In stopping to lay out the pieces of this puzzle, I was reminded of my thirteenth year, when I spent two summers at Weston Shoes. The company is owned by my good friend’s father, and they made, and still make, quality leather boots. Employment was arranged to instill an appreciation for hard work. I instead learned the definition of piercing the corporate veil and saw what happens to a man betrayed by someone he trusted.
Weston Shoes once advertised consistent leather coloration and so dried and cured their own leather. The tanyard took up the back of the factory, and as it was considered the lowest level of work, I was to start as a trimmer. My position, however, changed in a single breath.
During one of the many times you dodged bullets, blocked knife attacks, or outwitted police captains, did you happen upon a tanyard? Chemical vapors and dusting powders created the look of a misty day by the sea. Upon first sight, my eyes burned. When I stopped in front of two men using large brushes to apply a white powder to pale hides strung on lines, I found it hard to breathe.
As the foreman began explaining the process of drying the leather, he stopped mid-sentence and asked if I was well. I wanted to say I felt flushed, but my throat was so tight nothing came out. I tried to breathe but could muster just a short gasp. One of the men brushing powder dropped his bucket and hurried toward us. “Can’t you see he’s reacting to the talc!” he shouted.
The foreman grabbed my arm, shoved me back through the door, and dragged me to a stairwell where he deposited me on the bottom step to fetch me a glass of water. Within seconds my hands swelled and broke out in red bumps. The allergy was so severe I could not even withstand the talc residue on the leather.
That foreman’s name was Mr. MacIntyre. He later insisted I call him by his nickname, Mac.
Despite his limited background, Mac rose quickly through the ranks to serve as the plant’s general foreman. He oversaw every area of the factory, and upon witnessing my allergic reaction, he knew I would never work in the tanyard. A young man incapable of working with the hides faced a worse fate. Thus began my labor as an office clerk.
As you mentioned in our meeting, important paperwork has a way of surfacing. That you are still watching for bubbles is baffling. Nevertheless, I too found advantage in paying attention to details, and since my job required stamping and filing, I saw every piece of paper that passed through the factory. From the beginning, Mac kept a close watch on my work. His manner left the impression he was taking me under his wing; however, he never counted on my intelligence. You see, Mr. Everett, I have been underestimated before.
I learned about payables, receivables, and supply orders. The more I learned, the more I grew interested in reading the documents I stamped. Mac explained any missing inventory as normal shortages and trivialized minor accounting discrepancies. This worked for a time. Still, my regard for Mac could not overshadow what I saw on a daily basis. At every opportunity, Mac ingratiated himself with Mr. Weston. Mr. Weston trusted Mac, but my father warned me about men who smile too wide. It turned out Mr. MacIntyre finagled himself into a position to embezzle thousands. Mr. Weston was crushed.
Do you see any similarities? A man with little experience elevated to a powerful position without justification. My blunder was not suspecting this sooner. I am distracted, but you, Mr. Everett, have little excuse. You must pursue this same line of reasoning. If Kennard has aligned himself with Mr. Harting for illicit purposes, he must be stopped before he can harm the Harting family. Embezzlers leave paper trails, Mr. Everett. One even a teenager found.
Sincerely,
Thomas M. Gadwell
March 28, 1889.
DEAR AVERY —
Sleep eludes me and with good reason. Last night there were strange noises in the stable. The previous night I know someone was skulking by the back door. Before you send for a doctor, months of living in my imagination is not playing tricks on me. I could show you the bruise from where I was held against a door. Never mind. You have no reason to believe one of my tales. To answer your question, yes, I am still working.
Thomas
March 31, 1889.
MY DARLING MARY —
I opened your letter with trembling hands then nearly tore it in half from delight. That you want me in your future no matter the reprisal from your family restores my faith in love. We will continue to pray for your father’s blessing, but at last we can stroll in the sunshine among honorable folks. I am surprised we shall stroll together so soon.
Have I told you I am in love with a brilliant woman? Even if you had mentioned your family’s acquaintance with Mrs. Winchester I never would have thought of it. I bow to your cunning. Your arrangement to spend a few months in Newport as Mrs. Winchester’s companion has made my visit to Cousin Penelope look like the work of a novice. Am I right to fear you will use your wily ways on me? I think you already have.
Mary, you also alluded there is something you need to tell me. Does it have something to do with your father? I know this has been difficult. Once we are again together, maybe you will find it easier to tell me about Kansas and what happened. If it helps, you are not alone in your desire to air the rugs. Just last night I, at last, learned why my father overlooks Fowler’s many shortcomings.
Again confronted with a man slumped upon my doorstep pining the loss of an imaginary dog, I invited Fowler inside for strong coffee. Even through his slurred and meandering speech, I understood. Fowler was Father’s paid substitute for the war. For eight hundred dollars and the promise of a job, Fowler fulfilled my father’s military commitment. I do not know why that surprised me; I should be used to my father’s lies by now.
How nerves have driven me to absurd tangents when you arrive in just a few days. I am uneasy with your arrival after dark and shall be at Mrs. Winchester’s side when your steamer docks. My role as escort is not open for debate. Also, I should warn of Mrs. Winchester’s growing quirks. Of late, she is often more than a bit eccentric. Just the other day she discharged the upstairs maid for not watering the silk topiaries. Still, overall I believe she is harmless.
My dearest, my delirium is proven. This letter will never reach you before you leave. Instead of mailing it I shall place it in your hands like a dimwit—an overjoyed dimwit.
Sealed with love,
Thomas
March 31, 1889.
AVERY —
For what purpose would you endure driving sleet and a temperamental artist? The new book is incomplete, and I prefer you wait until it is whole before tearing it apart. So when shall I expect you? I leave you to hire a carriage and navigate the unmarked streets on your own. Be warned I have no intention of playing host and am of the mind to kick you out without shame.
Must you really see me right away? Your timing is deplorable.— T.G.
March 31, 1889.
MR. EVERETT —
Your services are no longer required. Immediately cease all activity and post your final accounting. Regardless of our unfinished business, the continued risk and possibility that Mr. Kennard has discovered our dealings is too great a threat for me, and for those around me. It is imperative all records indicate our business has concluded. As your adherence to my wishes has thus far been unstable, I implore you to follow these demands. If not, someone could get hurt.
Thomas M. Gadwell
SPRING 1889
April 10, 1889.
DEAR FATHER —
Weeks have disappeared into dazed memories I will someday confuse with dreams. I have been lost in my head and in my heart, but there is no excuse for leaving your emotional letter upon the kitchen table. I thought you impervious to the sourness of guilt, but as I read your list of regrets I embraced a man awakened by death. You deserve my reply.
Do you recall when I was seventeen and you asked what I would study at Harvard? How we had avoided the topic so long is a testament to our wills. As we sat in your study I thought my whole existence depended on that single dreaded answer. A bound copy of Poe’s poems was in my lap, and I could hear Mother in the kitchen making bread. It was not our cook; Mother was pounding the dough to calm her nerves. I cleared my throat and proclaimed, “Law. My interest is in the law.” Everyone proclaimed happiness for a year.
Mother’s disappointment in my decision to change professions stung. On the other hand, I expected your contempt and considered it part of my artistic angst. My disregard for your opinion was as passionate as yours for mine. We were even, it seemed, until I brought home my first short story.
Mother read it in her sewing room. Her critique was guarded, but I believe she liked at least parts of it. To date, yours has been my most scathing review. Not only did you claim it painful to read, pubescent and trite, you said cavemen conveyed their message with more finesse.
As any son, I wanted your approval. So as your review of my work escalated into the apathy of my generation and the inevitable demise of the morality of our country, I decided I would never again seek your opinion. Though we have debated, argued, reasoned, and hassled, reflect for a moment and you will realize I have not sought your judgment on anything more consequential than need of a coat. I was satisfied with this arrangement until the postman delivered your letter of apology and explanation.
For years I agonized over why you hated my profession when it was you who encouraged me to love literature. That you were driven to give up your own aspirations is heartbreaking, and yet is it ever too late? You have admitted your jealousy, so it is now time to leave it in the past and start writing again. It would be an honor to read your work as a colleague.
As we speak of writing, have you ever wondered why I never asked your opinion of my first book? It was fear, but not that your critique would shame your earlier review. I was more afraid you never bothered to read it at all. Thank you for bothering. That you found it worthy of such high praise is my greatest achievement.
Since Pandora’s Box is open, it seems a fitting time to ask for your guidance. By now Mother must have told you of my interest in a young lady. Mary is on the island acting as a companion to our neighbor, Mrs. Winchester. I have withheld this from Mother for fear she will swoop in to pick names for our unborn children. Though Mary has been here over a week, we are ill at ease and distracted. Granted, we have both been well occupied.
My writing remains involved and Mary runs endless errands for Mrs. Winchester. I have tried to catch Mary alone, but Mrs. Winchester thwarts my every move. Then when yesterday I was allowed a few minutes inside Winchester Manor, I left in relief. Once entranced by Mary’s gentle singing, I found myself out of sorts as Mrs. Winchester encouraged Mary's incessant humming. I fled sporting a tremendous headache and foul mood. Love should eclipse such trivialities. Where are the harps and moonbeams?
In my short, but well-traveled, years I have learned we all seek ways to feel unique yet at the same time want solace in shared experiences. Did you ever encounter the same frustrations and worry? A difficult question for a new day, but I look no further than your love for Mother to know I ask the right man.
Father, we have all said and done that which we pray God will forgive before we can forgive ourselves. The world is grey, and sometimes the righteous linger in the shadows before seeking the light. I accept your apology and believe your remorse for your conspiracy with my friend, William Crawley. I have just a few unanswered questions I hope you concede need answering.
You said that when you ran into William in New York you found him distressed, that he readily confessed his unwitting part in the robbery at the Midland Bank in Worcester. Do you still believe his claim that he was not the counterfeiter? That, as a bank teller, he accidentally saw the phony bills? I find his willingness to accept a bribe to hide the plates instead of going to the police startling. Your involvement also leaves me dazed. His actions were both unscrupulous and illegal, and yet you put yourself in jeopardy to assist my old friend. Yes, indeed, the world is grey. My prayers are now for William’s repentance.
Your loving son,
