The Penitent Thief

CJ Martin

Published by Kotoba Books

Copyright 2015 by CJ Martin

Visit the author's website at http://www.CJMartinBooks.com

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person.

The Penitent Thief

February 14th, 1890

Carl Brooke

Boston

I had no intention of spilling any more ink chronicling the history of our Agora Society. However, to my shock—and I must admit, my immense pleasure—I received numerous letters of encouragement to divulge more of its secrets. It seems, the Agora’s long and colorful history still holds interest to these modern times.

While I had been willing to consign our Agora past experiences to the grave, I now realize what a disservice this would have been to the record of history. Yes, the Agora Society should be remembered and, if modesty permits, I am the only one still living who is able to share some form of accurate and in-depth knowledge on the subject.

So, with the full acceptance of this burden, I shall, to the best of my abilities, recount in a series of letters remarkable cases and events in which the Society was a major player.

In the last letter, entitled Two Tocks before Midnight, I wrote of the downfall of Charles Tock and Thomas Phillips. Both of whom, I have nothing more to report.

Thomas’ daughter, Lottie, however, in recent days wrote me a letter of the most amiable nature, thanking me for regaling her with tales of her father’s youth. I realize by publishing her name as I did in the previous letter, that I put to risk the possibility she may one day learn the truth of her father and that I had some hand in his downfall. I do hope she never does, but there is very little I can do now. I hadn’t the faintest thought that my words would have spread as far and as fast as they did. My deepest apologies to her and to all those who may be so concerned.

I was not surprised to discover that many of the letters I received seemed to be most interested in our encounters with the police. Captain Barnwell and I did become close friends and I do have much to share regarding our collaboration—this current letter only touching on it—but if there is to be only one other event from our society’s long and colorful history that I could write about, it would be regarding the Penitent Thief.

One evening shortly after the war, Captain Barnwell came to my door late, well after I had retired.

“Mr. Brooke, are you in?” he shouted from the street.

I woke to a half stupor, thinking the knocking and voices were remnants of the dream I had just left off. But as I readjusted my pillow and allowed my eyelids to close, I heard the man shout again.

“Yes, Captain Barnwell,” I shouted back through the open window of my second floor bedroom after taking a moment to fully awaken.

“Very sorry to bother you, but it is a matter of some urgency.”

I nodded and after a “I shan’t be a moment,” I closed the window and quickly dressed. It was very much unlike Captain Barnwell to come calling after sundown, let alone close to midnight. Something important was on the man’s mind and I meant to find out what it was.

Once I made my way out the door, my friend bombarded me with the most peculiar request.

“Mr. Brooke, would you mind coming to the office? Rutherford Nordlinger has… murdered someone.”

“Nordlinger? The thief?”

“Yes, sir, the same.”

“If you say he returned to thieving, I would have a hard time believing that, but murder?”

“The evidence is certain.”

“And he has confessed?”

“He says he will make his confession only to you.”

Only to me. I was more than a little puzzled. I had had a hand in helping Captain Barnwell arrest the man several years before. As serious of an offender as Nordlinger had been, he became just as serious at becoming a reformed man. He served his time and made a great effort to right his wrongs—even going as far as paying double of what he took from his victims. At his request, I oversaw much of the distribution of moneys. By all accounts, I believed him to be truly a new man.

The last I had heard of him, he had joined a monastery, forsaking all worldly desires. I am naturally skeptical of sudden conversions, but in Nordlinger’s case, I had become convinced it was genuine. Even those he had stolen from extolled the new man.

“And this certain evidence?” I asked the captain as I popped my head inside to grab my hat.

“He was caught fleeing from the scene of the crime. His fists and sackcloth, bloodied. Let’s go.”

“Sackcloth?” I said following my friend to the street and then to his brougham.

“Yes, he had become something of an ascetic hermit. Clearly all for show.” The captain barked his orders to the driver and climbed in the carriage behind me.

Nine years of show… I was not at all convinced that Nordlinger was capable of murder even after the captain enumerated the seemingly clear evidence. He had been—as far as I knew—without fault for nine years. Why would he suddenly commit a murder?

“Is this the first you’ve heard of him in recent years?” I asked.

“Yes and no. There have been at least two peculiar robberies in the past month. In each instance only one thing of value was taken—something Nordlinger the thief was fond of doing—and both left a note. A third note, strikingly similar to the other two notes, was found on the body of the deceased this very night.”

“A note? Stealing one valuable item is certainly reminiscent of Nordlinger’s past modus operandi, but a note? I cannot think of an instance that the old Nordlinger did that. What did these letters read?”

“Both were simply signed, ‘The Penitent Thief’.”

My hands instinctively gripped my knees and I bowed my head down to the carriage floor. It was pure shock, those words. Over the clap-clap sounds of the single horse strutting upon the cobble stones, I told the captain what Nordlinger said to me upon paying his debt to society. The thief’s tone of voice and pained facial expression had seared the words into my memory. He said he felt camaraderie with the Penitent Thief on the cross next to Christ’s. I didn’t believe him then, but in subsequent years, he proved it to me and many others. And yet, upon hearing the contents of that note, there seemed to be little doubt the man had returned to his old tricks—a dog to its vomit. But if that were so, why would he ask for me?

“And the man murdered, who is he?” I asked.

“A Mr. William Ferris, by the card in his pocket. The corpse wore fairly shabby clothing—once a fine coat jacket now threadbare and dirtied. He had a bottle of whiskey in his pocket and a few coins. Nothing else. We are still investigating who he was and where he lived.”

“Has Nordlinger admitted to knowing the man?”

“When we questioned the murderer, we had not discovered the dead man’s name, but Nordlinger swore he didn’t know.”

During that short ride to the jail, I became convinced of Nordlinger’s guilt. The blood on his fists and clothes, recent thefts reminiscent of his past transgressions, and most pertinent to my mind, the note. The note was unusual in itself, but not the words: Penitent Thief, the very same phrase he had so long ago spoken to me. Despite all that, there was only one doubt in my mind: why would he call me? I would be the one most likely to see him hanged for betraying my trust, the most solemn promise he gave me.

Captain Barnwell ushered me through the Charles Street Jail where Nordlinger was to be kept until arraignment. The entrance opened up into an octagonal rotunda with a tall atrium allowing some of the splendid August moonlight in. We entered a small hallway that led to a room with two chairs facing a window with bars. A minute later, Nordlinger appeared still wearing his sackcloth. I engaged my old nemesis through iron bars.

“Who was he? A Jealous husband?”

“I’ve renounced worldly pleasures.”

“Pleasures, yes, but not murder, I see. Were you looking for the most displeasing act imaginable and your mind came upon murder?”

“I am innocent of this murder, Mr. Brooke.”

Captain Barnwell said, “Now see here, Nordlinger. You were caught fleeing from that dead man’s body seconds after killing him.”

“I was told to go there. While waiting, I was hit on the head. When I came to, there was the dead man not twelve inches from my eyes. I swear by all that is good, I had no hand in this.”

“But your hands had his blood on them.”

“I awoke with my hand on his bloodied head. Someone wants me brought down by this.”

“And this someone is not the only one,” I said. The last time I saw him, I swore I would hunt him down should he renege on his promise.

“I am guilty, Mr. Brooke, of many things. The more penitence I seek, the more wrongs I discover from my past and, most frighteningly, from my present. But this, I did not do. I would never take a man’s life, sir. It is sacred.”

Captain Barnwell placed three pieces of paper in front of Nordinger.

“What’s this?”

“Your letters, perhaps?”

“The… Penitent Thief?”

“The very words, Mr. Nordlinger, you said to me when you left prison.”

“But… I did not write these letters. To whom were they addressed?” I clearly remember Nordlinger’s feigned—or so I believed at the time—look of utter confusion.

“In the homes of the recent burglaries.”

“Burglaries?”

The captain’s fist came down on the table in front of the thief.

“No more games! The monastery’s records have you leaving three times in the past month and three times only. The first two were exactly the time of a theft. The last was tonight and that ended in a murder. Now, I’ve done as I have promised. I’ve brought Mr. Brooke. Honor your word. Make your confession!”

“I said I would tell Mr. Brooke the truth and I aim to do just that. I swear I had no hand in this.”

I watched the face of a terrified man. Deep lines scored his forehead above raised eyebrows, causing sweat to bead and then fall from a bald head down over his cheeks. Lips shuddered as if trying to coax words out of his throat. Voiceless trembling. His eyes fell to his hands resting uneasily on the table. He was examining it for remaining traces of the man’s blood. The blood had been wiped clean upon arrival at the jail, but for a few heavy moments, he continued his examination.

Returning his eyes to my face, he said, “It is true, I left three times but each time, I arrived at the location to find no one… The first two times, I simply returned. Tonight, I found myself attacked and upon coming to… Please, Mr. Brooke, discover who has done this.”

He let out tears that did not seem false.

“Why did you ask for me?”

“Because, in you I know there is an honesty that is lacking in most of humanity. You helped me once do right to those I wronged. Please.”

“That will be quite enough...”

“One moment, captain,” I said, curious as to what could possibly be Nordlinger’s defense. “You said, you were told to go there. By whom and for what purpose?”

“I received three letters from a man I had stolen from over a decade ago. Mr. Phillip Strauss was his name—on Elm Street. I had forgotten the incident, perhaps because I stole something of no value, but somehow the man found out and demanded that I meet him to make restitution. It has been my solemn duty for the past few years to right all my past wrongs. I was compelled to go—even if it was impossible to confess a particular wrong.”

“And you have no idea what it was that you stole?”

“I… can’t remember.”

More than a slight trace of anger flowed from the captain’s words as he spoke. “What do you mean? You do admit stealing from the man, correct?”

“I believe so. It would have been in an area I frequented, but I honestly have no recollection of the event.”

“And yet, you went not once, but thrice at the man’s command,” I said watching his reaction closely.

“As I have said, I took a sacred oath to repay all I have wronged. That of course even includes wrongs I may have forgotten. I have done much evil, Mr. Brooke. I have much to repent of. You of all people know that. I do not think it unlikely this was one of them.” Nordlinger paused a moment and then asked, “Tell me, who was the dead man?”

“You have never seen him before?”

“No, sir. Never.”

I nodded to the captain who then said, “We believe his name is Mr. William Ferris.”

I watched Nordlinger’s face for deceit or surprise. I saw nothing. I then stood. “If you are telling the truth, someone has gone to extraordinary measures to implicate you. Who could that be? Who are your enemies?”

“I… I can think of none. Please,” he pleaded. “Help me.”

I retained a stern appearance, but deep inside, my thoughts ran uncontrolled. It was certainly possible someone from his past would wish to see him locked up for life. He had been a drunk, a fighter, and of course a thief.

“I will consider it. Where are the three letters from Mr. Strauss?” I asked.

“Placed in the pages of my Bible in my cell. The head of the monastery will surely allow you entrance.”

I nodded and left with the captain following close behind. Once we had returned to the rotunda, Captain Barnwell asked, “What do you mean you ‘will consider it’? The man is guilty as the devil.”

“The devil’s guilt is evident in every inch of the world, within all of humanity. Evidence of Mr. Nordlinger’s current guilt is much narrower. I dare say almost non-existent.”

“But he left the monastery exactly at the times of the crimes and only at the times of the crimes.”

“Doesn’t that seem overly convenient?”

“And he was seen leaving away from the dead body.”

“But not seen in the act. Also convenient.”

The captain stopped me and stood in front with his mouth agape.

“You believe the man innocent!”

“I did not say that. At this junction, there is a greater than fifty percent chance the man is guilty. His past crimes and their similitude to the current events cannot be easily dismissed. However, if he is innocent, it means we are dealing with someone quite familiar with the old Nordlinger and someone who has a great desire to see him hanged. He is, after all, a man with much history, someone easy to frame. I’d like to visit his home, the monastery in the morning. Would you have time to join me?”

“The man is guilty.”

“Vincit omnia veritas—truth conquers all. If he is guilty, let us prove it beyond all doubt and sleep well at night. However if there is but the slightest chance the man is telling the truth, it is our duty to find that truth. I could not live with myself if I didn’t.”

“All very true, but I’m afraid I will be busy with Nordlinger’s arraignment in the morning. Please do come by the station should you learn something.”

I shook the captain’s hand and left for a quiet night’s sleep at home.

The next morning, I went to the monastery. I was received by a chamberlain busily tending to the grounds, but before announcing my presence, I spent a few quiet moments observing him. His careful raking of the pebbled garden made my heart envious of the secluded and simple life. His ancient, bony hands worked deftly in creating order out of the random pile of pebbles. Order out of chaos. Ah, the freedom to read, learn, pray… In recent years, having long retired from public and private service, I have often reminisced upon that gardener and the peaceful thoughts that scene from so long ago brought to mind.

I had watched him unseen from the corner for some time before I shook my mind free of thoughts of books and quiet meditations and announced my presence. Upon hearing the purpose of my visit, he quickly shuffled off to call the abbot. The abbot appeared wearing a simple brown tunic with the hood pulled back. Upon hearing the reason for my visit, his previously peaceful eyes turned stern, suspicious eyes that spilled distrust.

“Are you with the police?”

“I am here at the behest of the police, but I am a private citizen, an acquaintance, you might say, of Mr. Nordlinger.”

“Tell me. Do you believe Brother Nordlinger to be innocent?”

“I cannot say.”

“You do not wish to say.”

“In all honesty, I believe he is more than likely guilty. But I would reserve judgment until after investigating the facts, that being the purpose of my visit. I would like to examine his cell.”

“Do you have a warrant?”

“No, I am simply here in an informal capacity.”

“Then I must refuse.”

“It will only take…”

“I’m sorry, but we are quite strict with our rules. Outsiders are not permitted within the living quarters unless extraordinary circumstances demand it. You may return with a warrant.”

“I see. A pity. However, I did receive a personal request from Brother Nordlinger. His Bible. His one request is to find comfort in its pages.”

The abbot paused in thought before acquiescing. “Very well. Wait here.”

Five minutes later, I left the monastery with Nordlinger’s Bible in hand. Once out of sight of the abbot, I thumbed through the pages. As Nordlinger had said, there were three small letters folded and placed in the early chapters of Jeremiah—the weeping prophet.

Once home, I examined them carefully. The three letters came from the same stock of stationary, quite well made. I was later able to compare the letters with the stock used for the crimes—the papers with “The Penitent Thief” written on them. There were all the same. All six papers were a composite of hemp and esparto grass—old fashioned and of exceptional quality. It was a fine paper, marking the owner as having considerable pride and station.

The handwriting was fluid, beautifully done. A quick comparison from Nordlinger’s notes in the ledger of his Bible told me the letters could not have been his creation. The man had lacked opportunity to a proper education as a youth. In later years, of course, he had read much, becoming a greatly educated man despite his youthful idleness. Still, the writing habits from his past carried on to adulthood.

There were a few curious comparisons, however. Both had the tendency to flourish their capitals; both wrote with an open “a.” While I am by no means a professional graphologist, the similarities, while stark, were not enough to make up for the differences in other areas. Indeed, the style between the two were so vastly different, I could only conclude without a shade of doubt the letters must have been written by someone other than Mr. Nordlinger.

I then visited Mr. Phillip Strauss on Elm Street, the purported author of the three letters. He answered my knocking without delay. Within the doorframe of his apartment stood a dilapidated man. Early fifties, but his sullen eyes looked as if they had seen many years more. The building was constructed some forty years before during the Greek Revival period of Boston architecture. But the owner, Charles Sears went bust during the Panic of 1837. The city bought it for public housing. Its former glory forgotten, the condition quickly deteriorated to its present state.

The man with the sad eyes invited me in without hesitation. It wasn’t the purpose of my visit that interested him, but just that I was a visitor. He seemed pleased to talk to anyone and by the opened locket he kept by his well-used Morris chair, I knew why. The inside of the locket kept a faded photograph of a beautiful woman forever frozen in youth.

“My condolences, sir. Your wife, I presume.”

“Yes,” he said, acting almost embarrassed he had left the locket out. He motioned for me to sit on a couch as he made his way to that Morris chair. He picked up the locket and staring at it, he continued, “She was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Do you know the name … Nordlinger?”

His eyes stayed fixed on his wife. “No. Can’t say I do.”

I saw no variance in his voice. He lovingly set the locket down, gripped the arms of the chair, and leaned forward, his dejected eyes then locked on mine.

“Who is he?”

His voice was little more than a whisper.

“A man who fears he has done you wrong. He believes he may have stolen something from you. Perhaps, fifteen to twenty years ago. Were you then at this location?”

“Twenty years…” The man’s eyes stared blankly. “Nothing’s changed. I didn’t have anything worth stealing then as now.”

“Can you remember losing or misplacing anything of value?”

The man returned his eyes to his wife and I feared my interview would not reveal anything worthwhile. Then, his eyes brightened with a memory. A sad glow replaced the sad dejection.

“I do remember one strange event. My wife and I were expecting. We had just moved here—about eighteen years ago, I believe. Life and blessings seemed to abound in those days. We were poor as dirt, mind you, but we had everything else it seemed. Not anymore. Now I am bereaved of wife and child and I still call this my home.” He paused but before falling completely into a memory, he snapped forward and said, “Anyway, one evening, we were met at the door by a stranger who was, quite frankly, drunk.”

“And what went missing?”

“A doll.”

“A doll? Rare or antique?”

“No. It was just a filthy old rag doll. It had been my wife’s from her childhood and she insisted on keeping it for our child…”

“I see. And you believe this drunk man stole the doll?”

“Yes. Well, who knows, but my wife insisted it was him. For the next year, she looked for that drunk man. It was very important to her, you see. She had left the doll by the bedroom window near the crib and that evening after the man left, it was gone. She always insisted it was the man that took it.”

“Did you invite the man in?”

“No, sir. I told him to go away and I quickly closed the door. We laughed about it and thought the incident nothing of importance until my wife realized the doll was missing. I can only think he or an associate of his broke in through the bedroom window that evening.”

A neighbor some rooms down was shouting at her children. The walls in the apartment were thin, easily allowing outside sounds in with little distortion. I could only imagine the cacophony of noises from the street below that would easily mask any intruder prying a window and entering.

“And nothing else was taken?”

The man shook his head and returned his gaze to his wife’s photo.

“You’ve been most helpful. Please remain seated, I shall see myself out.”

I left to meet Captain Barnwell at the station. He had finished his morning duties and was eager to join me. Together, we returned to the Charles Street Jail.

“Who is she?” I asked as I handed Nordlinger his Bible.

He looked at me with raised eyebrows and a half-opened mouth.

“The woman who wrote the three letters—as well as the three notes left at the scene of the crimes.”

“Sir, they were all addressed as being from a Mr. Phillip Strauss.”

“The author of all the letters is a singular woman.”

“You can be sure?”

I pulled the first letter that had originally sent Nordlinger out of his seclusion. “Notice the flowing, Italian hand, the romantic and sentimental long finish of the gangling letters. Such ornate chirography is indicative of a female author. Handwriting is a gesture of the soul, my good fellows. These strokes are soft and free-flowing—beautiful and replete with significance and meaning. Feminine. It is voiceless speaking. Just as by voice we can infer personality, temperament, and mental and bodily health, we can do likewise with writing.” I paused to observe both men’s reactions. “I can continue. The gentle hooks at the ends of the letters a, t, and n are open. Quite feminine. The quill was lightly pressed to the paper. A man would press harder. The smooth strokes and slight flourishes on all the tailed letters. It is unmistakable.”

The captain was not willing to allow the pendulum to swing too far into the realm of innocence. “Misdirection.” He looked at Nordlinger while pointing to the letters on the table. “This man has cleverly disguised his handwriting to make these. It was all designed to throw us off.”

“Impossible. I have seen Mr. Nordlinger’s natural handwriting. He is not capable of performing such artistry.” I turned to the man and said, “I mean no insult. I only wish to establish relevant facts.” Nordlinger nodded uneasily.

“Perhaps, then, his wife?” asked the captain.

“Mr. Strauss’? Dead a year ago. By the state of his apartment, there appeared to be no other woman in his life. But more so than that. The man is penniless. The stationary suggests the author to be of some wealth.”

“Then who wrote the notes?” Nordlinger’s voice sounded confused but slightly hopeful.

“Someone who wanted to hurt you; someone who knew of your methods and where you did your crimes. You need to think who was with you then that knew of your methods. Someone who would now wish to betray you.”

He shook his head in contemplation and asked, “Tell me, what was stolen from Mr. Strauss?”

“That is the most curious aspect. A rag doll of no value.”

Nordlinger’s eyes drifted into empty space. His lips began to stammer, his arms shake. “No, it…”

“Mr. Nordlinger?”

“I did it,” he said without hesitation.

“Did what?”

“The thefts. I stole the dolls. I… I even committed the murder. I did it.”

“Swear upon your Bible, sir.”

“I did it.”

“Swear it!” I moved his Bible in front of Nordlinger’s shaking hands and pounded my own hands on the table.

“I cannot.”

“You will lie to me, but not to God. Why? Who wrote these letters? Who killed Mr. William Ferris?”

His voice was that of a mouse. “I did.”

“No! A woman with some money and detailed knowledge of your past wrote the letters and devised this plan. Who is she?”

“I cannot say.”

“You will say or else you will bear the guilt for that man’s blood.”

He was silent. I crossed my arms and took a deep breath before continuing.

“I am convinced you had no hand in this, but if you do not speak up, you will have to confess this murder not only before a human judge, but to the Judge of eternity! Speak.”

“Joanne. My poor little Joanne.” His eyes were red.

“Your daughter?”

“Yes.”

It took a few minutes of sobbing and reflection before he was calm enough to speak rationally. He then confessed how he had used his adolescent daughter to enter homes while he distracted the owners. How he taught her to steal and lie at an early age. How his wife’s sister, Anne Walther, had taken Joanne away while he was in prison. He hadn’t seen or heard from his daughter since, but after his rehabilitation, he often tried to contact the sister-in-law to get her to tell him where Joanne was. She would not respond to his letters. When he made the thirty-mile trip to her house, she would only scream at him and remind him of his many sins. She finally told him Joanne was off studying in France. She would tell him nothing more.

“You distracted Mr. Strauss while Joanne climbed the fire escape to the second floor, negotiated the parapet to her peril, entered their apartment, and stole the doll.”

“Yes,” he sobbed. “I… used my Joanne to her soul’s hurt. Only a little girl would have seen value in a rag doll.”

The pieces were falling into place. He gave me the address of his sister-in-law and I was off. I no longer remember the exact location, but it was a fairly well-to-do area not far outside Boston proper.

As I drew near the house, I marveled at its beauty. A bastion of classical glory, the two-story brick-clad Federal-style building stood perfectly symmetrical. An image of the geometrical ideal. The flat façade had two windows on either side of the door for each floor. Above the central door was a balcony supported by two stout wooden columns painted white and covered with stucco.

The lady opened the door mere inches, her right hand leaned against the frame as if to block even visual entry. Of her face, I could only see the left profile, but it was clear that she was impeccably dressed. Dark cloth flowed from her high neckline to her ankles. She wore perfectly white pearls on a necklace that contrasted well with the fabric. Her face—that which I could see—was stern and unforgiving.  Pale as death, all her visible skin indicated someone who did not step outside often. But underneath the masquerade, I noticed she was concealing something, perhaps fear.

“I know you,” she said immediately after I presented my name. “You are the one who helped Nordlinger appear straight to allow this current travesty to occur.”

“You have marvelous calligraphy.”

“Excuse me?”

“I had the opportunity to review a sample of it at the Boston Journal with the captain of police. You had written a letter a few years ago arguing your own methods for reducing recidivism. I was particularly impressed by your passion if not severity on the subject.”

She continued to look at me indirectly, from the side of her left eye. The perceived fear was still there. Her right hand slipped an inch.

“Go away.”

“I cannot.”

“I shall call the police and have them escort you out.”

“I’ve saved you the bother. Captain Barnwell will be here shortly with a warrant to search the premises.”

“I...”

In an instant, I saw the lily-white hand jerk away and the door slam fast. Although I hadn’t seen anyone else, it was my impression that a man had ended our conversation by slamming the door. A few seconds later, shouts from inside confirmed it.

“Miss Walther!”

I pounded the door.

I heard the sound of glass breaking and a lady’s scream.

Taking a step back, I drew my revolver and grabbed the door handle. It was unlocked and upon shouldering my way in, I saw the coat tails of a man disappearing around a corner staircase.

To my immediate left on the floor was Anne Walther attempting to push herself up. I fell to her side.

“I wanted...” She retrieved a handkerchief from her pocket to wipe a stream of blood from her lips. “I didn’t want death. I only wanted conviction.”

I nodded. Seeing she would be fine, my attention moved to the immediate danger. The killer.

“Stay here. Captain Barnwell will be here shortly. He will tend to your wounds and you will tell him everything.”

She looked down.

I checked my revolver and took a quick look around the staircase. I saw no one. The killer was upstairs.

“The back,” I heard Anne Walther say. I turned to the pitiful lump on the floor. “There is an outside staircase accessible from the second floor.” She pointed to the back of the house.

I nodded and made my way to the back of the house through an undecorated hallway leading to a nondescript back door. As ornate the outside had been, the inside was remarkably bare. There was a frosted window through which I could see nothing but still shadows. Then one of the larger shadows moved. The killer. I ran to throw the door open.

There was a large man wearing a rather poor looking coat and tattered pants running at top speed toward a copse of fir trees. Beyond that lay a thick forest, his intended course of escape. The man had a rifle in his right hand.

“Halt! Or I will shoot.”

The large man slowed and then stopped. He was easily forty feet from the nearest cover.

“Slowly turn around and drop your weapon.”

“Ya’ll ain’t safe,” he shouted still facing the fir trees. “She’s lying.”

“Turn around slowly.”

He did while lowering the rifle. At first I felt relief. Then, I saw him jerk his rifle to his shoulder in a singular motion. I leapt behind a large oak as I heard the bullet hit the side of the house, an inch to the right of the doorframe.

Thankfully, I had thought at the time, the man was a terrible shot. The trajectory would have missed me by a good six feet even if I had stood still, but he had not been aiming for me. Someone had been in the doorframe—someone I had not noticed.

The man was once again fleeing toward the trees at a manic rate.

“Stop!”

I took off after him with my gun at the ready.

He turned and faced the rifle in my general direction. I had no tree to hide behind as before. I raised the revolver and pulled the trigger. The rifle went flying to his left. His shoulder twisted inward and hit the ground quickly followed by the rest of his body.

I was disgusted. The man wasn’t moving.

I closed the twenty feet in a few seconds and confirmed the man was dead. The bullet went through the man’s heart.

I turned back to the house. Anne Walther was standing in the doorway. I blinked and confirmed she was holding a rifle of her own.

“He’s dead,” I shouted. “You can lower your weapon.”

“Thank you,” she shouted back. “You don’t know how much of a nightmare the past few weeks have been.”

I stood and began walking back toward the house, toward the woman who was continued to hold the rifle at her side.

“He made me do despicable things. He was a brut.”

“He won’t hurt you anymore, but you must also clear your brother-in-law’s name.”

“Even if he didn’t kill that man, Rutherford was quite guilty nonetheless.”

I watched her hand tighten, the hand gripping her weapon.

“Drop the weapon.” I raised my revolver slightly.

“He is a despicable thing, our Mr. Rutherford. My sister was too good for him.”

“Drop the weapon,” I repeated.

“That man! He’s alive!” Her eyes bulged and I took the bait, turning to see the man I had just shot remain still as death.

The report from her rifle hurt my ears more than my stomach, at least at first. I found myself on the ground not quite sure what had happened. Then the pain in my abdomen registered with a sudden ferocity.

“I do thank you,” I heard her say as she walked toward me squirming in the dirt. “With Thomas here dead.” She pointed the tip of her rifle at the dead man. “And you about to be dead, I have the perfect cover story. The captain will be quite interested in hearing all about Rutherford’s intrigue with this riffraff.” She kicked my revolver out of reach before I could focus.

She then took a step toward me, but was careful to stay out of reach. It wouldn’t have mattered. The pain made the slightest movement nearly impossible. I was more concerned about the blood loss. I knew that would kill me if I couldn’t get it dammed.

“So,” she said raising the barrel of the rifle to my head, “Good bye.”

“Wait! I...”

The sound of a gun going off stopped me mid-sentence, but I wasn’t dead. She dropped her rifle and crumpled to the ground. Emerging from the shadows within the house, I could just make out the figure of Captain Barnwell before passing out.

The nurses at the St. John’s hospital were top notch, giving me both excellent care and company. The bullet had missed major arteries, but ended up requiring two months of bed rest and major surgery to repair.

The day after the emergency surgery, Captain Barnwell and Rutherford Nordlinger came to visit me. Nordlinger appeared with grateful tears in his eyes. The Captain, ever stoic, slightly smiled as he patted my foot on the bed and gave me a, “well done.”

Rutherford gently took my hand and expressed his thanks with greater emotion.

“I had no idea Anne was capable of this. She hated me, yes, and her hatred grew through the years, but murder?”

I swallowed and gave him a squeeze with my hand. “I’m very glad you kept your promise with me.”

“Always, my friend. And,” said Nordlinger with a great smile on his face, “with the good captain’s assistance, we have discovered where my beloved daughter is. We found a receipt for a boarding school in Quebec. Much closer than France! The captain cabled the school and confirmed she is indeed a student there.”

“You will go see her, then?” I asked.

A shadow fell on Nordlinger’s face and he removed his hand momentarily. “I... My sister-in-law told her many things about me and of course the true things she knows about me will surely paint me as a monster in her mind. I cannot afford a trip and I am torn what to write in a telegram.”

I smiled. “I have been thinking of taking a trip up north. Perhaps if the Abbot will allow you a leave of absence, we can go together, that is, if I ever get out of this hospital. I can give you a proper introduction.”

The club did see fit to sponsor our trip. The first few minutes of the father-daughter reunion was a delicate matter, but upon seeing her father’s tears rolling down his utterly sober face, Joanne melted into his arms.

She did remain to finish her schooling which the society gladly sponsored, but as often as possible, she came to Boston to visit her father. Their relationship blossomed and after graduation, she returned and found work at a local bank in order to be with her father. I have since lost track of the girl, but at her father’s funeral, she told me how grateful she was for the years that I had given her with him.

Then she told me something that shocked me to my core. The one loose end, the one piece of the puzzle yet unexplained: who was the murdered man, William Ferris? Who was he and why was he killed? I had always assumed it was simply an act of convenience, an unlucky soul who happened to be available to make the frame complete. But some years earlier, her father had told Joanne the man’s name. She recoiled and explained that Mr. Ferris had once been Aunt Anne’s beau. She had intended to remove two problems at once.

Mr. Ferris had come from a good family and had been quite wealthy. The match was quite promising for both families. But he had had a gambling problem and a few years after they met, it sunk him into penury. Before Joanne had been carted off to boarding school, Mr. Ferris had often come calling begging for forgiveness and money. She remembered her aunt shouting threats from behind the door. Mr. Ferris’ visits continued and she had taken on a personal bodyguard, the man I had most unfortunately shot. By framing Nordlinger, she clearly intended to wipe away two undesirables from her past.

On a brighter note, Nordlinger formed a quick and lasting bond with Mr. Phillip Strauss, the man from whom the rag doll had been stolen. They met consistently once a week until Mr. Strauss’ death a few years later.

It is said the angels rejoice at the salvation of one man. At Nordlinger’s funeral some twenty years after his prison sentence ended, the entire city—so it seemed—showed up to pay its respects. After reconciling with his daughter, he spent his remaining years building a group of concerned citizens—including an ever interesting mix of ex-cons and monks—dedicated to the task of teaching respect for human dignity and respect for private property. While never formally organized, he often referred to it as The Penitent Thieves Society.

He was a good man and is greatly missed by those he touched and saved.

So I end this second letter. While far from dazzling with intrigue and criminal investigation, it was to me the most consequential of all cases. Rutherford Nordlinger became closer to me than a brother—always there for support! Oh, how I miss our deep discussions on the Holy Writ or the particulars of some mundane current event. Despite his poor upbringing, he was indeed a deep thinker. Sincere penitence created in him a most brilliant and compassionate man.

Please contact the author at clay@thejapanshop.com or visit his blog at: http://cjmartinbooks.com

Your comments and questions are most welcome.

Also Available by the Author: