P. Alderman - Haunting Jordan

“You know Frank?” Hattie asked, surprised.

Willoughby nodded. “He and I had some dealings recently. He came to me for medical supplies. Some story about a young girl—yes, name of Isobel, if I remember correctly—who had fallen from a carriage, though I doubt he told me the truth. Hard to sustain burns in a fall from a carriage,” Willoughby added wryly.

Hattie managed not to react. So Frank had been the one to treat Isobel. That was why he knew the details of what Charles had done to her.

She glanced at Willoughby and found him watching her with a shrewd expression. When she remained silent, he sighed. “I won’t push you to tell me what you know, but it’s my duty to report this attack to Chief Greeley.”

“I’ve already taken care of it—you needn’t trouble yourself,” she lied. “I’m sure you’ve already had a long day.”

“Who do you have to nurse Mr. Lewis?”

“I will take care of that as well.”

Willoughby’s expression turned to one of shock. “Mrs. Longren, that is highly improper. I can’t allow it. I will send someone over—”

“ No . The more people who know, the greater the likelihood Frank’s attackers will learn of his location. No one will suspect he is here.”

“But—”

“I have extensive experience treating the injured and infirm at my parents’ clinic in Boston,” she interrupted firmly. “His injuries, though severe, are ones I’ve handled in the past. And you said yourself that we must simply wait and see whether he returns to consciousness. My housekeeper and I can keep vigil.”

The physician continued to eye her with disapproval. “Charles would never have allowed this.”

“Charles is no longer here to make the decisions, Dr. Willoughby. If you care about your patient’s survival, you will speak to no one about this.”

The physician studied her, then sighed. “Very well.”

“Thank you.” Hattie stood. “If you’ll prepare your bill, I can pay you immediately.”

He pursed his lips, reaching down to pull a slip of paper from his satchel. “Charles always said you were headstrong—he was concerned that trait would land you in trouble one day. I’m well aware of the good Frank Lewis has done on the waterfront, so I can hardly object to your willingness to take him in. But if you’ll take every precaution, I’ll sleep better with that knowledge.”

Hattie nodded. “If you’ll follow me to the library once you’ve finished your drink, I’ll pay you there.”

Once he’d left, promising to drop by the next afternoon to see how Frank was doing, Hattie returned to the attic. She sat in the chair next to the cot, one hand rubbing her temple. Frank lay, silent and unmoving, and still unnaturally pale. She lifted one of his hands and held it in her own, willing some of her strength into him.

He didn’t respond, his breathing slow and deep.

His hand still in hers, she leaned back and closed her eyes. She would keep watch over him throughout the night, then pay a visit to the police in the morning. And regardless of what she’d told Mona, she would soon deal with the men who had beaten Frank. She had no doubt that Michael Seavey or Clive Johnson had ordered the attack. She would discover which one, then find a way to deal with him.

She had no intention of allowing the perpetrators to go unpunished.

The Warning

THE next morning, Hattie opened the door of the Port Chatham Police Station, a one-story brick building located around the corner from the Green Light and identified by a rough wooden hanging sign that announced, simply, Police. She approached the front desk and asked the uniformed officer to be allowed to speak with Chief Greeley.

While she waited, she watched the passersby on the boardwalk outside the building’s plate glass windows. The streets were teeming with tradesmen and sailors going about their business, but she was too distracted to take much notice.

After a restless night, Frank’s fever was lower this morning, his sleep deeper and less disturbed. But he still hadn’t regained consciousness, which was worrisome. She’d left Sara in charge, changed into a clean dress, and hurried down to the waterfront, unwilling to be absent from his side for any length of time.

“The chief will see you now, ma’am.”

The desk sergeant escorted her through a large, open room furnished with battered oak desks. Uniformed officers sat at several of the desks, filling out paperwork. To her right, cells constructed of iron bars running from ceiling to floor marched down the wall. A few of the cells were empty, but others housed unkempt prisoners who smelled as if they hadn’t washed in days. They tracked her passing, a feral light in their eyes. She averted her gaze, wrinkling her nose, and ignored their catcalls.

“Sorry about that, ma’am,” the officer muttered.

“It’s all right, Sergeant,” Hattie assured him. “I’ve heard, and smelled, worse.”

Greeley’s office stood against the rear wall, built of whitewashed, half-height wooden walls and closed in by large windows. The design was intentional, she supposed, so that he could see at a glance what was happening in the common area. He sat behind an oak desk substantially larger than those in the other room, reading a sheaf of papers.

As they entered, he looked up, his gaze coolly assessing. “That’ll be all, Dobbs.”

“Yessir.”

“This is a surprise, Mrs. Longren.” Greeley indicated that she should take a seat in one of the rickety wooden chairs across from where he sat. “If you wished to discuss Charlotte with me, you could’ve sent a note requesting that I call on you later this afternoon.”

“You mistake the reason for my visit, Chief Greeley.” Hattie pulled off her gloves and placed them in her lap. “I come on a matter of some urgency. I wish to file a report of an assault.”

Greeley jumped to his feet. “Charlotte is all right? Someone attacked her?”

“No, no,” Hattie hastily assured him. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. The attack happened yesterday afternoon, here on the waterfront. Frank Lewis was badly beaten and left for dead.”

Greeley lowered his large frame back into the chair, his expression now wary. “And how would you know about this alleged attack, Mrs. Longren?”

She hesitated, trying to decide the best way to proceed. “I learned about it from Mona Starr. Mr. Lewis is in serious condition and remains unconscious. His physician has indicated that Frank was attacked by at least three assailants.”

“You should have had the physician file a report with us.”

She waved that aside. “I wish you to look into this matter immediately, to ascertain who might have perpetrated the crime.”

Greeley picked up a fountain pen and fiddled with it. “And what is your interest, may I ask?”

She arched a brow. “To bring his attackers to justice, of course. I agreed to report the attack to you because, as I’m sure you know, people like Mrs. Starr don’t believe the police will take them seriously.”

Greeley studied her for a moment, his expression giving away little. “Where is Frank Lewis right now?”

“Hidden where the men who tried to kill him will not find him. Mona felt it prudent to keep the location of his convalescence secret for now.”

“You can tell me his whereabouts—I am, after all, the police.”

If members of the police force knew his location, she couldn’t trust that word of it wouldn’t leak out. “I don’t see the point—Frank can’t talk to you until he awakens, and given that he has a concussion, he may not remember the attack at all.”

Greeley leaned back and steepled his fingers. “Then I see no way I can help you, Mrs. Longren. I would need access to the victim, to hear his side of the story, before I can investigate.”