perhaps as many as three, perhaps more. On any given summer Sunday afternoon numbers of hooligans were about, rowing over from Manhattan or taking the steam ferry.
Once again Hays went over the facts. On the Sunday, the last day Mrs. Rogers was to see her daughter alive, Mary left the Nassau Street address at 10 a.m. Church was out, and at that hour many people were on the street. She was a beautiful young woman, well known from her employ at Anderson’s. Hays judged tens if not hundreds of people must know her by sight.
Someone must have noticed her.
He called Sergeant McArdel into his office and ordered him to dispatch a constable each to the Evening Signal and New York Mercury to wrest the names of those individuals mentioned in the newsprints’ columns who claimed to have observed Mary.
As a result, an umbrella maker from Rose Street was questioned who said he had seen a girl who may have been Mary shortly after ten that Sunday morning in Theatre Alley, a short lane off Ann Street, leading to the stage door of the Park Theatre. There, he said, the girl ran into the arms of a waiting gentleman, greeting him as one might a lover, and then repairing with him up the alley in a northerly direction to an ultimate destination, the witness swore, he knew not where, nor, when pressed, could hope to know.
An accounts clerk at the New York Bank, out for an early Sunday morning promenade, was also ferreted out and detained. He said he saw Mary, or a girl meeting Mary’s description, on Barclay Street. She was heading in the direction, he remembered, of the Hoboken ferry, whose station was at the extreme west end of that street.
Additionally, a contingent from the Day Watch dispatched to canvass the ferry quay found a young man who concurred with earlier testimony, saying he, too, saw Mary, or, again, a girl who looked like Mary, boarding the ferry with a “dark-complexioned man.” Other passengers vouched similarly, attesting they remembered the fellow. Two among them, daily riders, agreed he may have been a military man, a naval or army officer.
On Old Hays’ orders a force was sent across the river to Hoboken, tramping the bank south to Jersey City and north to Weehawken.
A German woman, Mrs. Frederika Kallenbarack Loss, proprietress of Nick Moore’s House, an inn near to where the body had been found, reported the presence that Sunday of a group of some fifteen ruffians who had rowed over from the city in two small boats, and had proceeded to cause havoc all afternoon long. Mrs. Loss also revealed that same afternoon a young woman of Mary’s description had patronized her establishment.
Word was immediately sent to Hays of Mrs. Loss’s recollection. Balboa drove the high constable to the ferry wharf, and he was on the next boat over, standing the journey at the rail, gazing north at the wide scope and magnificence of the Hudson. Upon landing at Hoboken, Hays was immediately taken by stage north to the Nick Moore House.
Hays found Mrs. Loss to be an immigrant woman, although not a recent immigrant, he thought, from the traces of her accent. She was decidedly big-boned and strong-featured, her hair a yellow color, streaked by almost imperceptible strands of gray and pulled back in a loose bun. Her eyes were unsettling and icily blue.
Mrs. Loss recounted to Hays (smiling almost coquettishly) the fateful day of what was presumed to be Mary’s murder:
A girl had come into the inn on the arm of a gentleman. Once more agreeing with other witnesses, the man was again described as dark-complexioned.
“Could he have been a navy man?” Hays asked.
She was not sure. She did not think so.
“An army man?”
Again, she was not sure. “He might very well have had a military bearing,” she conceded, “but he remains unfortunately dim in my mind.”
But what Mrs. Loss did recall was that “the child” seemed “a very nice girl” with fine manners and airs. She ordered a glass of lemonade and bowed smartly upon taking her leave.
Mrs. Loss remembered her particularly because she had on a dress similar to one that had belonged to Mrs. Loss’s sister-in-law, recently deceased. Looking back, Mrs. Loss now presumed this girl to have been Mary Rogers.
There was more.
Later that night, Mrs. Loss told Hays, she recalled having heard screams. At first she thought it to be her middle son, Ossian, whom she had sent to drive a bull to a neighboring farm. Fearing he had been gored, she took to the road, following the track all the way to the neighbor’s barn. There she found her boy none the worse for wear, and thinking nothing more about the screams, so many people having come across the river and enjoyed themselves that day due to the heat wave, she took him firmly by the arm and returned to the roadhouse.
During Hays’ interview with Mrs. Loss, Adam Wall, the local stagecoach driver who had picked Hays up at the wharf and brought him to the inn, came into the roadhouse for some warranted refreshment, the day being as hot as it was, ninety-three degrees.
Overhearing the conversation, Mr. Wall intruded, eagerly offering that he had viewed the corpse of the dead girl the Wednesday of her discovery on the riverbank. He told Hays he had recognized her straightaway as a young woman he had picked up at the Bull’s Head Ferry and brought to Mrs. Loss’s roadhouse only a few days before, on Sunday. He remembered upon dropping her off that there had indeed been packs of hoodlums roaming the woods and enclaves that afternoon particularly. He especially remembered one gang who had invaded the little mud shanty next to Mrs. Loss’s, seized all the cakes, and ate them, refusing to pay anything and threatening anyone who dared interfere.
According to Mr. Wall, the gang remained about the shoreline until dark, when they departed in a hurry by rowboat, but not before dragging the daughter of a family, over for a day’s outing, out of their boat and having their way with her despite the protestations of her father.
Mr. Wall told Hays he had not personally witnessed the abduction of the daughter, but this is what he had heard, although from whom he could not remember. Hays, noting the slow manner in which Mr. Wall’s eyes rose to meet Mrs. Loss’s eyes, immediately knew the source of this tidbit of gossip to be her.
A week later, in the tepid middle days of September, word reached Hays that Mrs. Loss had come forward to Bennett at the Herald with a remarkable revelation.
Her two younger sons, she recounted, Oscar and Ossian, aged nine and twelve respectively (Charlie was the eldest at fifteen), had been playing in the woods near her home, north of the old Weehawken ferry dock. In a clearing they had come across a variety of discarded clothes, gloves, handkerchief, and parasol, the lot of it inhabited by crawling bugs of the type that fester in wet discarded articles.
These found articles themselves were much mildewed and moldy, trampled down, she said, in a thicket near a cove in the woods. The parasol and handkerchief had the initials MCR embroidered on them, leaving no doubt to whom they belonged.
Hays traveled immediately to Mrs. Loss. The clothing,
