Death at Pullman by Frances McNamara Page B

looks. It was obvious that there was little room inside, however, and most were paying their respects, then moving to the yard of the next house. As people came out, the men slipped surreptitiously around the side of the building to the group by the lean-to.
    Inside it was dark, except for two banks of candles at the head and foot of a table where the body of Brian O’Malley was laid out, covered by what looked like a linen tablecloth up to his chin. I was startled to see Fiona MacGregor sitting beside the dead man on a low stool. Her father was also surprised and I saw her look up at him with fear in her eyes. Then she stood and quickly pushed past me out of the room. As her father turned to watch her go, Gracie Foley rose up from the gloom of the corner.
    â€œIan MacGregor, it’s a great nerve you have coming to pay your respects. He wasn’t good enough for you and your precious daughter in life, was our Brian? But you’ll weep for him in death, is that it? We’ve no use for your crocodile tears here. Be gone.” There was great scorn in her voice and I saw tears in the eyes of the little man as he looked at the white face of the dead boy. I thought he was too choked with tears to answer her taunts. Or perhaps he had been rendered immovable by the words of the woman. Looming up from behind the corpse, with the candles lighting her face from below, I could almost believe Gracie Foley was some kind of witch.
    â€œYou are Mrs. Foley?” Detective Whitbread broke the spell in his usual mundane way. “I am Detective Henry Whitbread. I am investigating your brother’s death. I’m very sorry for your loss, madam, but we must look at your brother’s body before you can take it away for interment.”
    This was a very uncharacteristic attempt on Detective Whitbread’s part to soften, and apologize for, the intrusions necessary in his job. Gracie Foley was not acquainted with my policeman friend, however, and when she moved her concentrated gaze from poor Mr. MacGregor to the detective there was sharp animosity in her eyes.
    â€œYou will do no such thing. You’ll not touch him. You, who work for the company and the great and greedy Mr. George Pullman, you’ll not put your hands on him. Have you no shame? Is it not enough you’ve killed him? Him who was the only support for the children? You killed our father at your works and now you’ve killed our brother. Can you not leave him be, so that we can mourn him in peace?” She was breathing fast, her face red with anger, and she took two steps to put herself between Whitbread and the dead man.
    â€œCalm yourself, madam. We mean no disrespect. On the contrary, we are here to see that justice is done. We are in no way connected to the Pullman Company. I am a detective of the Chicago Police Department sent to investigate the circumstances of your brother’s death. This is Dr. Chapman, a medical doctor. If you will just give us a few moments alone with the body, we will discover what we can from it and be on our way.”
    She laughed. It was a harsh sound, a bitter response. “You are from the police? And you say you are not connected to the company? Hah! You dare to say you are not in his pay? You dare to speak of justice? What do you know of justice? What justice is there in Pullman? What justice is it that the children go hungry? What justice is it that their father is taken away from them? What justice is it that they are forced to live in a shack like this? What justice is it that men like him,” she pointed at MacGregor, “with their strikes and their causes can murder their brother and bring us to starvation?”
    MacGregor blinked, then turned and left the room, pushing past me. I was concerned that the woman was on the brink of hysteria, but it was a controlled rage. She planted herself between the table and Detective Whitbread, bending forward from the waist to spit her words into his