Chasing Secrets

  She squints at me. “How come you share a driveway with them?”

  I don’t like the way she asks this. Is she wondering if Papa works for them? “They’re my aunt and uncle.”

  Hattie’s mouth drops open. “Karl Sweeting is your uncle?”

  I nod, watching her.

  “How come you never told anyone?” Hattie demands.

  “Why would I tell anyone?”

  “You knew, didn’t you,” Hattie demands of Gemma.

  Gemma frowns at her. “What do I care who her uncle is?” She continues instructing me on what I should and shouldn’t wear. She tries on my hats, and matches each with a parasol and gloves.

  On the way out, I let Jing know I’m visiting the Trotters, and we pile into the coach. I sit between Hattie and Gemma. Hattie can’t take her eyes off the Sweeting mansion. Gemma holds my hand while she and Hattie keep up a running chatter about brassieres—a favorite topic.

  —

  When we pull up to the Trotters’, Gus is on the porch wearing a black shirt and brown football pants, bouncing a big ball with one hand.

  “He’s obsessed with that ball,” Gemma whispers. “Some new sport, he says.”

  “Bouncing the ball is a sport?” Hattie asks as she pulls her skirt up just enough so we see her delicate boots and gracefully climbs down out of the carriage.

  Gemma shrugs. “Then they run back and forth trying to toss the ball into a fruit basket nailed to the wall. Basketball, he calls it.”

  “Never heard of it,” I say as we walk up to the house.

  “Nobody has,” Gemma agrees.

  —

  In Gemma’s room, Gus looks everywhere except directly at me.

  Gemma and Hattie hide their giggles behind their hands.

  “I need to talk to Lizzie,” Gus says.

  Hattie doesn’t look happy. First Karl and Hortense Sweeting are my uncle and aunt. Now Gus has a message for me.

  Gemma’s hands fly to her hips. “What’s the big secret?”

  Gus comes closer and whispers into my ear: “The monkey’s dead.”

  I jump. “Are you sure?”

  He nods.

  “What did he say? You have to tell us. Did you hear, Hattie?” Gemma asks.

  “The monkey’s dead,” I tell Gemma. “Remember?”

  “Does that mean the plague is here?”

  “I don’t know, Gemma,” I say. “I better go home.”

  Gemma frowns. “Not now. We’re going to eat lunch and then spend the night and then go to Playland.”

  “I can’t do that. I have to find out about this,” I tell her.

  Gemma’s hands are on her hips again. “We came all the way over to get you.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. But I have to talk to Uncle Karl. And Papa’s a doctor. He’ll come home when he hears about this. He’ll need help. So…I have to go.”

  “Don’t be crazy. If it’s the plague, Lizzie, you can’t—”

  “I’ll drive you,” Gus jumps in.

  “Whose side are you on?” Gemma demands. Hattie steps closer to Gemma and takes her hand.

  “Hers.” Gus points to me.

  “I’m trying to keep her from getting hurt,” Gemma says.

  “It’s not working,” Gus says.

  “Thanks a lot,” Gemma tells him. “Anyway, you can’t drive her without a chaperone.” Hattie nods.

  “Who’s going to know?” Gus crosses his arms.

  “I will.”

  “Gemma!” Gus rolls his eyes at her.

  Gemma sighs. “You owe me for this.”

  “Fine,” Gus says.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, then follow Gus out the door.

  “Lizzie, wait!” Gemma shouts after me. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

  I run back to Gemma’s room and give her a quick hug. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

  —

  In the small barn, we climb into the buggy, and the Trotters’ stable boy hands the lines to Gus. Gus makes a clicking noise, and the little chestnut trots forward. Out on the street, Gus glances over at me. “That’s not all, Lizzie. I heard they were going to burn down Chinatown.”

  “What! Why?”

  “I don’t know. They hate the Chinese. They want them out.”

  “You can’t just burn down people’s houses. That’s criminal! They have no right.”

  “It’s not my idea.”

  “Who? Who is going to do this?”

  “I don’t know exactly. I don’t even know if it’s true. I’ve been asking around because you wanted to know about the monkey.” His face turns red.

  “When are they going to burn Chinatown?”

  “I heard midnight tonight.”

  “Tonight! Gus, they can’t. The police have to stop them!”

  “And they will. At least, I think they will.”

  When we get to the Sweeting mansion, I think Gus will just drop me off. But he hands the horse and carriage to Ho and hurries after me up the marble steps through the thick sweet smell of jasmine. In the foyer, the electric chandelier sparkles. We’re already inside by the time the butler appears. I always come in before he has a chance to get the door. He doesn’t like this.

  I walk Gus through the big kitchen, which smells of banana pudding. Nettie is instructing two houseboys on the correct use of the dumbwaiter. She ignores me. We really don’t like each other after what happened with Maggy. I hoped Aunt Hortense would fire her, but she hasn’t yet.

  Upstairs, Aunt Hortense is on the telephone. I peek into Uncle Karl’s office.

  Uncle Karl looks pleased to see me. He’s wearing a red-striped vest and a white linen suit. A straw boater hangs on the hat rack. “Why, Peanut, you’ve brought a friend to visit.”

  “Uncle Karl, this is Gus Trotter.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Trotter,” Uncle Karl says.

  “You, too, Mr. Sweeting, sir,” Gus says.

  “We’re here because we heard the monkey died,” I say, and brace myself.

  Uncle Karl groans. “Lizzie! Do you never learn?”

  I blunder on. “But, Uncle Karl, if the monkey died, doesn’t that mean the plague is here?”

  “Poppycock. Hearsay.”

  “But Dr. Kinyoun injected the plague germ—”

  “Kinyoun offed the monkey to prove his point. He had no choice. His reputation was on the line. The quarantine was massively unpopular. He didn’t want to look like an ignoramus for having called it.”

  He pulls the dowels of papers down and begins sifting through them. When he finds the article he’s looking for, he sets it in front of me. “Look here.” He taps the Chinese words. The translation is handwritten and pasted next to the text. “Even the Chinese can see through these shenanigans.”

  THE MONKEY IS DEAD

  Why should Chinatown’s good name depend on the life and death of a monkey?…In the view of this newspaper, the monkey’s death was not caused by plague. Alas, the monkey’s death was due to starvation—a result of its unlucky encounter with this physician.

  I hand the page to Gus to read.

  “If this monkey nonsense were true, don’t you think I’d splash it all over the front page?” Uncle Karl asks.

  “Yes.”

  “You bet I would. Sell a lot of newspapers, that’s for sure.”

  Uncle Karl will do practically anything to sell more newspapers. I once saw him give free puppies to newsboys who sold more of his newspaper, the Call, than of Hearst’s Examiner.

  “Mr. Sweeting, sir.” Gus looks directly at Uncle Karl for the first time. “There’s talk of burning down Chinatown.”

  Uncle Karl nods. “I know there is, but it doesn’t amount to a hill of beans. Chinatown is in the heart of the city. If they torch it, what’s to stop the whole city from burning? It’s just talk. Cooler heads will prevail.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gus says.

  “Look, I appreciate that you two young people are so civic-minded this aftern
oon, but on a beautiful day like today…I’d head out to Ocean Beach.” Uncle Karl stands up to usher us out. “Shall I arrange a ride for you?”

  “Not right now. Thanks, Uncle Karl,” I say.

  Uncle Karl has made me feel better. Burning down Chinatown. Who would do that? Still, something he said niggles. He said a fire in Chinatown would put the city at risk. It’s as if he’s not worried about Chinatown, only the rest of the city.

  Gus and I walk down the formal stairwell. I always use the servants’ stairs, but if I take Gus that way, it will make Aunt Hortense crazy.

  Outside on the cobblestones between the houses, Gus points to a dead rat. “We’ve had way more dead rats than usual this year, have you noticed?”

  “Yes, and our mouser has run away. Seems we should have fewer dead ones lying around.”

  “At school we’ve been reading about London in Shakespeare’s time. They had the plague then. They think Shakespeare’s sisters died of it.”

  “Really?” Gus is so smart.

  “Yep…and they talk about all the rats.”

  “Papa says rats are connected to lots of diseases.”

  Gus nods. “I suppose, but that’s not the only thing that bothers me. When people try so hard to prove something isn’t true, it makes me suspicious.”

  “So what are you saying, Gus? You think the plague is here?”

  “I wonder.”

  “Well, Papa says there are no confirmed cases,” I tell him.

  Gus climbs into his buggy. “Then I’m wrong. He’d know.”

  “Gus?”

  “Yes.” He turns back to me. “Thank you for finding out and for bringing me home. You’re a good”—my face gets hot—“you know, friend.”

  “Oh, um, yes.” He turns away, but not before I see the brilliant smile flash across his lips.

  —

  After dinner, I spot Billy in the stable saddling John Henry.

  I run to the barn in my stocking feet. “Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “Do you know when Papa will be back?”

  “I think Jack Clemons took him up to San Rafael. His wife had a seizure. Be at least a day before we’ll see him again.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Gus was talking about people burning down Chinatown. Have you heard anything about that?”

  Billy’s eyes shift slightly. He slips the bit into John Henry’s mouth. “Why?”

  “Why? Because it’s important.”

  “Is Jing here?”

  “No.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “When’s he coming back?” Billy pulls the reins over John Henry’s ears and then flaps them over the pommel.

  “I don’t know that, either,” I say. “Hey, wait. You know something.”

  “No.” His voice falters. “You do.”

  Billy places the toe of his boot in the stirrup. “I don’t know anything!”

  “Billy.” I hang on his arm like I used to when we were little and I wanted something. “Tell me.”

  “Stop being annoying. Look.” He shakes me off, turns, and looks straight into my eyes for once. I see the old Billy then. He’s there behind the new one. “I’m in a fight tonight. Got a big purse. I don’t want to be worried about you. Stay out of this, all right?”

  “You worry about me?”

  “It happens,” he snorts. I let go of him, and he gets onto John Henry.

  “Shakespeare’s sisters died of the plague,” I tell him. “Bully for Shakespeare’s sisters. You’re not going to die of the plague. But you might stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  “Uncle Karl said they aren’t going to burn Chinatown down.”

  “He’s right, so go inside, Lizzie, like a good girl.” He whacks John Henry with his crop and the big horse trots forward.

  “Can’t I come with you?”

  “No. Go in the house or I’ll tell Aunt Hortense. I mean it!”

  I’ll stay out of it once I’ve let Noah and Jing know to get out of Chinatown. I hope Uncle Karl is right, but there’s no way I’m going to sit around the house. I need to warn them, even if it means lying to Aunt Hortense again. Billy would only say stay away if there were something going on.

  Navigating Chinatown’s narrow streets with a horse and buggy is too hard. Billy could barely manage. And if I took the wagon, who would watch it while I searched for Noah?

  I could put on my overalls and ride Juliet bareback, but Aunt Hortense would kill me. She’d rather I rode in my birthday suit. She doesn’t even approve of split skirts. If I ride past her window, she’ll hear me.

  My only hope is to go after she falls asleep. This time I won’t be so stupid as to use Uncle Karl’s name. She doesn’t know about Noah. She won’t find out about this, either. I’ll be back before she wakes up.

  As I wait in my overalls, the big yellow moon high in the night sky, my hands shake and my knees wobble. Maggy is asleep. Jing isn’t back yet.

  The Sweeting bedroom is on the other side of their mansion, but what about the servants? The Irish sleep on the fourth floor, and the Chinese sleep in the basement. Will they hear? Two hunting dogs are kept in the stable at the far corner of their property. Will Aunt Hortense and Uncle Karl assume their dogs are barking at a skunk? Or send someone to investigate?

  I tie my hair back, take Billy’s old cap off the hat rack, and let myself out the back door. The sounds of the door shutting, my steps on the footpath, even my breathing, seem unnaturally loud. Someone is going to hear.

  In our barn, Juliet is lying down in her straw bed. My presence startles her, and she gets up. She knows I shouldn’t be here at this hour.

  The windowless tack room is pitch-black. Light a gas lamp? No. If a maid or a stable boy looks out, they’ll see a light and know something is amiss. I feel my way through the bridles to what I think is Juliet’s, but when I get it out to the moonlight, I see it’s an old one with a busted throatlatch.

  Back I go, running my hands along each bit, until I find another round snaffle ring. This time I’m right.

  In my overalls I’ve packed money, matches, and a cookie. I’d like to ride with a light, but I can’t gallop holding a lantern. There’s a full moon out tonight. Juliet should be fine.

  I stick my finger into the flat space behind Juliet’s teeth; she opens her mouth for the bit, and I slip the headstall over her ears. Then I lead her to the mounting block, lace my hands through her dark mane, get a firm hold of the reins, and slide my leg over her warm back.

  One horse is quieter than a horse and a buggy or a horse and a wagon, but hooves on the cobblestones make a racket. My plan is to ride on our grass until the last possible moment, then cut across to the cobblestones for the final ten feet.

  Juliet knows me well. I don’t have to kick her to get her to move. A slight squeeze will do. Sometimes I just think what I want and she does it.

  I huddle over Juliet’s mane as we trot along the grass. My heart pumps with the thrill of riding in the crisp night air. I steer her around the last tree and onto the driveway. Her hooves clatter as we trot through the gate. But when I turn back to look, nothing stirs.

  The street is dark and quiet. A lamplighter tends to a gaslight; electric porch lights flicker. The wind cuts through my jacket; the night is colder than I expected.

  In the distance I hear a horse snort, a drunken man’s song, the clanking of metal.

  I keep Juliet trotting down the center of the street, away from the dark alleys. Aunt Hortense’s voice runs through my head. This is no place for a young lady, Elizabeth. For once, she’s right. If I were to disappear right now, it would be morning before anyone knew, and that might be too late.

  The girls from Miss Barstow’s talk about people getting “shanghaied.” Out of the darkness, someone grabs you and hits you over the head. When you wake up, you’re on a ship sailing for Shanghai or some other place halfway a
round the world. Some eventually make it home. Most do not.

  The road is flat on this block. I urge Juliet to gallop before the steep hills begin again and I have to pull her back to a jog. I pass a few buggies and men on foot coming home from the saloons, but no one pays any attention to me. In the dark, with my short hair, Billy’s cap, and my overalls, I look like a boy.

  Up and down the streets we go. When the street is level again, I squeeze Juliet’s warm sides, and she breaks into a gallop. She’s breathing hard.

  Up ahead, an abandoned wagon blocks the road. I pull her up. Juliet prances, roots with her head. I wheel her back around the way I came, but when I turn, five men appear out of the darkness.

  In front of me, the men. Behind me, the wagon.

  “Purty horse,” a young man with a scruffy beard says.

  They form a wall in front of me. Juliet senses my terror and spins. The short one with sweaty, shiny skin has brass knuckles.

  I consider the wagon. It’s too big to jump. Could we squeeze through? No.

  “Why, she’s a girl, ain’t she?’ says the tall one who is missing most of his teeth. He has a raspy laugh.

  “A horse and a girl. Looks like we hit the jackpot.”

  “You give us that horse, little girl, and maybe we’ll let you go,” Scruffy Beard says.

  “Or maybe we won’t.” The short one smells of rum and urine.

  A man with a bull chest has a knife. I see it glint.

  They’re closing in. I leap off, slip my fingers under the headstall, and pull Juliet’s bridle off. I swing the bridle hard and hit Juliet on the butt with the bit; she bolts through the men. With no bridle on and no saddle, she’s impossible to catch. In the commotion, as they chase her, I run for my life.

  My feet fly over the street, footsteps right behind me. I pick up speed, glancing back. There’s more room between us now, but just as I turn around, my foot twists and I fly through the air and slam hard into the street. Scruffy Beard leaps onto me before I can get up. I don’t see his face. But I can feel his beard. Smell his sweat.

  I yank free, but a cold arm like a metal pipe wraps around my chest. A second arm has me by the throat.

  I scream. The arm tightens, cutting off the sound. Bull Chest knocks the back of my knees with a metal bar, and my legs cave. I collapse forward, his chest bearing down on me. I gasp in the smell of his rotting teeth, try to kick out. Try to shove him off.