As portrayed in the Tribune: “vanishing like the smoke of one of that gentleman’s segars in thin air.”
When questioned by Hays at the time, Anderson alleged that this difficult affair (for her) had so taken its toll on the impressionable young lady as to produce the circumstances of mind which the press accounts described.
During the course of his investigation Hays had asked Anderson several times who the mysterious gentleman may have been. Anderson contended he did not know. He mentioned several names upon whom he might speculate, among them the American men of letters Fenimore Cooper and Washington Irving, the acerbic southern critic Edgar Poe, at the time a resident of New York, and the laureate poet Fitz-Greene Halleck. Even the name of the swashbuckling frog Alexis de Tocqueville, author of Democracy in America, and the eminent British scribbler Charles Dickens came up, the latter a snuff-seeker, and as such, a frequent guest in the shop while on his last American book tour; all customers, all purportedly infatuated by Mary.
Again at that time, in support of what Mrs. Rogers had reported in the press in regard to her daughter taking her own life, Anderson, upon reflection, told how when last she left his establishment, he feared Mary might have taken with her a shilling from the till with the intention of purchasing poison.
With the fertilizer of this revelation, now even further speculation blossomed in the public prints and among the many gossips of the hub, only to soon wilt when Mary reappeared some weeks later, none the worse for wear, speaking innocently of a visit to a relative in Brooklyn.
During her absence much curiosity had been engendered, but when she returned and learned how John Anderson had spoken quite liberally to the broadsheets about her personal affairs, particularly in regard to men, Mary stormed from his establishment in a fit of pique, never to return.
Anderson expressed sadness to see Mary go. She had months earlier left his home on Liberty Street for her cousin Mrs. Hayes’ home on Pitt, made uncomfortable, her mother revealed, by the man’s over-solicitation and unwelcome attentions.
Additionally, there was some belated speculation, especially in the sixpenny Commercial Advertiser, to the effect that Mary’s disappearance might have been concocted by Anderson (with cooperation from Mary) as a way to attract business to his segar and tobacco enterprise.
Now this.
IN THE TOMBS’ COURTYARD, Balboa awaits the high constable, standing in front of the barouche, feeding the dappled carriage horse a stubby carrot, at the same time engaged in easy conversation with another Negro, a man employed as prison sweep.
Stepping into sunlight, Hays signals his driver that he is needed. “Yes, suh, Mr. High,” Balboa says, breaking off his conversation, and without a further word he opens the carriage door.
Hays climbs in and takes his accustomed seat facing forward in the back, supported by a brocaded East Indian pillow. The prison gates open and the carriage exits onto Elm Street, to make a sharp left.
Nassau Street began one block from the southeastern edge of City Hall Park, a winding street just beyond Park Row, home to the city’s publishing and newspaper industries, what is known as “the City Brain.”
Some twenty-six newspapers and magazines maintained offices on Nassau Street. The Rogerses’ boardinghouse stood at number 126, between Beekman and Ann streets, a flat-roofed three-story red brick building, nondescript among a block of similar structures.
After using the large brass knocker, introducing himself to she who answered, and asking for the Widow Rogers, Hays was ushered into the home by the colored maid.
The front door of the boardinghouse opened onto the parlor floor. Two matronly women and a sullen girl of about fourteen were gathered in the dark-draperied room, surrounding a seated old woman, dressed in black, Hays immediately recognized from his previous audience with her three years before. The high constable took the grieving mother’s cold hand in his. Her lap was covered by a pink and black wool crocheted coverlet despite the warmth and humidity of the day. Hays peered into the mother’s bleary, reddened eyes, noting her blank stare.
“Mrs. Rogers,” he said gently, “do you remember me? I am Jacob Hays of the constabulary.”
She said nothing, and the expression on her face, faraway and otherwise distracted, did not change. It was as if, standing in front of her, holding her frail hand in his, he had made no impression of being there on her whatsoever. At one point her glance did seem to wander in his direction, but she did not focus.
Those attending her as she sat stiff and wan in the parlor were her aforementioned colored servant, one Dorothea Brandywine, now standing off to the far side behind her, the two matronly women, and a girl, also mentioned, introduced as a cousin to Mary, a resident worker in the house; the two older women, one Mary’s cousin, Mrs. Hayes, and the other her aunt, Mrs. Downey of Jane Street.
Hays inquired of Mary’s cousin, Mrs. Hayes, if it was not her home on Pitt Street where Mary had been living and from which she had vanished from sight three years previously. Mrs. Hayes said that it was, the high constable noting she was pleased he remembered.
Mrs. Hayes explained that shortly after that incident Mary and her mother, financed by funds supplied by Mary’s half brother, a seaman, had rented this residence from one Peter Aymar.
They eked out a small living running the boardinghouse here. Mary’s mother was able to do little, feebleness and bone fatigue having set in, so it had fallen on Mary to take charge of the daily chores and administration. Mrs. Downey said that of late, there had been an air, nearing desperation, surrounding Mary, but when pressed, she could not speak of what disturbed her.
Hays returned his attention to the grieving mother. If she had been listening to the course of his conversation with Mrs. Hayes, she gave no indication. In deference to her years, her loss, and the devastation such tragedy had obviously wrought upon her person, he chose not to press her personally with any undue questions at this time.
Instead, he requested of Mrs. Downey if a list of all boarders over the last year might be prepared for him, any tradesmen who frequented the house, and any visitors.
With that Hays bid his leave. He once more took Mrs. Rogers’ frail hand in his thick fingers and told her he was sorry for her loss. He said that he hoped God would give her strength, and then left.
Once outside, against the hubbub and racket of the district’s afternoon traffic, the daily standard commerce and hurried foot transit on Nassau Street, Balboa had already helped his superior up into the police carriage in front of the boardinghouse when a tall, thin-faced gentleman in a great rush made his appearance from the rear of the building.
“High Constable, a word with you, please!” he shouted, running at great speed to catch up.
Balboa reined the horse at once.
Hays glanced at this individual, a florid man in a gray suit, with matching vest, white cravat, and well-combed and oiled hair. This gentleman’s flinty gray eyes met the high constable’s steady gaze momentarily before breaking off.
“Pardon me, sir,” the thin man said, stepping close to the carriage and speaking through the open window. “I am Arthur Crommelin, perhaps you have heard of me.” His breath came heavily from the exertion of having run to catch the carriage. “It is most urgent, High Constable, that you are made aware of certain elements involved in this case,” he continued, his intake of air now regulated. “Last night, following the medical examiner’s inquest, much to my annoyance, I was forced to lay over at the Jersey City Hotel due to a delay in my testimony in front of the coroner. I returned as soon as I was able early this morning on the first ferry across the Hudson. High Constable, excuse me, but I must express my feelings,” stated Crommelin. “There is something amiss, sir.”
“Amiss beyond murder, you mean, Mr. Crommelin?” said Hays, studying the man. “Because, indeed, sir, murder itself strikes me most assuredly amiss enough.”
Crommelin blinked. “Without question, of course. A most unfortunate choice