The DEATH OF COLONEL MANN

by Cynthia Peale

  Mrs. Haddock's eyes widened in surprise. “Find her? I doubt it.”

  “She didn't have any family in the city?”

  “Not that I know of. She was from County Cork. Said she came over on her own.”

  “So you don't know if she had any connection at all here in Boston?”

  “No. She was closemouthed. I never really trusted her, even though the Intelligence Office gave her good enough references. I told Miss Val to check all her valuables when we realized she'd gone for good.”

  “And was anything missing?”

  “Not that we could tell.” Mrs. Haddock seemed reluctant to admit it.

  “When was her last day off?”

  “Afternoon only. We get one afternoon a month off, and hers was two weeks ago today.”

  “And you don't know where she went on those afternoons, whom she might have seen?”

  “No.”

  “All right, Mrs. Haddock. I'm sorry to have detained you, but I just thought—”

  “May I ask why you're asking, Miss Ames?”

  “I—ah—Val seemed upset about it. About the girl's leaving so suddenly. And she thought she might be in some kind of trouble, and that perhaps she—we—could help—”

  “Miss Val is too kindhearted. She shouldn't waste her time worrying about that one. Good riddance, I say.”

  Caroline bit her lip, unwilling to admit defeat. “Did she—just one last question—did she have, perhaps, some young man?”

  Mrs. Haddock, just turning away, hesitated.

  Yes, thought Caroline; and if I hadn't asked, you wouldn't have told me.

  “There's a boy at the hardware store two doors down,” Mrs. Haddock said, disapproval oozing from her pores. “You might want to talk to him.”

  And with that, she strode over to the counter, where a clerk was smiling at her obligingly.

  The hardware store was just opening, a boy letting down its green awning, clerks inside removing dust covers from the displays. Neither of the first two whom Caroline approached could help her, but then a tall, gangling youth emerged from the back, broom in hand, and it seemed that, yes, he did know a girl who was Miss Thorne's maid.

  “Did you know that she has disappeared?”

  He blinked. “Naw.”

  “Well, she has. Do you know where I can find her?”

  “Naw.”

  “When did you see her last?”

  This seemed to be a difficult question. “Two weeks ago,” he answered finally.

  “On her afternoon off?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you walk out with her?”

  “I don't want no trouble.”

  “This won't cause you trouble.” Caroline heard the sincerity in her voice, and silently she asked pardon for it. “Did you?”

  “Just to have a meal, down at the Haymarket.”

  “And she didn't say anything about being unhappy, or wanting to leave her position?”

  “Naw. Nothing like that.”

  As the youth turned away, Caroline made one last attempt. “If you should hear from her, would you let me know?” She dug in her reticule for her card case, extracted one, and thrust it at him.

  It was not until she was out on the street once more that she realized he hadn't said yes.

  HE SAYS HE'S ALL RIGHT, MISS, BUT HE DOESN'T WANT TO be disturbed.”

  “Not disturbed? But why? It is past nine o'clock!”

  Having risen so early to see Mrs. Haddock, Caroline felt as though she'd been up half the day. She and MacKenzie had finished their breakfast, and, concerned that Ames had not appeared, she'd sent Margaret to inquire. He'd come home from Cambridge last night after she retired, so she hadn't seen him since late yesterday afternoon.

  She rose from the table, her expression suddenly taut with some premonition of disaster. What was wrong? Was Addington ill?

  “Excuse me, Doctor,” she said. She hurried upstairs and knocked on Ames's door.

  “Addington? Are you all right?”

  No answer.

  “Addington? May I come in?”

  Still no reply. She put her hand on the doorknob and turned it; carefully, as if she hesitated to make a sound, she pushed open the door.

  “Addington?” she said, but she did not go in.

  In the darkened bedroom she saw the outline of his tall, thin form underneath the bedcovers. It did not move.

  “Addington, what is it? Why haven't you come down? Are you ill?”

  “No.”

  “But what is wrong? You've missed breakfast—”

  “Leave me be, Caroline. I'll be down directly.” His voice was low, oddly subdued.

  Thoroughly puzzled and no less concerned, she pulled the door shut and went back downstairs to the dining room. She met MacKenzie with a bright, unconvincing smile and murmured something inconsequential.

  In ten minutes Ames joined them. He looked despondent, as though all the sorrows of the world had fallen on his shoulders. Helping himself to porridge and tea, he began, without enthusiasm, to eat. When MacKenzie offered him the newspaper, he declined it—a sure sign, Caroline thought, that something was deeply amiss.

  Finally, when she could stand the suspense no longer, she said, “Addington, what is it? What is wrong?”

  “The expedition is canceled,” Ames said flatly.

  There was a moment of astonished silence as they absorbed it.

  “Canceled!” Caroline exclaimed. MacKenzie felt her shock; he was shocked himself. “But—why?” she asked.

  “Professor Harbinger had a fall yesterday afternoon. He tripped stepping down from his carriage and broke his leg in two places. He won't walk again for months—if ever,” Ames added gloomily.

  Caroline let it sink in. “But that is terrible! Canceled! Oh, my dear, I am so sorry! What a disappointment for you!”

  He began to eat again. When she saw that he was not going to reply, she said, “I suppose there is no hope of going without him?”

  He shook his head. “None. Without his direction, we would be wasting our time. And besides, I doubt that the authorities would allow us onto the site without him.”

  “Yes. Of course. I hadn't thought of that.” She sighed. “What a shame. I must remember to send a note to Cousin Miranda. She will be disappointed—although her disappointment is nothing compared to yours,” she added quickly. “Well, perhaps she can come for a visit, at any rate.”

  This prospect not visibly lightening Ames's mood, there seemed nothing more to say. Then, as if she were trying to divert her brother's thoughts, Caroline said: “Well, Adding-ton, at least now you can give your full attention to Val's letters. It will give you a way to occupy yourself.”

  He gave her a look. “I have plenty of ways to occupy myself, Caroline.”

  “Yes, you do, but this is so important!”

  He put down his spoon and held up a hand to forestall what she intended to say. “I know it is. But I will tell you quite frankly, the more I try to find them, the more impossible the task seems to be. I am afraid we will have to leave it to the police to discover who killed Colonel Mann and—”

  “And took Val's letters?”

  “And took Val's letters.”

  Caroline stared at him reproachfully as they heard the rumble and thump of the dumbwaiter in the back passage.

  “Addington.”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you keep on—for Val's sake?”

  He looked away from her. Was he imagining the hot, bright desert of Egypt, MacKenzie wondered, and the magnificent—surely they would be magnificent—ruins that now he might never see?

  “Addington?”

  He came back. He met her eyes.

  “Caroline, as our dear departed mother used to say, you are a caution.”

  She brightened. “Say yes, Addington!”

  “In fact, if you were not so charming, I would go so far as to call you a strong-minded female.”

  MacKenzie cringed. Strong-minded female! But they w
ere the worst—the absolute worst. He had never actually met such a one, but he thought they were the type of women who were called suffragettes—that dread Amazonian type who inspired fear and loathing in the stoutest male heart.

  Caroline did not seem to mind her brother's epithets. She smiled at him. “You may call me what you please as long as you say yes.”

  “Yes—what?”

  “Yes—that you will keep on, of course.”

  For a long moment he did not answer. Then, as if acknowledging that she had won, he said, “Very well, Caro. I will. For Val's sake—and yours.”

  “AH! MR. AMES! THE VERY PERSON I WANTED TO SEE!” Deputy Chief Inspector Elwood Crippen came around from behind his overladen desk, his hand outstretched, his face wreathed in smiles.

  “Did you, Inspector? Well, here I am.”

  It was an hour later. In deference to MacKenzie's bad knee, Ames had procured a herdic to take them to City Hall. He'd wanted MacKenzie with him. He had come to value the doctor's solid, sensible presence; he thought of MacKenzie as a kind of anchor, keeping him safe—he hoped—from any foolish excess.

  They seated themselves across the desk from Crippen, who positioned himself behind it, peering out at them from between towering stacks of files. “I would have called on you—and your charming sister—if you hadn't come in,” Crippen said. “I may do so yet,” he added with what MacKenzie thought was an offputting smile.

  “What has happened, Inspector? Have you discovered your man?”

  Crippen pursed his lips. He looked quite pleased with himself; his eyes twinkled, and his nicotine-stained fingers drummed an irritating little rhythm on a folder atop one of the stacks of files in front of him.

  “Man?” he said. “What makes you think we are searching for a man?”

  Ames shot a glance at MacKenzie, who seemed as surprised as himself.

  “What are you saying, Inspector? You don't mean that a woman—”

  Crippen wagged a finger at him. “I mean that we have a suspect. Not arrested yet, but a very good suspect indeed. A female suspect,” he added.

  “I don't believe it,” Ames replied. “A woman? How could a woman possibly—”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Ames. A woman could. And they often do. Why, I remember a case a few years ago—in Albany, I think it was—where a woman took an ax and butchered her husband and his brother as well.” Crippen shuddered slightly. “Horrible.”

  “Do you have sufficient evidence against—this woman— to arrest her?” Ames asked.

  “Not quite. Not quite yet.” Crippen smiled again. “But we will. Oh, yes. Right now we have”—and he ticked off the points on his fingers—“her mention in the galleys. Three witnesses who saw her in the hotel that night. That's motive and opportunity right there. And we have even more motive, since we discovered a threatening letter from her to the Colonel among his papers. Amazing what people will put in writing, isn't it?”

  “But how could she—”

  “Don't trouble yourself about it, Mr. Ames.” Crippen smiled beneficently. “We have it all in hand. The—ah—lady is a well-known sort of person, and she has a past history with the Colonel. Which only makes it more likely that she's our man, so to speak. She's lived a reckless sort of life, and she's just the type of woman who would—”

  An unpleasant thought had taken hold in Ames's mind as the inspector spoke, and now he could contain his suspicions no longer.

  “Just whom are you referring to, Inspector?”

  Crippen contemplated him. “It's really not for me to say.”

  “Still. Since I have an interest in this case—”

  And since my cousin sits on the Board of Police Commissioners, he thought. Standish Wainwright: a man of fastidious morals who would not welcome Ames's meddling.

  Crippen threw a warning glance at MacKenzie. “It has to stay quiet between us. We are still tidying up the details, and I don't want the District Attorney coming back at me for sloppy work.”

  He enjoys this, MacKenzie thought—his power over us. He had disliked Crippen from the first, and he'd been right.

  “It is Mrs. Serena Vincent,” Crippen announced triumphantly.

  Even though Ames knew whom Crippen was going to name, he was stunned to hear it.

  “Impossible,” he said.

  “Not at all. It's very possible. It's most probable, in fact. As I said, we have a few details—”

  “She couldn't have done it,” Ames insisted. MacKenzie was surprised at his vehemence.

  “Oh? Why?” Crippen was smiling no longer.

  “Because—if she was at the hotel on Monday evening, it was well before the time the Colonel was killed.”

  There was a little silence. Then Crippen loudly cleared his throat.

  “And how do you know that, Mr. Ames?”

  “As I told you, I have some interest in this case.”

  “Yes. You did say that.”

  Ames shook his head. “I don't believe it,” he said. “The Colonel ruined her once and for all five years ago. Why would she take her revenge so late? Nothing he could do to her now would make any difference—”

  “That isn't the impression she gave in her letter. It is dated a week ago, and in it she says that if he doesn't back off, she will do what she must. Those are her very words. ‘I will do what I must.’ What do you make of that?”

  Ames made nothing of it. What could he make of it? If Serena Vincent had in fact written such a letter to the Colonel, she had implicated herself long before she or anyone else knew the damage her impulsive words—and surely they were impulsive, written at some brief moment of despair— would do to her.

  “I make of it that you are mistaken, Inspector.” His voice sounded hollow in his ears. What could he offer to defend Serena Vincent, when she herself had so thoroughly and convincingly damned herself?

  “And there is more,” Crippen said. He riffled the pages of the file before him, and they realized that it must be the file on Colonel Mann's murder. Ames itched to see it, but he did not quite dare to ask.

  “Yes?” he said abruptly. “What?”

  “She shot a man three years ago.”

  Ames felt as if Crippen had kicked him in his stomach. Shot a man—

  MacKenzie put his hand on Ames's arm. Ames had gone quite white; MacKenzie could see a little pulse throbbing hard just above his high starched collar.

  “All right?” he said softly.

  Ames glanced at him and nodded.

  Crippen cleared his throat again. He had an insufferable look on his ugly face, MacKenzie thought: smug, self-satisfied. Even if Crippen were correct in his suspicions of Mrs. Vincent, he had no right to proclaim them so self-righteously. I detest you, Inspector Crippen, MacKenzie thought; and you will pay court to Miss Caroline Ames over my dead body.

  “Well, Mr. Ames?” Crippen said. “What about that, eh? The woman is known to be violent, and while that other case had nothing to do with this one, it nevertheless points to—”

  “Where?” said Ames.

  “You mean, where did she shoot him? In his left arm.”

  Ames only just managed to bite back a scathing reply. “Where—was she when it happened?”

  “Oh. You mean where. In New York.”

  “And was she charged with it?”

  A sour look wiped away Crippen's smugness. “No.”

  “So in the eyes of the law, she didn't do it.”

  “Oh, she did it, all right. But somehow—I don't have all the details—she was able to get off. No charges, nothing. Of course, they are very corrupt down there in New York. You can get away with attempted murder down there—as she did—if you have the right connections.”

  And here in Boston? MacKenzie wondered. Boston was the most connected place he'd ever seen, a heavily intertwined network of connections, family and otherwise.

  Ames stood up with such a violent movement that his chair skidded backward. The news that Serena Vincent had shot a man—no matter what the circumstances�
�had badly unnerved him. He thought of her lustrous eyes, her smile, her low, thrilling voice. For a moment his heart shivered as he envisioned her arrested, imprisoned, tried, convicted— No. Impossible. He didn't believe it—wouldn't, until she admitted it to him herself.

  Did she know, he wondered, that she was Crippen's chief suspect? If she didn't, someone should warn her. He would do it himself, he thought. Tonight, or perhaps even this afternoon.

  “Good day to you, Inspector,” he said, only just managing to keep a civil tone.

  “And good day to you, too, Mr. Ames.” Crippen was smiling again. “Stop by anytime—anytime! And give my best regards to your sister!”

  Out on the street once more, Ames stopped while he took several deep breaths.

  “This case grows nastier by the minute,” he said.

  “More complicated, at any rate,” MacKenzie replied. His knee was hurting. The clock on its tall standard near the curb said eleven-ten. Dr. Warren was to examine him at two.

  Ames had started down School Street toward Washington. “Come on, Doctor. We are finally going to see someone—I hope—who can be of real help.”

  Limping a little, leaning heavily on his cane, MacKenzie hurried to catch up.

  THE BLACK LETTERS ON THE PEBBLED HALF-GLASS OF THE office door said “Longworth & Sprague, Attorneys at Law.” The reception room was deserted, the secretary's desk filmed with dust. A dead miniature palm tree languished in the corner; a few outdated periodicals lay scattered on a table. The place looked as though it had not seen a client for weeks—perhaps months.

  But someone was there, and now he appeared from the inner office.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “Mr. Longworth?”

  “Yes.”

  Richard Longworth was a slender man of medium height; he was in his late thirties, MacKenzie thought. He had a dissipated look to him: clothing not quite spruce enough, eyes sunk back in his head, hair not combed properly. Once, younger, he must have been handsome, but now his features were blurred with drink, his mouth a little loose. He stood in the doorway to his office, his hand resting against the doorjamb as if he needed its support.

  “Mr.—Ames, isn't it?”

  “And this is Dr. John MacKenzie,” Ames said. He realized that if he'd passed Richard Longworth in the street, he wouldn't have recognized him.