Red Dog Conspiracy, Act 1

The Jacq of Spades-6

I felt sure the Red Dog stamp on the wall was a clue. Perhaps if I learned about this gang it would help.

Amelia entered with my provisional tray: “regular“ tea and toast, jam and butter, newspaper and mail. “Did you sleep well?”

I thought of my nightmare. At least I hadn’t screamed and wakened the household, like most nights. “Well enough. We were up later than usual.”

“Yes, I suppose we all were. My little ones were so excited by the fireworks they did not want to go to sleep!” Amelia and her husband Peter’s three children, two girls and a boy, helped Peter in the stables.

I smiled, picturing their bright eager faces. “Amelia, how did you and Peter come to Spadros Manor?”

She turned away and chuckled, but it seemed forced. “Ah, that would be a long story, mum, and I need to prepare your bath, or you won’t be dressed in time for breakfast.”

What favors must these people give to earn such high positions? I shook my head and turned to the paper.

NEW YEAR’S DAY, 1899, the Bridges Daily screamed. Flattering and appropriate photos from the night before graced the front. The articles spoke of the color of a dress, the hairstyle, the cut of a suit.

People hungered for diversion. The Families encouraged this attention to the frivolous. It distracted from real questions, like why they struggled to survive while we feasted.

The paper mentioned minor incidents in the Clubb quadrant: horse-tackle cut, shops egged, windows broken. With each event, the police found a Red Dog stamp on a wall or card afterward. While most gangs kept their activity to the slums, these incidents in the fair parts of Clubb had been occurring for some time.

The Clubb merchants demanded “something be done,” and the Mayor promised increased patrols. The article called these incidents pranks, but a brave reporter printed an editorial:

Year End Violence A Symptom

An Editorial By Thrace Pike

Once again the year ends with malicious acts towards the betters of this city. One might point out that merchants are of a lesser class, just as most readers of the news. However, to the majority who shiver in their homes, Yuletide feasts consisting of bread and soup — and a thin soup at that — the fat merchants strolling among them must incite dismay, if not anger.

And why should the merchants not charge? They have fees to pay, just as do those they sell to. We all have fees to pay, but to those hanging at the bottom rung, these fees are a lead weight threatening to pull them to the utter desolation of the Pot.

These acts of anger are symptoms of a greater ill. Perhaps it is time to make changes to the current state of affairs before the illness becomes serious.

Those who couldn’t be bought … fascinating.

Amelia came in with a package. “Rocket already sniffed it, never fear.”

Rocket was a black pit bull terrier, the best bomb sniffer dog in Bridges. He could smell when you had fired a gun hours before, and would bark.

“I found some things in your coat. I’ll put them in your study.”

“Thank you, Amelia.” People often passed notes, flowers, or trinkets to others at the Ball, and this year was no exception.

I knew what the package was before I opened it: today’s Golden Bridges, the local tabloid. Its byline read, “f**k the Fairy Tales, Get the Real Story.”

One of my contacts sent me a copy when she could get one: they sold thousands of copies within hours of publication.

Their lead story:

Mad Jack Rampage At Ball

The notorious Jack Diamond was at it again: shouting at the Spadros heir in the Grand Ball. Why? Who knows why ‘Black Jack’ does something, or his next target?

Our inside reporter caught a glimpse of the scene as he followed the Diamond men dragging the culprit from the Ball: ‘Master Diamond flailed, offering excuses as he struggled to free himself from the wrath of his father and brothers, who suffered embarrassment at his antic. Unamused, they stuffed him into a carriage forthwith.’

Perhaps Master Jack will refrain from intemperance next time, but we doubt it.

I laughed aloud.

“Why do you read such trash?” Amelia said.

“I must know what people are saying. The Bridges Daily tells me what the Family Patriarchs want people to say.” I passed over a detailed account of the gang wars raging through the slums and came across this:

Ball Happenings: An Inside Look

We sit with our inside reporter, who gives us the scoop on the real news.

GB: What tidbits did you glean from the night’s events?

IR: Other than Jack Diamond’s outburst? The Grand Ball was another spectacle of indulgence. The jewelry and beading worn by the ladies alone could carpet the room.

GB: It’s interesting you mention Jack Diamond. Was this his first Grand Ball?

IR: Indeed. I felt impressed with the restraint of Mr. Anthony Spadros, who had partaken quite a bit of wine prior to Master Diamond’s display. Not to mention Jack had the effrontery to threaten violence.

GB: Restraint in a Spadros? This is an unexpected development.

IR: He’s always been an unusual one; we’re noting his progress. I did see a bit of kissing the wife, but you can’t fault a man for that.

GB: Well, if I was married to Mrs. Spadros, I’d dare the scandal of a public display too.

Really! Shaking my head, I set the paper aside. “Amelia, do we have any callers scheduled?”

“On New Year’s Day? I don’t believe so, mum. Oh, wait … when Mr. Anthony took his tray just now, out on the veranda … the poor man, he had the bottle of salicylate with him … he told Michaels you and he were calling on the Kerrs for luncheon.”

When did he arrange that?

Tony took Joe’s assistance more seriously than I thought.

This would be interesting …

Bathe, dress, hair done, then downstairs for morning prayers with the staff. Tony insisted on doing this daily.

It reminded me of the one unbroken stained glass window in Ma’s cathedral. Beautiful ladies walked in flowing gowns, Card symbols surrounding them.

We never did prayers in the cathedral. We might be the Dealers’ daughters, but the knowledge they held passed long ago.

The flat area still remained where the Dealers laid their Cards before the Bad Times. Our elders held a reverence for that place, and never allowed us to play on it.

After prayers, Tony and I went up to a full sideboard in our breakfast sun-room at the back corner of the house. I looked forward to this time: Monsieur made the most excellent sausage, and I loved the view of the gardens. After breakfast, we then went to the morning meeting, back downstairs in the staff room.

Spadros Manor was shaped like a U. The parlor and entry lay on the right arm, the breakfast room and dining hall on the left. Our study rooms lay between, our quarters and guest rooms on the second floor.

To go to the staff room, you left the breakfast sun-room, went through our dining hall, into the preparation room beyond.

At the far left of this room was a door to a small stockroom, which led to the stables and a stair down to Amelia’s quarters. At the far right, sliding double doors opened on a stair wide enough for men carrying platters to pass each other.

A hallway just as wide lay at the bottom of the stair, running underneath the entire far end of the courtyard. Copper pipes ran along the ceiling. The first door to the right led to the kitchens.

To the left, portraits of the staff hung above white cabinets. Vents on the floor and ceiling allowed warm air to pass through. Wide openings above a counter to the right allowed platters to be handed to the waiters.

The staff room lay past the kitchens, also to the right. At the far end of the hall were quarters for our butler Pearson and his family, and a stair up to the parlor area.

The staff room was white, with two long black tables, one for the men and boys, the other for the women and girls. Two doors at the back of the room led to the unmarried men’s and women’s quarters. Another door to the far right led to a stair which went up to the courtyard. To the right, a large dumbwaiter transported crates or large items in need of repair. Windows high up along the wall to the right let in light and air.

To the left hung rows of bells and levers, marked for each room of the house. At present, the levers pointed down, but when we rung, they pointed up, showing what room the bell rang from.

Tony didn’t attend the morning meeting that day. Writing his end-of-the-year accounts always took him much of the morning. So I stood in front of the staff to give their orders for the day’s work, Pearson standing beside me to my right.

“As we will be calling on Mr. Polansky Kerr for luncheon,” this produced murmurs and glances which made Pearson frown, “you may spend the holiday with your families.”

Essential personnel — Amelia and Michaels — would remain on duty until we left. Pearson, as our butler, was always on duty. The rest of the staff would be free until time to prepare dinner.

“I — but not Mr. Spadros — will be ‘at home’ until noon should anyone call, and we should be back for tea. I shall message if we are delayed.”

“Very good, mum,” Pearson said.

John Pearson, an impeccably dressed man with thinning brown hair, came with the Manor when Tony and I married. A wedding gift, if you could consider a man and his family as such. I met Pearson the first day I entered Spadros Manor as a child, and his presence always made me feel more secure.

“Pearson is a most proper butler,” Molly Spadros once said, “as was his father before him.”

Meals were on time and well made, the Manor kept spotless, and not so much as a nickel was ever found missing. Pearson’s wife Jane ran the kitchens, his daughter worked as a maid, and his sons waited table and did repairs.

Of course, the fear of your body being found in the river one morning should you trespass is a great motivator. But there was something steady and discreet about the man, making his post a natural position for him.

The clock struck half past ten. I went to my study through the stairs to my right, which led up to the parlor.

The small stack of items from the Ball lay in a basket on a white table by the window. I sat at my desk, the only item of furniture truly mine: dark cherry with brass handles.

I wanted to know more about the Red Dogs, and Jacqueline Spadros couldn’t do that sort of inquiry. Thus letters to my contacts, short and coded, were often the way I worked.

To my contact in the Clubb desk at the Bridges Daily:

Dear Mr. Blackberry —

Your help with any news about a lost pup. Red-haired, goes by the name of “Card.” Last seen in the shop area.

Any information richly rewarded.

Yours, Miss Pamela Cavendish

And another to my contact at the employment office:

Dear Mrs. Stake (whose name was actually Miss Stack, but there was no one else at the office with a similar name) —

Background information on a Mr. Reddington, deals in business stamps and cards. Claims multiple residences. Prior business selling exotic dogs. Known associates appreciated.

In Gratitude, Mr. Jack Split

And so on.

The clock struck eleven as I handed the letters to Pearson. “Would you bring in some bourbon?”

He had a slight hesitation before saying, “Of course, mum.”