Читать книгу The Blackest Bird - Joel Rose - Страница 30
ОглавлениеHigh Constable Jacob Hays sits beside his daughter Olga, having assumed their accustomed spots in the church pew. The Sabbath sermon is under way, and the reverend doctor, a robust man of impressive girth, is having his say. Hays looks up to study the prelate’s curiously small but bright eyes gazing paternally down on his congregation.
“Women,” the man of God shouts over the gathered heads, knowing his voice to be a magnificent instrument, “what shall we do with them? They must learn their place. Our young women, these women we care for and love, I ask you, do we dare let them find their own way in this harsh and unforgiving world? Do we dare let them have their heads? Look no further lest we forget her, poor Mary Cecilia Rogers. How far did this aggrieved maiden stray from the Lord? Who among us is prepared to answer the question? To endure the consequence? No, we must come to the fore. We, with the help of the Lord, must be their guide.”
After the service the pastor stands just outside the open double church doors on the topmost step, greeting his parishioners as they exit and descend.
Hays shakes the man’s warm, puffy hand. “Well said,” the high constable compliments, with a wink to his daughter and only, perhaps, the slightest touch of detectable mischief.
“Do you think so?” The tiny, luminous eyes of the reverend doctor sparkle with pleasure.
“I think so,” rejoins Hays.
Olga takes her father’s arm and they descend the church steps together, the reverend doctor having failed to even register Olga’s mixed look of scorn and pity.
Old Hays smiles at her. “Don’t think I’ll be permitting you out again,” he teases somberly. “You’ll not have another job outside the home on my watch.”
“Oh, Papa,” she laughs gaily. She has always very much enjoyed her father’s sense of humor, rare as it sometimes was.
“It’s a different age, I’ll give the reverend doctor credit for recognizing that much. But somehow I don’t think him standing up there lecturing, ‘Don’t do this!’ and ‘Don’t do that!’ is going to put an end to it.”
“No, I think not,” she agrees.
“Still, it’s the fashion of the time, just as the reverend doctor says.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Or beginning to be such.”
“All you have to do is look at me, your own daughter, if you have any doubt, Mr. Jacob Hays.”
He couldn’t or wouldn’t argue.
“Shall we walk?” he offers instead. “It’s a beautiful day, and I prefer a lively jaunt to the sedentary carriage right now.”
“We certainly can walk, Papa. I prefer the physical exertion myself.”
“High Constable?”
Old Hays knew the voice, the tone, and what it meant, too well. “Yes?”
“Sir?” The man waits. It is Sergeant McArdel, standing with Hays’ driver, Balboa. Balboa is outfitted in his Sunday best, forest green pantaloons, yellow shirt, yellow stock. Both men, McArdel and Balboa, were at attention.
As dictated by local ordinance, chains were set up at either end of streets fronting churches to keep away traffic and keep down the din during Sunday services. The Scotch Presbyterian Church on Mott Street was no exception.
The black police barouche was parked at the kerb just outside the chain link.
McArdel tipped his hat at Olga. “Morning, missy,” he says.
“Morning, Sergeant,” Olga answers.
“Sir?” McArdel turns. “I need your ear.”
“Then have it,” Hays grumbles, taking a step to the side and saying, “Excuse us, dear,” to his daughter.
With that the sergeant joins him and they walk off a little distance. “My apologies, sir, but there’s been a rather grisly discovery behind Cow Bay this morning.”
“Where?”
“In the rear alley that leads from the tenement.”
“What kind of discovery?”
“Three bodies, including a little girl.”
Hays glances over at his daughter. She is taken in rather heated conversation with the reverend doctor. Balboa is holding the carriage horse, Old Joe, by the rein.
“Do we know who they are?”
“We certainly do, sir. The Butcher Boy Ruby Pearl is one of them.”
“And the others?”
“The wife and child of Tommy Coleman, sir.”
