6. Sketches
Ichabod was surprised to see the light shining in the upper-storey window of their house on William Street as he approached it on his walk north from Wall Street. It was nearly two o'clock in the morning. He knew from the direction and the floor level that it was the window to Katrina's and his bedroom. It appeared she'd waited up for him.
Nevertheless he moved as quietly as possible upon entering the house; it was silent and still as he removed his overcoat and boots. He climbed the staircase on tiptoe and upon reaching the landing at the top of the stair he found that the door to their bedroom was ajar. The light from the fire spilled out into the hallway.
All he could see of Katrina when he entered the room was a lump buried under the covers and long blonde hair splayed across her pillow, and he assumed that she'd fallen asleep waiting for him. He removed his uniform jacket and hung it up, his movements silent so as not to wake her.
For a few minutes he sat, undressed and prepared for sleep, on the edge of the bed. His mind was crowded with thoughts of the long and aggravating day and he didn't feel sleepy at all. He picked up his ledger, which he had brought over to the bed with him and set on the end table, and opened it, but he was too agitated to work, his thoughts too frenetic.
Although his tasks were preferable to those of the other constables it had still been a long, harrowing day. They had to report to the Watch House at half past seven that morning; here it was nearly two o'clock in the morning, nearly twenty-four hours since he'd woken up, and he'd just arrived home. He was stationed inside the court room all day so rather than controlling the crowd outside he was one of the men charged with clearing the superfluous spectators out of the court room before the trial began and then keeping an eye on the remaining observers. In some ways he was lucky, he supposed, for he didn't have to drive back the chanting mob that remained outside of the Court House all day, and whose cries for blood could be heard clearly by everyone including the unfortunate defendant James Eldridge.
Thomas Geoffrey of all people was one of the spectators in the room that day. He sat in the back row, huddled in the corner of the bench, dressed in the same dirty, ragged clothing that Ichabod had seen him wearing each time he met him. His grey cap was pulled down over his brow and he spent the entire day with his pen moving back and forth, up and down across the pages of a ledger. Ichabod never had the chance to approach him and talk to him, but Geoffrey noticed him and they politely acknowledged each other from across the room.
Throughout the day Ichabod's eye was drawn back to him. He couldn't help wondering at the anomaly that was Thomas Geoffrey, a man who appeared to be homeless and ragged yet spent his time loitering about the Court House or, apparently, the Tontine Coffee House, and taking odd jobs when he could get them. And now he seemed to be keeping a ledger of the trial. Why? Who was he?
Ichabod was drawn out of his thoughts by the sudden sense that he wasn't alone in the room; that is, alone in being awake. He closed his ledger and set it back down on his night table, took a deep breath and exhaled, then turned to gaze at his wife. She lay motionless but Ichabod realized that he wasn't hearing the deep and even breathing that accompanied one's sleep.
"Katrina?" he murmured softly, his suspicion confirmed that she was awake after all.
He sensed her hesitation, but after a minute she slowly rolled onto a side and pushed the covers back, peering up at him.
"You are awake."
"Yes."
He stretched out across the bed toward her and leaned over, kissing her forehead tenderly. "Have you been awake this entire time?"
She nodded.
"What's wrong? Why didn't you say anything?"
"I waited up for you."
"I can see that. You didn't want me to know?"
Katrina shook her head.
"Why?" he exclaimed with great feeling.
"I don't know."
Her cheeks had flushed and she almost looked sheepish. Ichabod gazed at her, his eyes probing her face with concern.
"Katrina, what is it?"
"I just couldn't sleep knowing you were still out in the night trying to fight an angry mob."
Ichabod sensed that she was holding something back but he said nothing. As he eased himself under the covers beside her she drew close to him. They settled into each other's arms and lay quietly, staring up at the ceiling, neither of them ready to sleep.
"Fortunately the mob was too exhausted to be angry this late at night."
"Will the schedule be the same tomorrow?"
Her voice was timid, as if she dreaded his response, and he could feel the tension in her body. He clasped her tightly and kissed her cheek softly.
"No, thank God." At this response she released a held breath and relaxed in his arms. "I'm still to report early, at half past seven as we did this morning. But the Burgomaster said that Court will adjourn no later than six o'clock from now on, no matter how far along they are in an examination. Tonight we didn't adjourn until after midnight."
"Thank God he has changed the schedule. I don't know how I..."
Ichabod stared at her curiously when she stopped abruptly. Her voice had been filled with emotion but she seemed to catch herself, as if she didn't want him to hear it.
"Why did he allow it to go on until so late today?" she continued, now speaking serenely once more.
"I don't know. It was insane and the Burgomaster realized that by the end of the night. Maybe he was hoping to go through as many witnesses as possible and shorten the number of days spent on the case. I don't blame him for wanting this over quickly. But the estimated number of witnesses to be heard is roughly forty. If every one of them is called I can't see this case lasting for any less than eight days, and that is assuming that each witness will only have a short amount of testimony. It's just not possible. My guess is that it will continue for ten days or more. It's going to be hell."
"Was it horrible today?"
"As bad as we expected it would be, no better, no worse," he replied with a heavy sigh. "I don't even want to think about it right now."
Katrina moved a hand up to his chest and began to rub it soothingly.
"How was your day?"
"Alright," she answered. "We could hear the noise of the crowd from here."
"I'm not surprised. Did you and Stephen do anything interesting?"
"Not really."
"What did you do?"
"We worked on his studies. It wasn't too cold today so we walked a little bit after he was finished with his work." He heard her gulp softly. "But we walked in the other direction, away from the Court House."
"I see."
He rolled onto his side and lifted himself up on an elbow. Leaning over her he stared lovingly into her face. She gazed up at him, her large brown eyes wide. Ichabod cupped her face with his hand and tenderly stroked her soft skin, his thumb making small circles against her cheek.
"I'm sure you were both curious," he said after a time.
"Yes. But we didn't want to walk into the middle of a mob scene again."
Katrina didn't offer any further information on where they went and Ichabod decided not to ask right now.
"Any further word on Geoffrey Latham?" she asked.
"No. I spoke with him the day after the exhumation and he told me he'd decided to stay in town for a little while longer. He clearly conducts at least some business here, so I suppose he's taking advantage of the opportunity after having made the long journey. I haven't had time to pursue the case any further than that."
"What about the other man?"
"Mr. Geoffrey was one of the spectators today. He sat in the back row the entire day, with a pen and ledger. I think he was writing about the trial. He's an odd man. I've yet to figure him out."
They were silent again, and he continued to gaze down at her for a long time, a frown darkening his face as he wondered what she was holding back from him this night and why she felt the need to do so. It was clear to him that she didn't want to speak about herself. As soon as the opportunity arose she had steered the conversation back to what happened during his day. And she seemed so odd-tempered and nervous tonight. Was it merely from worrying about him and waiting so many hours for him to come home? Clearly it had shaken her up, his returning so late at night. He realized that she must have been frantic about him. But why didn't she want him to know that?
Katrina must have guessed what he was thinking. "Ichabod," she began, reaching up toward him. Her fingers brushed against his lips and he kissed them softly. "You have enough to worry about. I don't want you to worry about me, and there's no need for you to..."
"I'll always worry about you."
"I knew in advance that you would be late."
"Still, my message didn't say just how late it would be. You must have been beside yourself…"
"It couldn't be helped. You didn't know."
He clasped her hand in his and kissed it once more.
"There's something else, Ichabod. Promise you won't be angry. Stephen…did something to try to help you today…I didn't know he was going to…please don't be angry with him…or me…"
"Why on earth should I be angry with him if he tried to help me? Or you?"
She removed her hand from his grasp and sat up. He lifted himself up to sit beside her.
"There is a list that he made…it's downstairs in the sitting room…I'll show you tomorrow morning. Knowing that you didn't have time to do it yourself Stephen decided to start visiting the hotels and inquiring after Jonathan Drake."
Ichabod's eyes widened and he stared at her in stunned silence.
"He memorized every hotel and inn that he visited today then wrote them down when he came home," she continued.
"I don't believe it." He shook his head. "I'm going to…did you know that he intended to do this?"
"No. I sent him out on an errand...and while he was out he stopped along his way into any hotel or inn he passed by and asked if Mr. Drake was registered. I was a little worried when he took so long. I thought maybe he'd been caught up in the mob. Don't be angry with him, Ichabod. He knows how busy you are and thought to save you time and effort."
"The boy is ambitious, for sure," he sighed.
"And he very much wants to follow in your footsteps."
"I can't understand why."
"Can't you?" she asked, smiling.
"No, I really can't."
He lapsed into thoughtful silence.
"I don't suppose he found Jonathan Drake lodging in any of the places he explored."
"No, he didn't. But he did manage to lower the number of places that you'll have to visit."
Ichabod shook his head again and brought his hands up to rub his face.
"I'll talk to him tomorrow evening. Someday he may make a fine detective, but not now. He could have gotten himself into serious trouble."
oooOooo
After sleeping for less than three hours Ichabod rose at five o'clock in the morning, groggy and bleary-eyed. Katrina dragged herself out of bed too and, after donning a robe and slippers, stood before him and lovingly tended to him despite her own exhaustion, helping him on with his uniform jacket. Of course he didn't require her assistance; but she truly enjoyed fussing over him and in the months since they married he'd come to appreciate and long for her sweet ministrations and nurturing.
"It's so early, Katrina, and you've barely slept," he protested half-heartedly.
"Yes, but I'll be able to return to bed after you've gone," she laughed. "So you needn't feel too guilty."
"Mm, you're the lucky one. I only hope I'll last through the afternoon."
"At least court won't be adjourning at such a ridiculous hour this evening. Tonight you'll be able to have a full night's rest."
She finished buttoning his jacket then ran her palms across his chest.
"I know you hate this uniform but you do look handsome and distinguished in it," she murmured and leaned up to kiss his cheek.
"It's the big shiny buttons I hate the most. They're ridiculous."
He followed her downstairs. Light poured out from the kitchen and dining room and they discovered that Stephen was in the kitchen, awake and already preparing breakfast. The sun hadn't risen yet so candles were lit as well.
"Good morning," he greeted them cheerfully.
As Ichabod took a seat at the table Stephen approached and set down a cup filled with hot coffee before him.
"Thank you, Stephen."
He hurried to serve the rest of the breakfast. Ichabod watched with amusement as Katrina, standing next to Stephen by the cooking fire, signaled to the boy with subtle gestures, mouthing words to him and no doubt clueing him in to the fact that she'd already revealed his activities of the previous day to Ichabod. They both turned their heads to look at him at the same time, probably feeling his eyes upon them, and Ichabod quickly averted his eyes, raising his cup to his lips to hide the smirk on his face at their conspiratorial manner. He felt tenderness toward both of them as well as a certain amount of pleasure and pride at their respect for his position as the authority of the household.
Later he would caution Stephen about taking it upon himself to engage in detecting without his guidance; but he wouldn't be too hard on him.
Ichabod turned his attention away from them and tucked into the breakfast that now sat before him. Stephen took his seat at the table with his own plate of food. Katrina was at the stove pouring herself a cup of coffee.
"Sir?" the boy began hesitantly after glancing surreptitiously at Katrina. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gone out to all of those hotels without…"
"You could have gotten into serious trouble," Ichabod interrupted him sternly. "We'll speak about it this evening."
"Yes, sir," he answered softly.
"However, you did manage to save me time and effort that I would have had to invest, so I thank you for that."
"Yes, sir. He wasn't registered in any of the places I went to, but he did try to take a room above the Tontine Coffee House."
"You went to the Tontine?"
Stephen nodded. "They know Jonathan Drake, but they told me that when he arrived there they had to turn him away because their rooms were full."
"I assume they didn't know which hotel he went to then."
He shook his head. They turned back to their breakfast and Katrina joined them at the table with her coffee.
"Ichabod," she began thoughtfully after a minute. "Would you tell me more about the Tontine Coffee House? You said that many of the transactions conducted there are not exactly legal, but surely not everyone there is dishonest. Even if your father was somehow involved in some sort of financial activities it may not be what you think. Perhaps you are allowing your own opinions, even prejudices…"
"The Tontine Coffee House is a powerful venture, run by wealthy, well-connected men. In the past several years the political climate of this city has shifted to a point where it is now focused on advancing the…economic...interests of a relatively small group of men. The Tontine is the center of it. Perhaps I'm being unfair in saying that every transaction enacted there is questionable and unethical. And perhaps I'm simply being mistrustful of something I don't understand – I'm a detective and a scientist, not a financial genius. But both the Tontine Coffee House and the Bank of New York are ventures which, it seems to me, were conceived not to facilitate commerce, as has been claimed, but to be run for the profit of an elite group of stockholders."
"You are mistrustful of the wealthy then?" she teased, but Ichabod caught the slight edge in her voice and he reached out to take her hand.
"That isn't what I meant, Katrina," he said quickly. "Please…"
"It's alright, Ichabod. I'm not offended or angry. I only want to understand." She hesitated for a minute. "When we met in Sleepy Hollow my father had already made his fortune. But we weren't always wealthy. He worked very hard to…"
"I know he did." He took a deep breath. "Forgive me. Perhaps in my own way I am prejudiced, even hypocritical. I have no right to…after all, I've been very fortunate myself considering my humble beginnings and my profession. I live well in this very expensive city, better than many."
She smiled lightly and squeezed his hand.
"Please let me…I'll try to explain myself better, Katrina."
He paused and attempted to gather his thoughts.
"It's the injustice and exploitation that I hate. The speculative nature of the stock market and the way it functions too closely resembles gambling in my opinion; only in this case the gambler who loses isn't the only one affected…it affects everyone. Several years ago New York City was nearly brought to economic ruin by it. Perhaps you read about a man named William Duer."
She shook her head.
"William Duer was appointed as secretary to the Board of the Treasury by Alexander Hamilton. A few years ago, around seventeen ninety-one or ninety-two, Duer resigned this position and entered into a partnership with Alexander Macomb, one of New York's richest citizens. The agreement combined Macomb's money and Duer's speculative talents and insider connections with the Treasury Department. They planned to operate together for one year, speculating in stocks and bonds, and then divide the profits equally. There were rumors that the Bank of New York would be bought by the Bank of United States. Duer began buying Bank of New York stock, for if these rumors turned out to be true, Duer and Macomb would make a handsome profit when the stock went up. But Duer was duplicitous. While long in the market with Macomb, he was short Bank of New York in his own account. In other words he was betting in public that the Bank of New York would be taken over and at the same time betting in private that it would not be. If the merger failed, Duer and Macomb would lose, but Duer, on his own, would make a fortune. And remember, they were using Macomb's money on the joint venture. Not a cent of Duer's money was at risk."
"Only his good reputation when his partner discovered what he was doing, which apparently didn't matter to him."
"Exactly."
"You said he resigned from his position in the Treasury…"
"Yes. Federal law forbids Treasury officials to speculate in federal securities. In my opinion there is a difference between your father, who made his money selling a tangible product, and speculators who seem to create a financial…bubble…out of promises and air. But I readily admit that I may not understand the workings of commerce and the market and my sentiments may stem from ignorance."
"I understand your viewpoint, Ichabod, but Duer is only one person. Are you certain that you're not unfairly judging an entire group of men by one dishonest and unscrupulous man's ill behavior?"
"You must think I'm an ass…"
"Not at all," she replied, squeezing his hand again. "I love your idealism and your passionate desire to make the world a better place. But I think that sometimes your idealism and passion…clouds your judgment."
He nodded. "Yes."
The sound of Stephen's chair scraping the floor as he pushed it back drew their attention back to him.
"We're sorry, Stephen. This discussion is far too serious and intense for such an early hour…"
"I don't mind," he replied with a mischievous smile. "Besides, most of the discussions in this house are serious and intense."
oooOooo
Thomas Geoffrey was outside the Court House waiting for the doors to open when the team of constables reported, wishing to secure a place for himself before the mob arrived. He greeted Ichabod cordially.
Ichabod stationed himself at his post inside the court room. Thomas Geoffrey took a seat in the exact same place on the bench in the back and readied his pen and ledger again. More people began filing in at half past eight and by quarter to nine the room was overflowing. For the next quarter of an hour Ichabod and the others worked to peacefully and quietly escort the superfluous spectators out. When order had been restored the proceedings began and the trial continued for the day without any major incident besides the gathering of another shouting crowd outside of the Court House.
During one of the breaks Ichabod decided to speak with Mr. Geoffrey, and he walked to the back of the room and the spot where he was sitting. Upon approaching him he discovered with amazement that Mr. Geoffrey wasn't writing in his ledger. On the page to which the book was opened he was putting the finishing touches on a sketch of the Burgomaster sitting at his bench. He was a very good artist.
"Mr. Geoffrey, that's wonderful," he said softly, peering over his shoulder.
"Constable Crane." He immediately bent forward as if he wanted to instinctively shield the ledger. "I didn't realize you were behind me…"
"Forgive me if I startled you. I saw you with your ledger yesterday too…I thought you were writing about the trial. You're a wonderful artist. Please, may I look?"
Geoffrey hesitated and Ichabod attributed his reluctance to modesty.
"You've no reason to be timid. I'm sure your works in progress are infinitely better than any finished thing I've ever sketched."
After another moment's hesitation Geoffrey handed the ledger to him. "It's only the few pages before this one that are from the trial."
Ichabod took the book from him and, turning the pages with care, he examined the pictures that Geoffrey had drawn. In addition to the Burgomaster he had sketched page after page of the witnesses, the attorneys, the defendant, even a sketch of him standing guard in the room.
"I hope I did justice to your likeness, Constable."
"This is an astonishing collection that you've made, Mr. Geoffrey."
"I've decided to create a pictorial record of the entire trial," he told Ichabod softly. "Perhaps the newspapers that are covering it would be willing to purchase one or more of my sketches. They could print the picture with the article."
"That's a very innovative idea."
He continued to flip through the pages, working his way back to the first images of the trial. There was a picture of Assistant District Attorney Colden delivering his opening argument to the jury. And there was a picture drawn across two facing pages of the constables shuffling out the superfluous spectators on the first day. Ichabod smiled at it.
"This is wonderful. I should like to speak with you more about your drawings, Mr. Geoffrey. Perhaps your artistic skills could be of help to the constabulary some time and it would be another manner in which you could earn money. I wonder…if a witness described someone you had never seen before would you be able to draw the person they described?"
"My success would depend largely on the accuracy and detail that the witness could provide. But I'm confident that I could approximate the likeness fairly well if given the chance. It's an intriguing idea, Constable Crane. And I do like to draw. I'd be happy to speak with you about it."
"I'll likely have to assist the others with the crowd after court adjourns, which may take some time."
"Well, I plan to go to the Tontine directly from court. Shall I wait for you there?"
Ichabod frowned momentarily at his mention of the Tontine, but remembering his discussion with Katrina early that morning he decided to set aside his reservations – and prejudices – about the place and its patrons, and he conceded to this suggestion. He still had a difficult time reconciling how Mr. Geoffrey with his ragged appearance socialized and fit in with well-dressed merchants, lawyers and investors. At the very least it would be interesting to observe him in the particular setting.
He absently flipped back one more page of the ledger and his face dropped when he saw the drawing on that page. Geoffrey had sketched a picture of the man that had been found in the alley, the man who had come to bring him news of his father's death and the one that Mr. Latham had been unable to identify.
The door to the Burgomaster's chambers opened then, signaling that court was about to reconvene and everyone had to come to order. Ichabod closed the book and wordlessly handed it back to Mr. Geoffrey as everyone in the room stood up.
"Thank you, Constable. I'll see you this evening at the Tontine."
Ichabod nodded and walked back to take his place along the side wall. For the next two hours or so he only half-mindedly monitored the room. His thoughts were on Thomas Geoffrey's sketch of the dead man from Hartford and its ramifications.
