My father bit down on his cigar. “You’re trying my patience, Thomas. You already know I destroyed the counterfeiting plates to protect your friend. What difference does it make where he gave them to me?”

I ignored his tone and instead asked if he ever met the other man, the counterfeiter, or if William mentioned his name. Though my father said he never met the counterfeiter, he told me his name was Irwin Bennett. I asked if he was certain.

“Of course I’m sure. Bennett was the man shot during the robbery. It was in the papers. You must remember his name.”

My memory was dull but I admitted nothing. “Where was he shot?” I asked.

“In the vault.”

“No, I mean where on his body?”

“Then be succinct. You know how much I hate …” He paused and commented I looked pale. Then he plucked the cigar from his mouth, stroked his mustache, and began tapping his foot. “So, did you ask her to marry you?”

If not for the shock, I could have acted ignorant and plead he return to my questions. His bluntness astonished me, and so I simply answered yes.

“And what did she say?” He spoke with more excitement than I expected.

“She said she couldn’t possibly say yes until she met my father to see if I’ll be handsome in my old age. I’m afraid it’s a tough call.”

My father raised his eyebrows, tossed his cigar on his desk, and howled. His merriment was contagious and we laughed in waving fits. As Father leaned forward clenching his stomach, Mother burst into the room wielding a rolling pin.

“Want to try for my head again?” I asked between gasps of air.

We laughed even harder. Father fell into his chair. For several seconds Mother stood silent in the doorway looking back and forth between us. Then she dropped her rolling pin, rushed across the room, and flung her arms around my neck.

“Thank goodness,” she whispered into my shoulder. “I thought you two were finally killing each other.”

After a few minutes, Father cleared his throat and instructed me to share the news with my Mother. When I told her of the engagement, she again flung her arms around me. She left us with an open bottle of champagne before rushing off to my aunt’s house to write letters. Father then finished answering the rest of my questions. The next morning I went straight to Worcester.

The Worcester County Hall of Records is well organized; however, just last year the archives were damaged by an arson fire. My quick trip turned into a grimy excavation through boxes of charred paper, and I spent the first day choking from fumes and ruining my white dress shirt. It was not until late into the second day my law internship was put to good use.

After five hours of sorting and restacking documents by type and year, I felt queasy and ready to forget my hunch about the counterfeiter, Mr. Bennett. If not for the rat that charged across a tall stack, I might have missed my Rosetta Stone. I picked up the file folder and blew sooty paw prints from the cover. It read, “Department of the Treasury, Worcester, 1879.”

At last the plot has untwisted. This story involves a bank robbery, a wounded man, my father’s unwitting aide to a counterfeiter, and the acts of fate no man can escape. Did you know talc is used to dry wet ink?

Sorry, Henry, but I must leave you here. The carriage is here to take me to Mr. Harting. You see, we have a rather urgent matter at hand. I shall give him his choice of swords or pistols.

Thomas

June 20, 1889.

MY FIANCEE —

If I were a great poet or even a bad one mayhap, I would create a passionate piece about the inequities of a world ruled by those lusting after tangibles Solomon knew were nothingness. Then I would plunge a metaphoric sword into my chest. Alas, I am not a poet. You must put aside what your heart wants to believe and hear what I have to tell you. Open your heart and mind, my love, and hear me well.

As you took your first sure-footed steps in the hospital, I called on your father in his office. No man could claim a stronger, more sure gait as I strode down the long paneled corridor to his suite. Had I a shield of iron I would have cast it aside. My protection was truth.

Your father sat behind his impressive Henry II writing desk and appeared to be looking at the curio cabinet filled with model trains and antique shaving mugs. I startled him, but he regained his composure and stared at me in the doorway. It would have been an expensive evening at his poker table.

“What are you doing here, Thomas?” he asked.

It was a purposeful slight, addressing me by my first name as he would his stable boy, and it was designed to tilt my balance. My stance remained firm.

I motioned toward the leather tub chairs across from his desk. My manner was chipper as I expressed a compliment of the lovely day and offered I had good news to share with him. Your father agreed to my taking a seat but told me to get to my business or leave. He was in no mood for folly.

Though I too wanted to get to business, I waited a moment. My dear, I was a boy before an exam. In my rush to see your father, in my arrogant confidence, I forgot to plan my presentation.

“I would like to talk to you about Mr. Kennard, sir. I have information I think you’ll find most enlightening.”

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.