Mr. Webb's house still sat on a quiet street. It was still respectable, orderly, and tastefully decorated with chintzy blues and yellows. His Veridan maid was as polite as ever, and still sent Timothy into spirals of distraction that were completely unrelated to the prosaic subject of journalism and very related to his favorite cook's assistant. But over everything hung a pall that Mr. Webb's haggard, sleep-deprived appearance did nothing but deepen.
He met them cordially enough and bade them sit themselves down and welcome, but he was wearing a plaid dressing gown and seemed unequal to standing for more than a few minutes at a time. He sat back in a large chair opposite the settee they sat upon, arms wrapped tightly about himself, and regarded them in silence. "I must thank the both of you for what you've done to help," he said, quietly. "I admit I misjudged you after what the other—the last victim—did to me."
Sam observed that such a reaction made perfect sense, and after a few more pleasantries Timothy had not thought him capable of, he launched into the reason for their visit.
Mr. Webb pulled a wry face when Sam asked him whether he'd worked for Mr. Astor. "I was his factory manager for a while, yes," he answered, gratefully accepting a cup of tea given him by the maid. "But the conditions of his workers brought us to a parting of ways over a year ago. I was in his employment barely eight months."
Timothy snorted. "You'd be good friends with my father."
Mr. Webb furrowed his brow, then his countenance brightened as if seeing Timothy in a new way. "Your father was the Wright in the firm's name, wasn't he?"
Timothy fiddled with his notebook, unsure whether he ought to be taking notes or not. "And I have the misfortune to be Mr. Astor's nephew. But that is of small importance now." He hoped that Sam would change the subject.
"Mr. Hund told us that you were friends with Mr. Basken," Sam said.
Mr. Webb grimaced at Sam's observation. "I don't believe I'd go so far as to say we were friends, but we were acquainted through Astor and Wright. Mr. Basken had invited me to his home for dinner, with a note expressing it to be urgent."
Sam looked up—something in what he'd said caught his attention. "We're trying to find out who is murdering so many, Mr. Webb. What do you suppose Mr. Basken meant to tell you? You were present at two of the murders, or at least near the one. Anything you can tell us is of the utmost importance."
The reminder of Mrs. Armstrong's death left Mr. Webb unable to speak for several moments. "I believe he meant to tell me," he went on finally, "that Mr. Astor had been altering his books so that investors would see his firm as producing more profits than it really was."
This was new information. Sam bounced forward on the edge of his seat like he'd sat upon a tack, but Timothy didn't hear the next question. His heart was sinking. He'd never liked the Astors, but this—this was too much. Reason was more and more against his uncle's innocence. And his family! Prissy and George would be utterly helpless if everything Sam predicted came true.
"—I don't have any proof, mind you," Mr. Webb was saying in reply to Sam's question. "I only know that Mr. Basken was a hard man who had lived in uneasy peace with his employer for many years, and I don't doubt what he said was true. He began laying out before me the profits of previous years and comparing them to the last two, asking me if I could see how they had increased by twenty percent when very little else had changed in the firm."
"And then he drank the wine," Sam finished.
Mr. Webb nodded, watching the steam wick from the top of his tea.
Sam turned to Timothy with wide eyes, and Timothy found sudden interest in the pattern of the carpet. "What do you suppose was his object in telling you these things?" Sam asked.
Mr. Webb sighed heavily, looking at the ceiling. "I suppose he knew my stance on child labor and thought I'd want to help him ruin Mr. Astor with blackmail."
Timothy pocketed his notebook. "Why didn't you tell anyone these things before?"
Mr. Webb shrugged, taking a sip of his tea. "It's nearly all conjecture. I don't have proof." He paused. "And I know that you two aren't foolish enough to print things that aren't true."
Sam assured him they wouldn't dream of such a thing, but Timothy suspected it would be his duty to make sure the promise was fulfilled. Sam meant well, but he was inclined to put the cart before the horse.
Seeing that their host was tired, Timothy observed that they had other places to visit that day, but they had scarcely been shown to the sitting room door when Mr. Webb called after them. He peered around the side of his chair, a fevered light burning in his gaze. "Find out who the murderer is. Find out who killed Louise."
Timothy looked at Sam, and Sam looked at Timothy, then both were shown to the street by the maid. He must be insane to think that he—Timothy Wright—had any business tracking down the murderer. And yet his continued employment hung on that fact. He wasn't sure what he was feeling, but it wasn't pleasant. Mr. Webb was a pitiable man.
They had to walk a short distance to get to a busy enough street to catch a cab, and they'd made about half of it in thoughtful silence before Sam turned to him. "You said once that the dare notes matched the handwriting on some your old maid kept finding."
"Yes," Timothy answered absently. He was still trying to make sense of what Mr. Webb had told him. How could they ever put it to practical use without proof?
"Why did Mrs. Bradley try to blame the maid for theft?"
"Why did Mrs.—?" Timothy muttered, then gasped as Sam's words finally sank in. "Mary! I mean, the maid," Sam's lips quirked. "The maid kept finding the notes, and we never knew why Mrs. Bradley was receiving them or who was leaving them, but—"
"And yet there's a John Bradley in the prison's records," Sam mused.
Timothy frowned at him. "Mrs. Bradley wasn't married."
Sam made a noncommittal noise, then turned to him again with lifted chin. "Speaking of marrying, and Marys, and all things merry—my dearest Edith tells me a lot about a certain Mary O'Connor who holds the position of cook's assistant at the Lancasters."
If he was waiting for Timothy to blush, he'd have been disappointed. He turned and gaped at him instead, less shocked by Sam's clairvoyance than he was by the implication that he talked to Edith often. "You visit her—at the Lancasters'?"
Sam shrugged. "Why shouldn't I? I go there straightaway after work every evening, rain or shine. Love doesn't have a season. She meets me at the back gate."
"Sam," Timothy stared at him. "Do you know what might happen if you were caught together? Edith could lose her situation."
Sam shrugged again. "Then we'll just get married. Or she'll find a new position. She's not attached to the Lancasters, though I think she'd be sorry to leave Mary."
By time they reached a busier street Timothy was in an agitation of spirits that evidently amused Sam, but Timothy couldn't understand it. How could Sam be so careless? He'd known the girl for perhaps a week. And yet there was a simple honesty about it that almost made him wish he was as carefree as Sam. Could he and Mary ever meet like that?—no, no. He couldn't think of it. It was a dangerous thought.
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Married women couldn't often work outside the home because they usually worked at jobs involving children. Parents didn't want their children asking awkward questions when their teacher or governess became pregnant, and after marriage women were needed to run their own home.
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