Death at Pullman by Frances McNamara

He said there is a plot to blow up one of the buildings. But I cannot believe that Mr. MacGregor would do anything—or allow any of the men to do anything—of that kind. He has them organized to patrol the outside of the factory to make sure there is no sabotage. Wait until you meet him. You’ll see.” I felt that I knew more than the two men about what was happening at Pullman. They had not seen what I had seen. They had not heard the workers’ complaints, and they had not seen the dead man hanging from the rafters, or helped to lower his empty body to the ground. They had not seen the policemen threaten the crowd and protect the managers. And, most importantly, they had not heard the stubborn selfish words of the man who could put an end to all of it—George Pullman.
    The train was pulling to a stop at the neat brick building that was the Pullman depot. On the platform, I could see the tall figure of Detective Whitbread in his wool suit and bowler hat, beside the squat figure of Mr. MacGregor. I was enormously relieved that the union leader had been released. So much for all of the arguments I had spent such time and care concocting. I should have had confidence in Detective Whitbread. He would not let innocent men stay behind bars.
    As we followed Alden out of the car, Dr. Chapman added a word of advice. “You may find that your brother and the other men of the press are your best allies, Emily. There’s little the strikers will be able to do to influence a man like Pullman, but the press may be able to at least tell their story to the world.” It was another warning from him. He had no confidence in my ability to handle any situation and I found it galling. I brushed past him and stepped down to the platform.

SIX
    Detective Whitbread was anxious to hurry us on our way as soon as we left the train, but Mr. MacGregor stood his ground and insisted on speaking his thanks.
    â€œMiss Cabot, we are very grateful to you and Miss Addams. The food that is being sent will be greatly appreciated and we were glad to have the detective arrange for the release of the men taken yesterday.”
    â€œYes, yes,” Detective Whitbread interrupted. “They don’t have any idea what they are doing down here about a murder investigation. The mayor has asked me to handle it and it will be done to everybody’s satisfaction. But now we must get down to the Dens. They have allowed the family to take the body away without a proper examination and if we don’t hurry they’ll have it in the ground before we can see it. Dr. Chapman, what luck you’ve come along. I need your services, if you will. I have a carriage. Quickly now. And, Mr. Cabot, I’m glad to see you’ve recovered. Come along. I’ll need you to give me a report, Miss Cabot, as well. Everyone in, please, there’s no time to waste.”
    He hurried us around the side of the building to a large open carriage he had commandeered from the Pullman stables. As we got in and started moving, I was once again impressed by the breadth of the town itself.
    Meanwhile, Mr. MacGregor appeared somewhat concerned about our errand. He explained that we were going to the O’Malley home where Brian O’Malley was being waked preparatory to a funeral at the Holy Rosary Church in the nearby town of Kensington. The O’Malleys occupied one of the brickyard cottages that were known as the “Dens” and he tried to prepare us for the visit.
    â€œThey’ve fallen on hard times, the O’Malleys have, since the father, Sean, died last year. Brian was a carpenter and got work in the repair shops sometimes. But Joe, he could only get work in the brickyards. And they had to move to the Dens. Gracie will be there—Mrs. Foley that you met yesterday, she that was Gracie O’Malley.” He stopped and thought about that for a while.
    â€œShe should not have been allowed to take the body away without a