From Across the Room, Gina L. Mulligan [year 7 reading list txt] 📗

He shifted forward in his chair.

“I shall say it bluntly, sir, as it’s clear you don’t temper your medicine with sugar. Mr. Kennard is a thief, a forger, and a liar. He is repugnant and shall soon be locked in prison.”

If you are now confused, my darling, please continue. What I reveal is the truth. It seems our lives were intertwined long before we collided in the ballroom at the hotel. Fate has intervened on our behalf, and I am reminded how small the world sometimes seems.

“I sincerely hope you have evidence to support such slanderous remarks, Thomas,” your father said. “Mr. Kennard has worked for me for nearly ten years and must marry my youngest daughter.”

I found this an odd way to state what in fact was not so, but I pushed aside my urge to correct him and shared that on March 15, 1879, the Worcester Midland Bank was robbed. He interrupted, wanting to know if I thought Kennard was a bank robber.

“No. I’m afraid it’s much worse. May I go on?”

He nodded but was silent.

I next explained how the thieves were caught and the case appeared solved. There was just one slight problem. The amount of money recovered by the police did not match the amount taken. Your father huffed and asked why he should care if thieves spent some of their ill-gotten gains. It was a sound conclusion; however, they were not short of funds. I explained the bags contained too much currency.

“Counterfeits,” he murmured.

I was inspired by your father’s quick intelligence and continued with carriage.

The extra bills were indeed counterfeit. And because the money was stolen directly from the bank vault, the Treasury Department needed to find out how the counterfeits got into bank funds. There was either an unobservant employee or a criminal on the bank’s payroll. The tellers were questioned and managers submitted detailed staff reports. Some of the reports were very entertaining. When I then told your father one of the tellers was fired for handing out extra cash to pretty girls, he replied, “You’re inventing this.”

“On the contrary, the Worcester records sizzled with information.”

During my research, I also found information about an assistant manager, Irwin Bennett. Mr. Bennett was one of three managers entrusted with keys to the bank vault. Naturally he was a suspect; however, he was never questioned by the Treasury. Just a few weeks after the robbery, he quit his post and moved without notice.

I paused with this revelation, anticipating your father’s question, but he was stoic. So I further explained.

Mr. Bennett was never questioned because he was considered a hero. The robbery took place at two o’clock, the exact time when Mr. Bennett opened the vault. Unsuspecting Mr. Bennett was trapped alone with the gunmen. The specifics are unknown, as Mr. Bennett was never interviewed, but the investigators assumed Mr. Bennett attempted to thwart the robbery.

With this, your father wanted to know why the treasury investigators made such an assumption.

“Because he was shot,” I said.

“What in the world does this have to do with Mr. Kennard? Get to your point.”

Ignoring his demand, I asked if he knew about my exchange with Kennard at the hospital. He had heard all about the incident (I must assume from Kennard himself), and called it disgraceful. I agreed it was a paltry display and shared with your father how Kennard and I met that evening to discuss the situation.

“Mr. Kennard shared a most interesting story of his childhood. The particulars are unnecessary, but I must implore you to believe the story he shared was not his own. Coincidence is startling sometimes. The elaborate details of his childhood were that of an old friend of mine, a Mr. William Crawley,” I said.

Your father broke in and told me to start making sense or get out of his office. He did not care or see any reason why Kennard would make up a trivial childhood story.

“Not made up, sir, we’ll say it was borrowed. And why of course is the question. It’s apparent Mr. Kennard knows my friend, William Crawley, and in 1879, the year of the robbery, Mr. Crawley was a bank teller at Worcester Midland Bank.”

Your father turned in his chair; his mysterious expression replaced with flaring nostrils and flushed cheeks. “Gadwell, you’re talking in circles. I retain my initial judgment that you’re a half-wit and I’ll see to it—”

This time I stopped him and launched into the details. “The bank manager, Mr. Bennett, and my friend Mr. Crawley were printing the counterfeit money. I know this for a fact, just as I know I love your daughter. On the day of the robbery, Mr. Bennett was in the vault switching the bills when he was interrupted before he had time to withdraw the real currency. Bennett must have known if the money was recovered the counterfeits would be discovered. I believe he was shot while trying to recover the fake bills.”

Your father stood up and paced in front of the window. “So Bennett and Crawley printed snide bills? I have no interest in these men. I’ve never heard of either of them.”

But he has, my dear, and so have you. You see, Mr. Bennett did not die from the gunshot wound but was badly injured. He was shot in the right cheek. Reportedly it was a deep wound that would leave a remarkable scar.

Color drained from your father’s face, but I then said what he needed to hear. “Mr. Bennett, the man involved in counterfeiting, extortion, and theft is without a doubt your Mr. Kennard. And I believe Mr. Kennard is still printing counterfeits.”

My dearest, I hope learning the truth about Kennard is not too great a shock.

I thought I was prepared for any reaction; he might not believe me or demand more evidence. I even imagined a sincere pat on the shoulder for saving his daughter from such a man. It is fair to say I was flabbergasted when he began laughing.

He laughed in deep, powerful bursts that would have been infectious if I were not the cause. When at last he caught his breath he turned and stared at me. I reaffirmed the validity of my information and made clear my true regard and concern for his whole family. He cracked his knuckles then said, “I underestimated you, Thomas. You’re slick. To think I let you continue with such lunacy —”

“I assure you —”

He pounded his fists on the desk. “You can assure me of nothing, you arrogant ne’er-do-well. Do you think I’m an idiot? I’m no fool. I know all about your letters to Mary. I thought my man would scare you off. Unfortunate outing for carriage problems, but you had fair warning. Of course I had to pull my man when Mary ran off. I couldn’t risk her getting hurt.”

When we are again in each other’s arms I will explain in delicate terms a most indelicate incident.

He leaned across his desk. “You’ve paraded your insubordination for months, and now you want me to believe riddles as if I were one of those Nancy-boy editors I see prancing down Madison Avenue. What I believe is that you’re a scoundrel who would say or do anything to win Mary.

“And where is your proof?” he asked. “You’re accusing a loyal and trusted member of my company based on nothing more than a childhood story and old scar. I didn’t build my business on speculation or the hearsay of men without sense. My wealth was made from the sweat and blood of loyal men who put in a hard day’s labor—men like Lowell Kennard. You’re just another—”

“That’s enough!” I leapt to my feet and met his glare. “I’ve endured your insults and reproach because I love your daughter and know how much she wants your approval. But now you are accusing me of being underhanded while you defend a criminal and admit your attempt on my life. You’re reprehensible. Money really doesn’t care who owns it. You’re not a gentleman, you’re a fiend.”

He shouted for me to get out of his office. “And if I find out Mary has any more contact with you, I’ll toss her to the street like a washwoman.”

Mary, I agonized if I should reveal all that was said by your father. I take nothing away from his rearing of such a wonderful woman, but if you are to have your own life you must live unrestrained by the perceptions of childhood.

I went to the door but stopped at the threshold and faced your father before leaving. “I shall present my information about Kennard to the authorities. More importantly, I’ll hold nothing from the future Mrs. Gadwell. I have complete faith in Mary’s competent judgment.”

There is one important fact I kept from your father but tell you now in trust and confidence. I was able to link these facts together because my father helped William Crawley escape justice. I even disclose my father made a tidy sum. Who could predict his assistance would someday aid his own son’s nemesis?

Though you longed for your father’s approval and I wanted you to wed a famous author, it seems both are doubtful. You see, there is something else you should know. I missed my deadline. Putnam pulled my contract, as did Avery. Funny, but none of it matters anymore. I indeed have what I most desire.

My dearest, I shall wait as long as you need to adjust to what has transpired. Then we can marry in Boston and live as the fable ends. Am I too optimistic? Do I presume too much? Will you cast aside my findings as the illusions of a lunatic? I have undying faith in the future Mrs. Thomas Gadwell.

Ever yours,

Thomas

June 28, 1889.

MY FRIEND —

I left you like a prisoner swinging from a rope. If you were anyone but a man in love with the perfect story, I would apologize. Henry, are you ready for the denouement? Even with the outline and what I believed were all the elements for the baroque ending, what happened was far more fantastic. Mr. Harting and Lowell Kennard are far more dangerous than I suspected.

By now you have received my letter depicting my impetuous meeting with Mr. Harting. Upon reflection, I should have expected his reaction. He is so like my father, headstrong and convicted. Men like that loathe cracks in their foundation. I arrived with a sappy grin and large chisel. No wonder he was angry.

Mary believed everything I uncovered. She told her father she would never marry Kennard and officially announced our engagement. A few days later she was released from the hospital and returned home to make preparations for Boston. When she got home, however, Mary found her father waiting for her in the solarium. The rest of the family and servants were ordered out of the house. He demanded to speak with her alone.

Mary wrote their conversation word for word, as if she would never forget even one fantastic syllable. For brevity and clarity, I shall summarize. What I am about to reveal is copyrighted. Yes, my friend, this shall someday be a bestseller.

After I presented my case, Mr. Harting did in fact cross-hackle Mr. Kennard about his alternate identity and banking ventures. From Mr. Harting’s account, Kennard was forthcoming.

Lowell Kennard, born Irwin Bennett in Worcester, Massachusetts, worked as a teller and taught at the evening banking school run by the Tenth National Bank. There he met my old pal William Crawley, and the pair began printing counterfeits. When Bennett was promoted to bank manager, the promotion quite literally opened the doors for their next venture.