her brother. With scant savings to fall back on, she had no option but to make a go of it upstairs.

After stops on each ascending floor, the doors finally opened to the sixth and the offices of the Prescott Detective Agency. With a “pardon me” and “sorry, sir, but if I might just . . .” she wriggled her way out from the rear of the packed cabin. She had been to these offices once before. Last week, she shocked the agency’s principal, Theodore Prescott, by presenting a clipping of his agency’s ad seeking a junior field operative along with her application. Met with Prescott’s furrowed brow, she had argued that Chicago’s unsavory characters would be more inclined to let down their guard and reveal their secrets to a woman. Animated by her audacity, the diminutive Prescott had leaped from his chair, revealing his immaculately tailored gray worsted suit—the color matching his voluminous beard—and English-style shoes polished to a fine sheen. “Detective work is a man’s work,” he had lectured, adding that her boldness would surely dissolve when confronting the city’s dark alleys, seedy pool halls, and nefarious gambling dens.

“With all due respect, sir,” Harriet said, knowing she would not win him over by tucking her tail, “I may not wear trousers or whiskers, but history has shown both to be an unreliable indicator of either courage or intelligence.”

As Prescott had sputtered in astonishment, she’d held his gaze.

“Raise up your skirt a few inches,” he managed to say.

The demand was scandalous, but Harriet suspected Prescott wanted only to better see her shoes. Despite hers costing but a small fraction of his, they were of a remarkably similar style. After an awkward silence, Prescott surprised her by saying nothing about her men’s footwear and instead declared her ankles to be “thick and sturdy,” which would prove beneficial given the rigors of the job. He had then offered her employment as a junior field operative on a trial basis.

Despite Prescott offering her less than the salary advertised—he’d presumed he would be hiring a man—at nine dollars a week, she’d now earn fifty percent more than before. Struggling to contain her excitement, she had accepted the job on the spot.

“Who are you here to see?” the receptionist asked. That the young woman had no recollection of Harriet’s visit the week before was unusual. Her bowler hat, conservative attire, and mannish features—a broad nose, thin lips, and square jaw—stood in opposition to the look common among women in downtown offices, exemplified by the petite receptionist’s own stylish clothing, chorus-girl looks, and abundant blond curls pulled into a tidy knot atop her head. The woman would surely draw admiring looks from any man—or woman who, like Harriet, preferred a female’s curves over a man’s straight and uninspiring frame.

“I’m not sure who to ask for,” Harriet admitted. “You see, I am a new employee. I’m to be a junior field operative.”

The receptionist’s tidy brows lifted. “Oh? Are you quite sure you haven’t confused us with another firm? This is the Prescott Agency.”

Over the puffed shoulder of the receptionist’s white shirtwaist, Harriet could see the large PRESCOTT AGENCY sign. “Yes, I am quite aware.”

“But we have no female detectives.”

“Would you please notify Mr. Prescott of my arrival?” Harriet asked. “My name is Harriet Morrow.”

The young woman glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. “It’s only eight o’clock. Mr. Prescott never arrives before nine.”

“Then his secretary perhaps? Might she be available?” Harriet recalled meeting her when she applied for the job. “Madelaine. We didn’t have an occasion to speak, but I’m sure she will remember my interview with Mr. Prescott. Maybe she is expecting me?”

“Madelaine?” the woman said, looking like she’d been pinched.

“Yes. If you’d be so kind as to let Madelaine know that Harriet Morrow has arrived for her first day of work. I’m sure Mr. Prescott would prefer I begin straightaway than to sit on my hands for an hour until he arrives.”

“If you insist,” the receptionist said, “I’ll relay the message.” Heels clacking, she headed down the corridor to where the secretary’s desk sat before the tall double doors leading to the principal’s inner sanctum.

As Harriet waited, she took in the lobby. Someone had selected the spare furnishings—the receptionist’s desk and chair, a small austere sofa for guests, and the imposing grandfather clock—with purpose in mind. The message: the Prescott Agency was a place of work and efficiency, not of frivolous comforts.

Hearing fast-approaching footsteps, Harriet looked up and immediately recognized the principal’s secretary, who, easily two decades her senior, exuded self-importance based not on her own authority but rather on her proximity to it. Madelaine carried an excess of two dozen pounds and moved with the determination of a locomotive. With the receptionist racing to keep up, Madelaine started talking before reaching the lobby. “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. This is the Prescott Agency.”

“Yes, I’m fully—”

“If you’d like to leave an application for a secretarial position, you’re welcome to do so. But at present—”

“Madam,” Harriet raised a hand, bringing Madelaine up short. “My name is Harriet Morrow. I was hired by Mr. Prescott last Thursday. Do you not recall my meeting with him?”

Madelaine waved an arm dismissively through the air, wafting a cloying scent of talcum powder. “Then I’m sorry to say you misunderstood. We have no secretarial positions available at the moment.”

The receptionist continued to observe the conversation as if watching two shoppers tussle over the last head of lettuce.

Harriet took a deep breath and expelled it silently, trying to project a cordial manner. This woman was her new boss’s gatekeeper, after all. “Perhaps it’s best then if I wait for Mr. Prescott to arrive.”

“You shall do no such thing,” Madelaine snapped, surprising Harriet with her abruptness. “Mr. Prescott is a very busy man. I keep his calendar. He has no time for interviews today. As I say, if you care to leave an application, we’ll be in touch should you be qualified and something becomes available.”

Harriet had expected to be tested by her colleagues, just not before she’d progressed beyond the lobby. She couldn’t allow herself to be dismissed by the secretary. What would Prescott think? Standing her ground during the interview had won her the job. She hadn’t wilted when confronting Theodore Prescott; she wasn’t about to do so now because his blustery secretary was uninformed. If she were to last the first hour in the role, she would need to stay put.

“Madam, I am here because Mr. Prescott hired me”—Harriet paused just long enough for her next words to carry extra weight—“as a junior field operative. That you are unaware of my employment does not erase the fact. I was told to report here”—Harriet glanced at the clock—“precisely six minutes and fifteen seconds ago. I have no intention of not being present when Mr. Prescott arrives. I shall wait.”

To Madelaine’s sputtering dismay and the receptionist’s stunned silence, Harriet lowered herself onto the sofa’s thin cushion, maintaining eye contact with Madelaine.

“We shall see what Mr. Prescott has to say about this,” Madelaine huffed.

Harriet gave a sharp nod. “I’m pleased we agree that it’s his word that matters.”

Accepting momentary defeat, the secretary threw her arms in the air—dispensing another whiff of powder—spun on her short heels, and retreated down the corridor. The receptionist wore an unreadable expression, which Harriet guessed was either admiration or pity—or perhaps a bit of both. Her accompanying words, “You’ve got nerve,” did nothing to clarify her intent.

As Harriet awaited Prescott’s arrival, she regretted that her parents weren’t alive to have seen her off that morning. They had encouraged her bold ambitions. As a lawyer representing the interests of labor unions, her father had urged Harriet and her brother to pursue occupations engaged in righting wrongs instead of “tsk-tsking while reading the latest troubling headlines in the morning’s Tribune.” Her mother, who’d been an active member of the Illinois Equal Suffrage Association and supported the campaigns of women to serve on school boards, had told Harriet to pursue her dreams, despite what others might think of them. Harriet had taken her parents’ advice to heart but knew that most jobs available to women in social justice were limited to secretaries, prison matrons, and cooks. The first two made her grimace. The third, given her discomfort in the kitchen, caused her to shudder. Then she heard about Kate Warne—America’s first female detective. Hired by Allan Pinkerton right there in Chicago, Kate Warne had worked cases in the 1850s and 1860s, before Harriet had even been born. Harriet figured if Kate Warne could do it, why couldn’t she? Sitting there, she realized the question had an answer—and it might come soon.

At ten minutes past nine, Harriet sensed her left buttock had fallen asleep when Theodore Prescott marched into the lobby. Seeing Harriet, he barked, “What in blazes are you doing there? I don’t pay my employees to sit and gaze out the window.”

Struggling to her feet, Harriet started to explain, but Prescott was already halfway down the hallway toward his office, still barking. “I suggest you follow me, Miss Morrow. Unless you want your first day as an operative at this agency to also be your last.”

As Harriet hurried after her new boss, she caught the dumbfounded look on the receptionist’s face. She couldn’t help but return a smile. Theodore Prescott had just confirmed it.

She was now a detective.

As Theodore Prescott approached his office, Madelaine sprang to her feet. He placed his hat and long coat into her outstretched arms. Then Madelaine saw Harriet.

“You!” she exclaimed. “Just where do you think you’re going?”

From his doorway, Prescott turned back. His eyes darted from Madelaine to Harriet, then back again. “For heaven’s sake, Madelaine. Miss Morrow works here.”

“But, sir.” Madelaine appeared suddenly distraught. “I was unaware that we needed another secretary. If only you’d said something, I would have happily—”

“You may bring my morning coffee.” He turned to Harriet, who stood off to the side, hoping she didn’t appear as uncomfortable as she felt. “Coffee, Miss Morrow? Tea?”

“Nothing, thank you.” Harriet croaked out the words, so unexpected was the offer.

Prescott gave his secretary a confirming nod before entering his office. Stepping past Madelaine, Harriet couldn’t avoid the woman’s searing glare and imagined she heard a faint whistle of steam coming from her ears.

Inside the principal’s private domain, Harriet was unnerved to see her boss had disappeared. A quick scan of the room revealed a strip of light beneath an interior door. Before she had time to guess the room’s purpose, the sound of active plumbing confirmed the unthinkable—Prescott had a private lavatory.

She had been so focused during her interview that she remembered little of her surroundings aside from Prescott’s massive carved desk and his high-back, tufted leather chair that he’d occupied as if it were a throne. The light streaming in from tall windows framed by thick burgundy drapes had caused her to squint throughout the meeting. Now, with time to appreciate the entire room, she noticed that Prescott had decorated one wall with plaques and photographs of himself with various political leaders, including Illinois Governor John Riley Tanner and Chicago Mayor Carter Harrison Junior. Harriet didn’t recognize the many important-looking men posing with Prescott in ritzy private libraries, dining rooms, and gentlemen’s clubs—places that were either off-limits to women or inaccessible to someone of Harriet’s station.

Prescott returned to the room. Seeing Harriet examining a particular pair of photographs, he said, “That’s me with the architect Daniel Burnham and Charles Hutchinson, president of the Art Institute. The other is of me and George Pullman, who sadly passed last year, and Marshall Field, whose name is surely familiar to you.”

Harriet chose a nod over any remark. Those men inhabited a world as foreign and distant to her as the moon. Besides being bound by gravity and mortality, she couldn’t imagine they had anything in common.

“Now then, Miss Morrow . . .” Prescott sat and adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles, ready for business. “As it happens, I have something for you.”

“A case, sir?”

Prescott’s brows shot up. “Case? Heavens no. A meeting. A favor really.”

Harriet hadn’t expected to be assigned a task so soon. But then, she had no idea what the first hours for an inexperienced junior operative might entail. Prescott began by telling her that his family residence was on Prairie Avenue, a street all of Chicago knew well, lined with stately mansions. She and her brother, as children, had made up stories about living fantastic lives within their walls—eating chocolate cake with silver forks, having their own rooms, and waking each morning to instantly hot water and freshly squeezed juice.

The matter at hand concerned Prescott’s next-door neighbor, an older widow named Pearl Bartlett, whom he described as “harmless, but a doddering old biddy.” Twice in the past twelve months, Pearl Bartlett had requested his help to find out who had absconded with first her silver and then her jewelry. Although doubtful that anyone had burgled the woman’s home, Prescott nevertheless had dispatched Mr. Somer, his most junior operative at the time. “A neighborly courtesy,” Prescott called it. After interviewing Mrs. Bartlett on several occasions and conducting multiple searches of her three-story mansion, Mr. Somer had reported his findings to Prescott: the woman had misplaced the items in question. He had found the silver in the pantry and the jewelry in a bureau drawer hidden beneath her late husband’s toupee. Mrs. Bartlett’s latest claim was not that something else had gone missing but rather someone —specifically, her maid.

“Frankly, I wouldn’t bother,” Prescott said, reaching for a fountain pen and pad of paper. “The woman has proven herself to be entirely unreliable. But my wife . . .” He paused, apparently unable to speak and write at the same time. Scribbling finished, he looked up and handed Harriet a sheet of personalized stationery. “As I was saying, my wife is inexplicably fond of Pearl. She considers her something of an aunt. That’s the address.” He gestured toward the note she held in her hand. “You’re not married, Miss Morrow.”

“No, sir. I am not.”

“It wasn’t a question. One doesn’t need to be a detective to see you have no ring. Had you worn one at your interview, your candidacy would have been impossible. I won’t abide one of my operatives serving two masters. My experiment. . .” He stopped short, registering her frown. “Yes, you are my experiment, Miss Morrow. Oh, I know all about Allan’s dabbling with a so-called Women’s Detective Division. All that Kate Warne business. But I don’t run the Prescott Agency like those fellows over at Pinkerton. This is a professional operation. And it will remain such.”

Harriet bit her tongue. Was Prescott suggesting his agency’s professionalism was at risk by employing a woman field operative? If that was how he felt, why hire her at all?

“You should speak with Mr. Somer before you depart for Mrs. Bartlett’s. He can offer a few insights to save you time once you’re there. You’ll also need to become versed in how we issue reports and conduct operations around here. Protocols, Miss Morrow, are to be followed without exception. For that, ask Mr. McCabe. Like you, he is a junior, but McCabe has two years under his belt, more than ample experience to convey the fundamentals. I’ve yet to decide the best approach for your broader training—surveillance, undercover operations, criminal law, how we inform and conduct our work alongside the police. You’ve much to learn, but one step at a time. Unpreparedness in some lines of work might result in a paper cut or a twisted ankle, but for a detective, a wrong move might get your throat slit. Do I make myself clear, Miss Morrow?”

As Harriet nodded, Prescott opened a file on his desk and began to read, leaving her standing uncertainly in front of his desk for several seconds.

“That will be all,” he said, eyes still fixed on the document before him.

As she reached for the door handle, he added, “Time is money, Miss Morrow. Don’t dilly-dally with Mrs. Bartlett. I’m sure it will amount to nothing. Do not prove me wrong.”

Outside Prescott’s office, with no sign of Madelaine, Harriet returned to the lobby.

“Hello, again,” Harriet said to the receptionist. “I really could use your help. You don’t happen to know where I might find Mr. Somer or Mr. McCabe?”

“Mr. Somer? Mr. McCabe?” The receptionist frowned.

Had Harriet not witnessed the woman’s apprehension before, she might think her a halfwit.

“I can show you to the detectives’ offices, but I must be quick about it. I shouldn’t leave the lobby unattended.”

Walking in the direction opposite Prescott’s office, they first passed a room with three young men sitting at desks. “Clerks,” the receptionist explained, tilting her blond head toward them. They then entered a long corridor with offices on either side. The doors’ frosted panes had been stenciled with the name of each occupant along with titles ranging from junior field operative on the interior side to senior field operative on the window side.

“I trust you can find your way from here. I really must get back.” And with that, she turned and left Harriet alone in the hallway.

Someone occupying one of the detectives’ offices didn’t consider it too early to smoke a pipe. Harriet fanned the air in front of her nose before considering how the gesture might appear to others. First impressions were indelible. She couldn’t have anyone branding her as delicate or overly sensitive. Moving down the hallway, her head swiveled right to left, reading the names painted in simple black lettering on the doors. Charles was most common; there were three of them, along with two Josephs, one Walter, one Leonard, one Frank, and finally a name she was looking for: MATTHEW MCCABE, under which was stenciled, JUNIOR FIELD OPERATIVE. Harriet held back from knocking; she first wanted to find Carl Somer’s office. She didn’t have far to look; it was the next and last one in the corridor.

A knock on Carl’s door met with silence. He was either late to arrive or had already come and gone. She stepped back to Matthew McCabe’s door. As she raised a hand to knock, a voice said, “Come in. It’s open.”

As Harriet entered the office, Matthew McCabe was already on his feet, a hand extended. “You must be Miss Morrow. Harriet Morrow, if I’m not mistaken.”

Delighted that someone knew her name, she shook his hand with gusto, noting his soft, strong grip and that his shirt cuff was neatly pressed. “That’s correct. How did you—”

“Your silhouette.” He tilted his head toward the door. “The panes are frosted, not opaque. Prescott calls them semi-private. Frankly, I think he prefers that we not get too comfortable.”

Matthew produced a winning smile, complementing his other features, notably pale blue eyes, a thatch of red hair, and a freckled complexion. She didn’t doubt he would be a popular figure among the women in the office. Standing about six feet, he was six inches taller than Harriet and possessed a willowy frame similar to that of her brother Aubrey—a trait inherited from their father that had skipped over her by a wide margin.

“Actually,” Harriet said, “I was wondering how you knew who I am?”

“Oh,” he chuckled. “Every Friday, Prescott holds court with the detectives. You’ll want to put that on your calendar. Every Friday, ten o’clock. Don’t be late. Don’t ever be late. That’s when we all heard about you.”

Harriet silently corrected his remark that “all” had heard the news of her hire, understanding that he meant all the detectives.

Matthew continued, “The announcement caused quite a stir.” He smiled warmly, suggesting he was on her side. “In case you’re unaware, we’ve never had a female detective before.”

Not only was Harriet aware, but that morning’s every encounter had affirmed the fact. “I’m sure it will take some getting used to,” she said, her words applying as much to herself as to everyone else who worked there.

“Yes, well”—Matthew shifted his weight—“that’s a fair way to put it.”

Once Harriet relayed Prescott’s instruction that she seek his assistance in issuing reports and other operational matters, Matthew cheerfully agreed to help her learn “The Prescott Way.” He invited her to sit, gave her a pencil and tablet, and began by explaining the sixth-floor layout. Prescott’s offi. . .