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.
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 —”
