Katie

  Yours always,

  Philomela Drax

  She had decided to take a tone of banter with him. She could not write so much as was in her heart. And she distrusted and disliked effusion. A longer letter than this might well have aroused the suspicions of the Varleys, and she trusted Henry to be assured of her affection.

  When Mr. Blakey returned four days later, he came directly to Twenty-sixth Street. Philo questioned him eagerly.

  “How is Henry?”

  “Mending.”

  “Does he speak now?”

  “Yes, for short spaces. Jewel watches him closely.”

  “Did you give him my letter?”

  “Yes,” replied Mr. Blakey with a smile. “He said he was mightily surprised to see it.”

  “Why should he say that?”

  “Because Jewel had told him that you had absconded to Cal­ifornia with all Nedda’s jewels sewn into your clothing, and that you were last seen in a dance hall in San Francisco. I assured him that you were neither a thief, a dance-hall girl, nor an inhabitant of California. He said that he was glad to hear it – that he had always thought well of you.”

  Philo smiled. “Jewel was present for this? What was her response?”

  “She was a little disconcerted,” said the lawyer, “but said that though you might not be a thief, you were certainly wanted for murder in New Jersey.”

  At this Philo’s smile fled. “She is correct, Mr. Blakey. I could not have visited Henry in New Jersey for fear of arrest.”

  “Nedda told me the story,” said the lawyer. “I might as well tell you now that I have initiated a correspondence with Mr. Killip and the authorities in New Jersey in the hope of clearing your name there. But for now, I would advise you to remain on this side of the North River, and if you decide to summer some­where next year, make it Newport or Saratoga instead of Long Branch.”

  After thanking the lawyer for his interest in her, Philo asked, “Was Henry able to send a message to me?”

  “No,” said Mr. Blakey. “Miss Jewel was in the room all the while I visited Henry. And Miss Jewel, as they say, has bright ears. However,” said Mr. Blakey with a small smile, “he had a com­mission for me. . . .”

  Philo looked up.

  “He gave me this—”

  Mr. Blakey fished in his pocket and withdrew a ring, massy and gold, with a large canary diamond in the center of it.

  “He asked me to have it reset for him.”

  Philo looked at the ring: it was the ring that Henry had worn on every occasion she had ever seen him. It had been given him by his mother on his majority.

  “He said it should be made to match the diamonds that he had brought from Brazil.”

  “Caroline Varley has those diamonds,” said Philo soberly.

  “I have those diamonds,” said Mr. Blakey. “I brought them back with me. They are part of Nedda’s estate. Mrs. Varley was not pleased to give them up, I think, but she dared not argue with Henry in the house.”

  “Perhaps,” said Philo with a smile, “Henry intends them all as a gift for Jewel.”

  “He does intend them for a wedding gift, I believe,” said Mr. Blakey, “and as long as I’m here, I think I might as well take the measure of your finger, Miss Philo, just – you understand – for the sake of my records. . . .”

  Chapter 54

  ON THE BROOKLYN FERRY

  Henry Maitland mended sufficiently to think of returning to New York. Jewel and Caroline and Jacob Varley all became lobby­ists against this measure, but the doctor who came down once a week from New York to see Henry declared him fit to be moved again. He could leave New Egypt so long as he agreed to stay on Twenty-sixth Street, where he would receive sufficient care and attention.

  Jewel remonstrated violently against this, and said that if nothing else had killed him in the past six months – what with voyages to Brazil, train wrecks, and murderous thieves – Philo Drax would. Caroline Varley gently reminded her nephew of the impropriety of remaining under the same roof with a young unmarried female.

  To this Henry replied, “Jewel has reminded me often enough that Philo Drax is no more than a servant. I have lived all my life with female servants in the same house, and Philo Drax is only one more. Besides, I am, for the time being, an invalid and can do little more than sit in a chair in the sunlight.”

  “But your poor Mother!” cried Caroline Varley with sudden inspiration. “You cannot return to that house. It will be filled with painful memories!”

  “Yes, no doubt it will,” replied Henry, who had no intention of giving up his plans which called for Henry’s doctor to fetch him back to New York from New Egypt.

  The Varleys of course had wanted to come along on this jour­ney, but the doctor wisely interfered and suggested that Henry be kept as quiet as possible on the journey back. On the day that the doctor left on his errand, it happened that the youngest child of the cook on Twenty-sixth Street died of a fever. The lady, who lived in Brooklyn, was in considerable distress, and with Mr. Blakey’s permission, Philo thought to take the woman funds sufficient to cover the expenses of burial.

  Therefore, with twenty-five dollars in her pocket – this was about double what would be wanted by the lady, but she was, in everyone’s estimation, a good cook – and the happy thought in her heart that Henry Maitland would return to Twenty-sixth Street the following afternoon, Philo boarded the succession of stages that left her off at Fulton Street. She arrived just as the ferry was about to start its brief journey across the East River. The hands on deck held the ropes taut and allowed her to board, the last person onto the boat.

  The day was chill and blustery. Philo went directly to the ladies’ cabin, there to warm herself near the stove.

  But she forgot the chill, and the newspaper she carried dropped from her hands. Directly upon entering the cabin, she saw Katie Slape, bending forward and putting some soft question to a lady seated with a baby in her lap.

  Philo instinctively turned her face away, so that she would not be seen if Katie looked up. She picked up the newspaper and retreated into the farthest corner of the saloon. Holding up the paper before her, she peered round the edge of it and watched Katie. The fortune-teller was grasping the baby’s two tiny hands in her own and was whispering earnestly in the mother’s ear.

  Philo sat very still, wondering at fate. She was in the same room with Katie Slape, who had murdered her grandfather, mur­dered her mother, stolen her fortune, and, in short, caused her vast misery. Yet this morning Philo was happy, thinking of Henry’s return and his promise of marriage. And Katie Slape, who had worked so hard to overthrow her, was now an orphan. Philo had seen both her parents die – and it occurred to Philo sud­denly that Katie might in truth be ignorant of the deaths of John and Hannah Slape. But where was Philo’s money, if Katie was telling fortunes on the Brooklyn ferry, wearing a dress fash­ioned of material so decidedly cheap?

  Yet if in some manner inexplicable to her and without her realizing it had happened, Philo’s wheel of fortune had turned, and she stood at the top of the wheel, while Katie Slape was being crushed at the bottom, Philo still had no intention of for­getting her vow. She would not let Katie Slape remain in her peaceful anonymity. For many moments she wondered what she should do. She might approach Katie directly. Alone in a house on Christopher Street, Philo had feared for her life with the Slapes; but here she was protected by the presence of half a hundred persons. Yet, having decided to approach Katie, what could she say? Could she accuse Katie of murder and mayhem before those same protecting witnesses? They would think her insane, and their sympathy would fall on Katie.

  With the consultation done, Katie rose, and Philo saw the carpetbag that had been hid behind the skirts of her dress. She was more astonished to see the satchel than she was to see Katie. She could not conceive it possible that any part of her fortune remained in the bag – surely Katie was not so foolish as to carry such a sum of money about with her!

  Now it was imperative tha
t Philo interfere – it was just pos­sible that some part of her fortune remained intact. Best, she concluded, would be to find a policeman and tell him what she knew. The Slapes, though not much thought about now – other terrible murders had interceded of late in the papers – could not have been wholly forgotten. Philo suspected that there might be at least one policeman in the gentlemen’s cabin, and she would have gone to fetch him but that Katie was seated very near the door, and Philo in going out would be certain to attract her notice.

  There would be time, Philo decided, once the boat had reached the Brooklyn side. Even if Katie got off there – and Philo suspected that her enemy rode the ferry back and forth end­­lessly – there should be little difficulty in tracking her.

  Having made this decision, Philo sat very still, though the effort cost her. She thought she had never been so nervous in all her life, and around the edge of the paper she stared at Katie Slape as if she had been a fabulous mythological creature, a sphinx or the Gorgon, dropped into the middle of nineteenth-century New York.

  As the boat approached the landing in Brooklyn, the pas­sen­gers drifted out of the cabin and took their places on the outer deck, each one eager to be the first ashore. Some, however, know­ing of accidents that had occurred through just such haste, remained inside the cabin. The lady with the baby, whose for­tune had been told, gave a coin to Katie, rose, and went out onto the deck.

  Katie placed the coin in her porte-monnaie and looked around.

  Philo cowered behind the paper.

  Katie rose and came directly across the cabin toward her, the carpetbag swinging at her side.

  Philo raised the paper higher.

  Katie took from her bosom a little knife with a blade about four inches long; with it she sliced the paper down the middle. The halves of the paper fell from Philo’s hands onto the floor.

  The ladies who remained in the cabin cried out in alarm.

  Katie grinned at Philo, leaned forward, and whispered, “Mar said I could use my hammer on you. But all I got’s this knife. It’s the knife I got your mar with.”

  Katie raised the knife high. Philo stood quickly and with both fists held tightly together struck Katie in the belly with all her mustered strength. Katie stiffened, and the knife fell from her hands. Philo jumped and picked it up. She held the handle tightly in her fist. Katie had almost recovered her breath. Philo said to her, “Katie, I saw your father die. I saw him hanged from a tree.”

  Katie straightened herself suddenly, drew in a sharp breath, and stared wildly at Philo. Philo did not flinch from her gaze. “Your mother died the death of a mad dog. I was there.”

  Katie swiped at Philo with the carpetbag. Philo jumped out of the way, and Katie rushed out of the cabin.

  Philo looked round. Twenty women and a half a dozen men stood speechless and aghast. Holding the knife before her, Philo pursued Katie out onto the deck. The wind blew hard down the East River.

  The boat was approaching the landing. Those on the forward edge – bootblacks, newsboys, and mechanics with their tin cans – prepared to jump the last few feet for the honor of being first ashore and quickest home. One ragged boy, urged on by a calcu­lating friend, made the leap, and the crowd at the edge whistled at his prowess and daring.

  Katie rushed through the crowd there. Taking fearless notice of the gap that yet remained between the ferry’s deck and the wharf, she jumped.

  She fell short of the other side. Catching on the edge of the wharf, however, and without even a cry for assistance, she began to hoist herself up.

  The wheels of the ferry had been given one extra turn to aid the final speed, and the boat, with a last shudder, was rammed against the wharf.

  Katie, who had almost lifted herself to safety, was caught between the lip of the ferry and the weathered boards of the wharf. She uttered one piercing shriek as she was cut in two. Her twitching legs dropped into the water beneath the wharf, and her lifeless trunk, exhaling air through her open mouth and pouring blood and quivering organs from the bottom, tumbled onto the deck of the ferry at Philo’s feet. The carpetbag remained in her convulsive grasp.

  Chapter 55

  CONCLUSION

  Henry Maitland married Philo Drax on Christmas Day, 1871. Jewel Varley was Philo’s bridesmaid. The Varleys took the world as they found it, and when they received an invitation, en­graved on vellum, to attend the wedding of Henry Adolphus Mait­land and Philomela Drax, they sighed, sighed again, and then re­marked that at least Henry hadn’t taken to himself an “uppity” bride. By “uppity” they meant one who would not recog­nize Henry’s country cousins.

  Philo also took the world as she found it. She knew that the Varleys, given their choices, would rather have seen her in a New Jersey jail than ensconced as the mistress of Twenty-sixth Street, but in the years to come, Philo never referred to the earlier animosity that had existed between her and the Varleys. Jewel married a lawyer to whom Henry had introduced her, and the lawyer eventually became a senator. Washington, everyone agreed, was a fit arena for Jewel’s particular talents.

  After a honeymoon in Rome and Milan, Philo and Henry settled into a quiet existence on Twenty-sixth Street. Early in 1873, Philo gave birth to her first child. It was a girl, and Philo called her Nedda.

  Through the indefatigable assistance of Mr. Blakey, the carpet­bag and its contents were proved to be the rightful property of Philomela Drax Maitland, and when she needed it not at all, Philo came into the possession of her fortune. Even the bag had come back to her, though the pattern on one side was dimmed by large splotches of Katie Slape’s dried blood. One evening, when she was alone on Twenty-sixty Street, Philo took out the bank notes and counted them. She had fallen heir to $26,720. She tied the notes in bundles, closed them into the bag once more, and then shoved it in the back of a wardrobe in her dressing room.

  Philomela Maitland was not the Philo Drax of old. She had always moved through life as stiffly as if she had been pinioned to a stand in a photographer’s studio. It had always seemed that she supported the world on her shoulders: responsible for her mother from as early as she could remember, for her poor mur­dered grandfather, for her own penniless self. And particularly, since coming across them on her grandfather’s farm, she had been on her watch against the Slapes – and she had never slept with entire easiness, knowing they still wandered the earth.

  She had seen all three of them die. She had seen John’s body laid out beneath the vast tree in the Catskill forest; she had seen Hannah’s convulsion-wracked corpse on the threadbare carpet in the basement flat in Boston; she had seen Katie’s legless trunk jerking on the deck of the Brooklyn ferry. Despite that wicked family’s crimes, their ending did not seem fit to her. She con­sid­ered – though the thought was an evil one – that she would have liked to approach them in their sleep, with a kerchief and a bottle of chloroform: something quiet, dignified, and painless. She wished for them deaths which would have befitted not their crimes, but the dignity of Philo’s own demand for vengeance. Yet the Slapes had died brutally, without dignity, in stupid, messy ways, and Philo could not help but feel that these terrible deaths reflected on her own insistence for revenge.

  Every night she slept beneath their gallows.

  Gradually, the feeling wore away. The Slapes, for all their hein­ousness, became memories as innocuous as that of her mother. However, Philo didn’t go to Brooklyn again until the bridge over the East River was opened twelve years later, and she never again looked on the house where Ella LaFavour had died. She saw the Varleys often, but never in New Egypt; and at Christ­mas she wrote to Mr. Killip, but she sold Parrock Farm without ever seeing it again. Charges of murder against her were dropped, but Philo never again travelled through New Jersey without un­easiness.

  Her life seemed to have fallen into three distinct and very un­equal divisions: her childhood in New Egypt – two decades of pov­erty and not much pleasure; the nine months in which the Slapes had had possession of her fortune (Could a tim
e so impor­tant to her have occupied so little actual space on a calendar?); and the many many years she spent in quiet contentment as Henry Maitland’s wife on Twenty-sixth Street.

  She had four children, whose names were Nedda, Mary, Henry and Ella. Her husband Henry died of heart failure at Saratoga in 1891. Philo at that time, still on Twenty-sixth Street, moved into the room that had been Nedda’s. She lived, quiet but quite happy, until 1919, when she perished in the influenza epidemic. When her daughters Nedda and Ella, then both married and both with children, went through their dead mother’s things, they found at the back of an old wardrobe a carpetbag. And in the carpetbag they discovered, to their astonishment, somewhat more than twenty-six thousand dollars in old-fashioned currency. They could not imagine how such a sum would have come to be left and for­gotten by their mother, who had been neither a forgetful nor an impractical woman. Ella’s husband, a broker in Wall Street, examined the bank notes and made inquiries. The Bank of Cape May, which had issued the notes, had failed in the Panic of 1873. For more than forty years, Philo’s carefully preserved fortune had been completely worthless.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Michael McDowell was born in 1950 in Enterprise, Alabama and attended public schools in southern Alabama until 1968. He graduated with a bachelor’s degree and a master’s degree in English from Harvard, and in 1978 he was awarded his Ph.D. in English and American Literature from Brandeis.