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.
After the bank robbery blunder, Bennett fled to New York to begin a new life using the assumed name Lowell Kennard. This explains why Mr. Everett was unable to find information on Kennard prior to 1879. To legitimize his new identity, Kennard needed reputable employment so he accepted a job as a bookkeeper with Harting Railways. He also began another printing project by cover of nightfall. I shall get to that in a moment.
By 1880, a series of rail accidents and labor strikes left Mr. Harting overextended and panicked. Stock prices were down, which meant a considerable risk to Mr. Harting’s personal finances. In short, he was in jeopardy of losing everything. This was when Mr. Kennard approached Mr. Harting with a profitable scheme. According to his own admission, Mr. Harting never questioned Kennard’s methods. Instead, Mr. Harting promoted Kennard.
Under Kennard’s direction, Mr. Harting created a fictitious corporation, secured a large loan, and solicited help from his cousin living in London. Kennard was again partnered with Mr. Crawley (I have yet to decide if I shall share this unsettling news with my father), and the two designed a new counterfeiting press. With all the players at the table, the joint business venture began in the fall of ’82; Mary was just fourteen.
Henry, do you recall the scandal you stumbled upon in London? Even as I commit this to paper, I am awed by such an elaborate international con. Mr. Harting, William Crawley, and Lowell Kennard have been printing and selling counterfeit United States bonds. Having learned from the bank mishap, Kennard even set up a swindle to trade the counterfeit bonds for a legal commodity.
Mr. Harting’s cousin in London locates foreign investors dabbling in U.S. cattle and farming. Mr. Harting and Kennard then offer generous amounts of phony American bonds in exchange for cattle and crops. Overjoyed by their windfall, the investors hold the counterfeit bonds until full maturity while Harting and Kennard sell the cattle and crops for real currency. Their success surpassed all expectations, and there seemed no end in sight. Then a year ago Kennard revealed a deep secret.
Kennard told Mr. Harting he was in love with Mary and wanted her as his wife. Outraged, Mr. Harting refused to even consider letting an unscrupulous charlatan marry his precious daughter. They argued; however, the feud had to wait until after the family vacation in California. This is where I stumbled in like a drunken actor who had forgotten his lines. While Mary and I frolicked, Mr. Harting dealt with harassing telegrams and letters from Kennard. The day before Mr. Harting dragged Mary back to New York, Mr. Kennard played his final hand.
Kennard revealed a second and more interesting set of business records that implicated Mr. Harting as the sole perpetrator of their illegitimate operation. Kennard had planned for his escape, except he no longer wished to flee. He wanted Mary, and the blackmail was straight-forward.
Mr. Harting first attempted to fabricate equally damaging documents about Kennard. Mary and I witnessed this covert exchange in San Diego. Unfortunately, Mr. Harting's would-be accomplice cheated him. Cornered and desperate, Mr. Harting invited Kennard to family dinners and galas hoping all would take a natural course. Mary, however, was preoccupied. You can see why Mr. Harting detested my very existence. He was on the verge of ruin while I wrote love letters.
When I burst into Mr. Harting’s office with accusations of Kennard’s nefarious endeavors at the bank, it was in fact the first he had heard of that caper. Mr. Harting was abusive in efforts to shake loose bona fide evidence against Kennard. My story, though interesting, has proved worthless. Kennard insists Mary accept his marriage proposal within twenty-four hours or he will go the police with the forged documents.
Charlton Harting fell to his knees, clutched Mary’s skirt, and begged her to save the family fortune and reputation. He assured Mary of Kennard’s true affections and offered an extraordinary allowance if she married him. For the first time in her life Mary refused her father. She is packed and we leave for Boston at the end of the week. I have never been so proud of anyone in my life.
So now you know the whole tale. Are you satisfied in the telling? Seems there was no shortcut on this trip, and I tripped on every rock in the road. Still, I believe I needed to take this path in order to learn a most valued lesson.
Writing is not the imitation of life; it is the exploration of living. Lift your head from the pages, my friend, and feel the sun on your face. The world awaits, and we have more to offer than a good story. Though my cheeks are burned and I know there are more rocks ahead, I have never been more content and have also answered all but one question.
Henry, will you be my best man?
Your friend,
Thomas
SUMMER 1888
September 15, 1888.
DEAR AVERY —
