June 19, 1889.
HENRY —
The treachery of deceit appeals to the wicked in ways honest men can never fathom. If I understood such altered minds I too would be tempted by money and command, but such ways are best left as stories to liven parties and debate over cigars. Sins unravel until the dishonest are left naked and shivering.
When last I wrote I had just arrived in Boston, rather late, and my parents were asleep. The quandary to wake my father lasted a full ten minutes, to which reason prevailed. I had a fretful night and was dressed and waiting for my father in the front hallway early the next morning.
Mother rose first. Fearing I was a thief, she threw a pewter candlestick at my head from the upstairs landing. My fortune was her awful aim. The candlestick knocked over a flower vase before making a pronounced chip in the marble floor. In response I glanced at the broken vase then asked if Father was awake. She shook her head and demanded we all eat breakfast before the inquisition.
It was not until I pushed cold eggs around my plate that Mother noticed my hand. She had seen that rash before and wanted to know why in the world I had handled talc.
“I haven't,” I said. I eyed my father.
My mother huffed as she picked up our plates. “You’re both giving me a rash. Go talk already, get it over with. I’m going to make some bread.”
Father and I went into his study, but before he could take his usual debate position I said, “I know you wrote to me about it, but I need you to go through your dealings with William Crawley one more time.”
He leaned against the corner of his desk with the dejected look of a felon awaiting sentencing. He said again he was not proud of what happened and saw no reason to dredge up the past. But his feeble protest did not crack my resolve. I told him it was time I knew all the details.
“Are you going to tell me why you’re so interested or perhaps you want me to guess?” he asked. “From the look on your face, I agree with your mother. This has to do with a woman, not an old friend.”
“Please, Father, you already admitted a great deal in your letter. I just have a few more questions then I’ll never bring it up again. It’ll be like the bribes that went in Boss Tweed’s pocket.”
He grumbled his consent then opened his humidor and shoved a cigar in his mouth. I took my place by the window but was too nervous to lean on the sill.
“I ran into William in ’79 when I went to New York City to look into vacant land investments,” Father said. “William was unshaven and had on a dirty overcoat. I started to walk away because he looked like an absurd soaplock. That's when he grabbed my arm and told me he worked as a bank teller at the Midland Bank in Worcester and found himself mixed up in the bank robbery.”
I knew all of this, so I stopped him. I wanted to know more about the counterfeiting. Why did William agree to hold the counterfeiting plates instead of going to the police? Father told me William admitted wanting the bribe money to impress a girl. My father then looked at me hard. “He was acting like all stupid boys in love.” When I ignored his comment, he added, “I think William was hornswoggled by —”
“Hornswoggled?”
“Don’t be smart with me, Thomas. I think he was tricked into holding the counterfeiter’s plates. The plates were evidence that would have convicted William and not the real shofulman. When William ran into me, federal agents wanted to question him.”
I shook my head. The pieces did not fall into place. If William was in so much danger, why had he risked taking the plates to New York? He could have disposed of them in Worcester. My father looked a little troubled. He never thought to ask William that question.
I then asked my father if William had the counterfeit plates with him when they bumped into each other. No. William left everything at his hotel.
“Did you go to the hotel with William to get the plates?” I asked.
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
