Chapter Twenty-One
TWENTY-ONE
Vesper’s heart thundered in her chest.
She watched as Francis Gladwell continued in her direction.
Every nerve ending on her body tensed as he drew nearer.
He was just about to pass her, and he hadn’t even looked up.
Vesper acted before she could stop to consider it.
She reached out and grabbed the inventor by his wrist. He immediately tried to jerk away, but she stepped around him and crossed her ankle behind his, so that he was thrown off-balance and went toppling to the ground, hard.
She felt slightly guilty when he groaned in pain.
“What’s your problem, miss?”
There was no doubt that the man glaring up at her had Francis’s facial structure—his cleft chin, his high cheekbones, his distinct, pea-green eyes.
But the longer she studied him up close, the more certain Vesper became that this was definitely not the man she’d met at the museum.
This man’s face was careworn in a way that the inventor’s had never been; there were deep lines in the corners of his eyes and around his mouth.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “I … I thought you were someone else, a man named Francis.”
The man had been trying to get to his feet, but when she said Francis’s name, he flinched. He didn’t meet her eyes as he stood and brushed himself off.
“Don’t know anyone named Francis,” he muttered. He shoved his hands into his pockets, then stepped around her to continue down the sidewalk.
“No,” said Vesper slowly. “But you do know who I’m talking about. You knew Francis by a different name, didn’t you?”
The man faltered in his steps.
“You look just like him,” Vesper went on. “He must have been a cousin, or—”
“Brother.”
“What?”
The man took a deep breath, then turned around to face her again. His expression was hard, but there was pain in his eyes. “Frankie was my little brother.”
Frankie? Vesper’s pulse quickened. “I’m sorry for your loss.
I’ve spent most of this month trying to figure out who’s responsible for your brother’s death,” said Vesper.
“But I keep running into dead ends, there are too many questions around who your brother really was. I was hoping maybe you’d have some answers. ”
“Sorry.” The man shook his head. “I can’t help you.”
“But—”
“Please.” The man’s eyes glistened. “What happened to Frankie … I think about it all the time. He was my little brother and I wasn’t there for him, even though I promised—” He cleared his throat.
“Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. He’s gone, and there’s no changing that.
I’ve accepted that, miss. You should too. ”
“What’s your name?”
The man’s brows shot up. “Stanley Dawson. Most people call me Stan, though.”
“Stan, I know what it’s like to feel as though you’ve failed someone,” Vesper said quietly.
She didn’t know where the words were coming from, but she trusted them.
“I had a younger sibling too once, a little sister. She’s gone, just like your little brother’s gone.
” She swallowed. It was still easy to remember Ethel’s round brown face, the way her small hands had felt holding on to Vesper’s.
Vesper pushed that thought down and went on.
“I can’t do anything for my little sister,” she said.
“But you have something I don’t. You have the power to help find justice for your brother.
Maybe you weren’t there for him when he died, but you can still be there for him now. ”
Stan’s expression softened slightly. Vesper saw an opening, and took it.
“Look.” She held up her hands. “I’ll make you a deal.
Give me ten minutes of your time, just enough to ask you a few quick questions and”—she looked around, trying to think fast—“and I’ll buy you lunch, my treat.
There’s a coffeehouse just down the road, Guillermo’s.
They’ve got the best soups and sandwiches in the city. ”
Stan’s expression hardened again. “That’s it? You think you can just bribe me with food like a dog?”
“No,” said Vesper calmly. “But I do think it’s been a while since you’ve had a good meal. As I understand it, welders in Basalton don’t make much.”
Stan’s eyes narrowed with new suspicion.
“Ten minutes.” Vesper’s hands were still raised. “That’s all I’m asking. Please.”
Stan shifted his weight from foot to foot. After a few seconds, he bit his lip and met her gaze again.
“Where’s this coffeehouse?”
Mr. Crivello didn’t notice her as she and Stanley found a small table toward the back of the coffeehouse. She ordered food for them both—apple and grilled cheese sandwiches with two bowls of roasted tomato soup—then settled into a chair across from the man and gestured.
“Enjoy.”
Stanley didn’t touch his food. His eyes were fixed on her, suspicious. “How’d you know I was a welder?” he asked.
Vesper nibbled at a corner of her sandwich. “Your hands.”
Stan looked down at his hands, then back up at her, confused.
“They’re covered in burns,” she offered. “I suppose you could have also been a cook, but you aren’t wearing the right clothes.” She shrugged. “I took a lucky guess.”
Stan’s frown deepened. “You some kind of fancy detective?”
“Actually, I’m a reporter,” said Vesper. “Now, let me ask you a question: The first time you saw me, when I thought you were Francis and called out to you, why’d you run?”
Stan dropped his gaze and began to busy himself by picking apart bits of the grilled cheese sandwich’s crust. “Didn’t want to cause any problems for Frankie,” he muttered.
“Before he died, he made a choice to separate his old life from his new one. I thought I should continue to respect his wishes, even though he’s gone. ”
“You called him Frankie,” said Vesper. “That was his real name?”
“Franklin, technically,” said Stanley. “Frankie for short. Our mother named him after her father, our grandfather.”
Vesper took a moment to digest that information. Franklin. Francis. The names were similar enough, but distinct. It would have been easy for Franklin Dawson to shed that name and slip into Francis Gladwell without much fuss at all.
“I know a lot about Francis Gladwell, the name your brother was using when he died,” said Vesper. “But if you don’t mind, I’d really like to know more about Frankie, whatever you’re willing to share.”
Stan stopped picking apart the sandwich and met her gaze. “You gonna tell the cops?”
Vesper swallowed. “Not if I don’t have to.”
Stanley looked at her for a long while, then took a large bite of his sandwich. He chewed for a while, then said: “Ever been to Shalescreek?”
“Sure.” Vesper nodded. “Only a few times, though.”
“That’s where Frankie and I grew up,” said Stanley. “I’m sure you know its reputation.”
Vesper nodded again. Shalescreek was in the southern part of the city, one of the poorest in all Basalton, and rougher even than the neighborhood she’d grown up in. It was known for being dirty, crime-ridden. She couldn’t imagine being a child there.
“My mother was a seamstress,” Stan went on.
“It was her, Frankie, and me. My dad died when we were little. Ma did the best she could for us with the meager wages she had; she tried to keep us out of the factories and make sure we went to school.” He wrapped his hands around the soup bowl.
“I made it to Year Five before she ran out of money. Frankie was in Year Three. After that, we had to drop out and work.”
“I’m sorry,” said Vesper.
Stan shrugged. “I was okay, but Frankie … He took it pretty hard. He wanted to keep going to school, but I explained to him that we couldn’t afford to pay rent if he didn’t contribute.
That didn’t stop him from dreaming though.
Sometimes, after work, he’d beg me to walk with him all the way up to the nice neighborhoods and just look at the houses.
” Stan chuckled. “He used to tell me that, someday, he was going to save up enough money to buy one for Ma.
“Things were pretty good, until she died.” Stanley blinked several times, then cleared his throat. “Honestly, I think that’s the straw that broke the camel’s back. It wasn’t long after our mother died that Frankie started changing.”
“Changing?” Vesper prompted. “How do you mean?”
Stanley stared into his bowl of soup. “It started with little things. At first, he was late to work a few times, got a couple of warnings. Then he stopped showing up altogether, missed entire shifts. I told him that he needed to get his shit together or he’d lose his job, but he just kept telling me that he had it all figured out, and that it was all going to be okay.
Of course, I didn’t believe him, but then… ”
“Then?”
Stanley looked up. “He started coming home with money,” he whispered. “I’m not talking about pocket change either. I mean real money, sometimes as much as fifty or a hundred gild a week.”
“And he never told you where he got it?” Vesper asked.
Stanley shook his head. “Never told me, and I never asked. I didn’t want to know, in case it was something illegal.” He took a deep breath. “I regret that now.”
“You said Frankie changed,” said Vesper. “How else?”
Stanley pursed his lips. “He got all … fancy,” he said.
“Started combing his hair and wearing these nice clothes. I guess he bought them with all that money he was getting. One day, I came back to our apartment after work and our only picture of Ma was gone.” His face clouded.
“That’s when I knew he’d left for good.”
“When was that?”
“About a year ago.”
“Stanley, er—Stan.” Vesper hoped she sounded respectful.
“I really appreciate your willingness to speak with me. If you don’t mind, I just have one more question: Before your brother died, did you ever notice him spending time with anyone from Basalton’s high society, other people in fancy clothes? ”
Stan scratched at his chin. “I never saw him with anybody dressed in fancy clothes,” he said. “But one of the last times I saw Frankie, when I got off from work early, he was on our stoop talking with … some people.”
“People?” Vesper repeated.
For the first time, Stan looked nervous. “I’m not sure I should say.”
“Please.” Vesper leaned forward. “You can trust me.”
Stanley fidgeted a moment, then leaned in too. His voice was barely above a whisper. “I saw my brother with some Thally Rousers.”
“What?” Vesper straightened. “You’re sure?”
The corners of Stanley’s lips turned down. “Very. Those boys are hard to miss.” He tapped the side of his neck. “They like to mark themselves.”
Vesper started, remembering something from the exhibition.
There’d been a server there with a black tattoo just above his collar.
She hadn’t been able to see it in detail, but she remembered that the server had been keen not to talk to her much.
Her pulse quickened. If what Stanley was saying was true, this was the kind of development she’d been looking for. It changed everything.
“Do you think your brother might have joined the Thally Rousers?” she asked.
Stanley shrugged. “Dunno,” he said. “But I do know one thing: I saw my little brother with a bunch of Rousers once. Next thing I know, he’s dead.
Make of that what you will. I certainly have.
” Without warning, he pushed back from the table and brushed the crumbs from his hands.
“I’ve got to go,” he said. “I’m covering a night shift, and I need sleep before I start. ”
Vesper stood too. “Thank you, Stan, for everything.”
Stanley gave her a curt nod before heading out of the coffeehouse and up the street.
She didn’t notice until he was gone that he’d only taken a single bite of his sandwich.
Some part of her was sad about that, just as some part of her was almost sure she’d never see Stanley Dawson again.
Vesper picked up her own sandwich and kept eating as she considered what he’d said.
Certainly, she’d gotten several of her questions answered.
Now she just needed to know what Francis Gladwell had been doing with the most notorious crime syndicate in the city.
By the time Vesper returned to the Globe’s office, the rain that had held off since Charles Belver’s funeral had begun to fall in a light drizzle. She ducked into the Quander Building as it began to fall harder, and found Nell, Tom, Rory, and Ronaldo standing in the newsroom, laughing.
“Miss Evans!” Tom held up a small bag. “You’re just in time. Someone dropped off fudge for the staff!”
Vesper smiled and was about to set her satchel on her desk, when she noticed a small envelope was already on it. She held it up.
“Who dropped this off?”
Nell shrugged. “Postman brought it in about an hour ago,” she said. “No return address, but it had your name on it.”
Vesper examined the front and the back of the envelope. It only said VESPER in red block text on the back. Carefully, she tore it open and pulled out its contents, a single paper. She read it, and froze.
“Miss Evans?” Tom was pouring his hot chocolate now. “Everything all right?”
“Yes!” Vesper looked up quickly and smiled. “All good. I’m just going to go up to my room for a minute. I’ll be right back.”
The rest of the staff nodded, then returned to their conversation.
Quietly, Vesper hugged the envelope to her chest and darted up the stairs.
Once in her apartment, she tried not to let her hands shake as she sat down.
She pulled the paper out of the envelope a second time, then took a deep breath as she read over the words.
It was a crudely cut clipping from an article she’d written earlier in the week about Charles Belver’s death. Her eyes skimmed the brief write-up.
OIL TYCOON SLAIN AT FARMER’S MARKET
BY
BASALTON, Vic. (November 15, 1898)-This weekend’s festivities in Basalton were cut tragically short when violence erupted during the city’s last Main Street Farmer’s Market of the year.
Authorities say Charles Belver, 67, was gunned down in an isolated incident involving an apparently disgruntled former employee.
Jon Riggs, 29, was later taken into custody and charged with capital murder.
Riggs maintains that he is innocent, and was participating in a legal protest for workers’ rights at the time Belver was shot.
He has entered a plea of not guilty, and his next scheduled court appearance will be on the 14th of December.
When asked for comment, Police Chief Frederick Stettner noted that the investigation into Belver’s murder was ongoing, but emphasized that any and all parties found to be culpable would face prosecution to the fullest extent of the law.
Vesper stared at the article for several seconds without moving.
The clipping was perfectly ordinary, except for the fact that her name had been circled several times in red ink.
There were two words scrawled underneath it in the same block text her name had been written in on the envelope. She read them slowly, over and over.
YOU’RE NEXT.