Chapter 8
Phillip caught the streetcar and had to change twice to get close to German Street.
He walked then, looking for number fifteen, finally finding it and climbing the stone steps up to the door that stood open.
He could hear babies crying and the muffled sounds of a man and woman arguing.
The floors were swept clean, but the walls needed painting and the handrail on the stairs was wobbly and probably would never hold a person if they fell or even leaned too much.
He found number three and knocked. No one answered, and he heard no sound from within. He knocked again, harder. Then he heard some shuffling and muttering.
“Coming. Quit your pounding.”
Phillip waited until several locks were slid open and the handle turned. A woman glared at him from where she’d opened the door a few inches. “Who are you? One of Jimmy’s boys?”
Phillip shook his head. “Don’t know who Jimmy is. I want to talk to you about the Button girls, maybe your nieces?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Phillip Brown. Can I come in?”
The woman staggered back, letting the door drift open, revealing an unkempt room and a woman so drunk she could barely stand. She listed her way to a sofa and plopped down, pointing at a chair across from her. Phillip preferred to stand.
“Would you have any coffee brewing, by any chance? I haven’t had a drop all day.”
The woman pointed over her shoulder with a thumb to a curtained area that revealed a small kitchen.
He found the coffeepot, still warm, and poured two cups.
He carried both out to the sitting area and sat one down on the small table by the woman.
She eyed it but did pick it up eventually, closing her eyes as she smelled it. She took a sip and then another.
“Are you related to Josephine Button and her sisters?”
The woman nodded and took another sip of coffee. “My brother’s girls. He died at Shiloh. They were with their mother until last winter. My saintly sister-in-law. Then she up and died from the influenza. She was always weak.”
“Then you are Miss Button?”
“I was married. Once. A long time ago to a good-for-nothing. He’s long gone. Probably dead. I’m Bertha Lambeth.”
“Are you aware that Josephine Button has been murdered?”
“Murdered? Huh. Won’t be getting my money, then. Who done her in?”
“I don’t know. They’re blaming it on an innocent man who is my friend. I’m trying to find out who really did it.”
She shrugged. “No idea. Me and Jo didn’t get along much.”
“Why’s that?”
“I kept the two young’uns since she worked and lived on the other side of town to be close to her job. She paid me a pittance to do it. But I owed it to my brother. She was always complaining I wasn’t doing enough for them. They could be real brats, don’t you know. Ate everything in sight.”
“Where are they now?”
“Don’t really know,” she said and picked up her coffee.
“Are they not living here, then?”
“Nora, I think she got in with the wrong fellas that hang down the block near the tavern. Thirteen years old. No business out flirting, but she wouldn’t listen to me.”
Phillip was doing everything he could to keep from picking up Bertha Lambert and shaking her until her teeth rattled. “There’s a younger sister too?”
“Fanny. Haven’t seen her for a week or more.”
“How old is she?”
The woman scratched her chin. “Seven, I think.”
“Have you done anything to find her? Do you have any idea where she might be?”
“She liked going to see the priest over at Saint Vincent’s. You could ask him if he knows anything.”
Bertha leaned her head back against the sofa and closed her eyes. It wasn’t long until Phillip heard her snores.
Phillip pulled the door closed on Lambeth’s rooms and made his way to the street. He could not begin to describe his disgust with the woman calmly telling him she’d not seen a seven-year-old in her care for a week’s time. A woman was sweeping her walk two doors down.
“Excuse me, ma’am. Can you tell me where Saint Vincent’s Church is?”
“Down the corner and turn left.”
Phillip made his way down the street and turned at the corner.
There was a group of young men standing or leaning against the wall behind them, a few crouching down and throwing pennies against a wooden post. He felt their eyes on him as he pardoned himself past, several blocking the way. A large fellow stepped in front of him.
“We don’t like strangers,” he said to chuckles at Phillip’s back.
But Phillip was in no mood to coddle anyone, especially if this was the group that Lambeth had referred to when talking about Nora Button’s flirting.
He was still reeling from the disinterest the drunken woman had for her own nieces, a child, only seven, maybe wandering the streets.
His anger and disgust went through his consciousness in a matter of seconds and most likely spurred what happened next.
Phillip walked up close to the large fellow, who was still smiling.
He had the fellow’s arm twisted, turning him and hauling him against Phillip’s chest before the other man even organized in his head what was happening.
He pricked the man’s throat with his knife and turned in a semicircle so all his cohorts could see.
“It would be best if you stopped harassing strangers. Otherwise, I’ll be happy to come back and slit his throat. ”
The five young men around him were staring at the big fellow’s neck. Phillip pushed the fellow forward, careening him headlong into his friends. Phillip turned on a heel and continued on his way, spying the church steeple straight ahead.
He pulled open the door of the Saint Vincent Catholic Church after climbing the ten stone steps in the front of the building. It was cool and quiet inside and smelled of incense. He made his way to the altar, where a woman had bowed her head over a table full of lit candles.
“Excuse me. Is the priest here today?”
The woman did not turn, but a man in the robes of the church came toward him from a door behind a marble pedestal.
“I am Father Tom. May I help you?”
“Father,” Phillip said. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“Of course,” he said and stepped down from the elevated area, signaling Phillip to follow him to a small office. “What can I do for you, young man?”
“I’m Brown, Phillip Brown. I’m trying to find out what happened to a woman named Josephine Button.
I had heard she had a younger sister, but I just visited their aunt on their father’s side and learned there was a seven-year-old sister too who’s not been at her aunt’s for a week or more.
The aunt suggested I speak to you, that the girl spent time here and you may know where she has disappeared to. ”
The priest was eyeing him, clearly unsure of what he could share, Phillip certain he had an idea where the child was. “Why are you asking about them?”
“Josephine Button was murdered. She was found dead, stabbed in the chest, in bed with a member of the police force. He has no recollection of how he got there and at the time said he did not recognize the victim. He had certainly been drugged, and I suspect she had too, because when he came to himself and the drug wore off, he said he had met her. She had no wounds consistent with defending herself, and the room they were in was not disturbed in any way. I recently found out from the officer, who I have known since we were both boys, that he was helping Miss Button, hoping to find out where Nora Button had disappeared to.”
“Nora too,” the priest whispered. “And her sister murdered.”
“What do you mean, Nora too?” Phillip asked.
“There have been other young girls from this neighborhood who have disappeared.”
“What is being done, Father? Have the police been contacted?”
“Of course the police have been contacted, Mr. Brown. Every time.”
“Can you tell me the name of the detective or investigator or even the station house for this neighborhood?”
“Station Twelve,” the priest said. “But I doubt you will get any satisfaction there. The officers are solicitous but have not arrested anyone.”
Phillip could tell the man was angry, clearly frustrated, as well as skeptical. “Who is behind this?”
“How would I know?” he said and spread his arms out at his sides. “I’m just a lowly priest who, in my righteousness, believes that every life is precious.”
“But you have your suspicions.”
The priest looked over his shoulder and spoke softly.
“Let me be clear. Saint Vincent’s is a church, sharing Christ’s message and teachings.
But it is also a sanctuary from the troubles of everyday life and, sometimes, danger.
I must ensure that the humblest among us feel safe within these walls, all the while appearing neutral to those who wish to do harm.
It is a balance I’m not willing to upset. ”
“Can you point me in a direction at least, Father? An innocent man is going to go to prison and a young girl will never be rescued if I don’t know who killed Josephine.”
The priest just stared at him.
“Can you at least tell me if Fanny is safe?” he whispered.
Father Tom nodded once, slowly, and then spoke up. “I’m sorry, Mr. Brown. I don’t have any information that may help you.”
“Thank you, Father. If you hear from either girl, send me a message. My name is Phillip Brown and I live on Wolfe Street.”
Phillip walked the five blocks to Station Twelve of the Baltimore police force, introducing himself to a young officer at a desk near the door.
“I’d like to speak to the officer in charge of investigating the disappearance of a young girl named Nora Button,” he said.
“Do you have information to give him?”
Phillip very nearly said he did not have information and was, in fact, there to get information, but he caught himself in time. “I believe I do.” He turned when he heard his name.
“Brown? Is that you?” a large red-haired man asked.
“O’Malley?”
“In the flesh, boyo. What brings you to our fine establishment?”