The Reservoir by John Milliken Thompson Read Free Book Online

says. “They’re waiting for me to go to church.”
    He kisses her on the cheek and, though she appears to want something more from him, he turns and lets himself out the gate. It is going to rain. He can feel it in the air.
    All afternoon long, people come by the almshouse, tracking the floorboards with mud and water from the rainy streets. Rich and poor, black and white, farmers, bankers, laborers, factory workers, prostitutes, and entire families dressed in church clothes—all file through for a look. The Sunday paper had carried a story about the dead girl; word went around. She lies in an open coffin, a clean white shroud up to her neck. The almshouse workers have combed the red dirt out of her hair and washed her face.
    Detective Wren has positioned himself in a corner of the chapel where the dead girl lies, studying the people who study the girl. Every so often he will approach one of the gawkers and ask a few quiet questions. Did you recognize the girl? It seemed as though you knew her. Just curious, huh? Richardson has decided to let Wren stay, as long as he does not appear to be scaring anybody off.
    People are quiet, respectful, as though viewing a dead body were part of their regular Sunday ritual. Some people remark on how small and pretty she looks. Others shake their heads and say what a pity it is, her dying like that and no one here to claim her. Quite a few comment on the bruises and wonder how she came by them. By dark, no one having identified the woman, the almshouse superintendent closes the door to further visitors. Several people continue to knock during the evening and are told to come back tomorrow.
    First thing in the morning Dr. Taylor impanels a jury of inquest, composed of the usual half dozen officers and medical experts. In the meantime, people keep coming by to view the body. Finally a woman with a squinty eye swears it’s the body of Harriett Mays, who used to live in her boardinghouse. The superintendent asks her if Harriett Mays had long hair, and she says, “No, it was short and brown, just like hers.” Since the young woman’s hair is mostly pinned behind, the way it was when she was found, the superintendent is dubious. Standing with the squinty-eyed woman, an unshaven man, his jacket out at elbows, says he’d bet his life on it being Harriett Mays. He saw her himself a week ago last Friday. He wants to know if there will be a reward.
    Richardson takes a police ambulance out to Harriett Mays’s address in Manchester. From an alley the mingled odors of cooking greens and stale urine assail him. He ducks under a laundry line, his tall leather hat dripping rainwater onto his shoes, and climbs a rickety flight of stairs. He knocks on a thin, cracked tenement door. “Is there a Miss Harriett Mays here?” he asks.
    “You’re looking at her,” says a shock-haired woman with no eyeteeth.
    “Harriett Mays,” Richardson says. “I hate to inform you, but you’re dead.”
    Her eyes bug out. “I ain’t either,” she insists.
    Richardson explains the situation and asks her to come with him up to the almshouse for a few minutes. When she arrives, the crowd makes way for the suddenly revivified Harriett Mays. She stares at the corpse, then shyly at the crowd, then back again, as though she has indeed cheated death. On her face is the biggest smile it has ever known.
    A short while later a young woman named Miss Emma Dunstan comes to the almshouse in the company of her younger sister. When she sees the body, she knows it is that of Fannie Lillian Madison of King William County. “We visited her family Christmas before last.” Her father, she explains, is from King William, and knew the Madisons quite well. Both Taylor and Richardson are interested in the Misses Dunstans’ opinion. Richardson takes them into a room for further questioning.
    “Any distinguishing marks that you know of?”
    They both shake their heads.
    Richardson touches just above his left breast. “A scar about