“Yes.” She thought for a moment, trying to concentrate on all that Ames had told her so she wouldn't have to think of Lydia Longworth. “Addington, what does all this mean?”
“Why—” He paused, wanting to get it right. “I suppose it means that Richard Longworth, who worked for Colonel Mann, who was deeply in debt, who had a wife living in Argentina when he married here, who was being blackmailed by Mrs. Trask—I suppose it means that Longworth is the man I have sought ever since I discovered the Colonel's body on Monday night. Mrs. Trask, by the way, was not only a blackmailer but a snoop. She discovered some young couple in flagrante at Newport last summer, according to Mrs. Vincent. So she may well have worked for the Colonel, but she didn't kill him. No: I suspected Longworth all along, and now, it seems, I was right.”
“And the letters?” MacKenzie asked.
“Oh, he has them, I am sure. I will go to him again tomorrow—after I speak to Inspector Crippen.”
“You haven't seen him?” Caroline asked.
“No. We went to police headquarters, but he wasn't there.”
“And I suppose there was no chance to see Mrs. Vincent?”
“Not tonight. I will try tomorrow. But first I must see Crippen. Damn the man! I don't know whether to congratulate him for keeping Mrs. Vincent safe, or excoriate him for being so pigheaded. He's had her in mind for the Colonel's murder from the start, and now that he's actually got her in hand, so to speak, it will be all the more difficult to show him his error.”
Caroline tried and failed to muster some small feeling of sympathy for the glamorous, the notorious, Mrs. Vincent. They finished their meal in silence. When Margaret brought up their coffee, Ames refused it. He wanted to sleep soundly, he said. Soon he left them, and Caroline and the doctor were alone.
“More coffee, Doctor?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Thank you, no.”
“Smoke if you like.”
He nodded his thanks as he filled his pipe. The grandmother clock in the hall chimed ten-thirty.
“Doctor—”
“Yes?”
I have to ask him, she thought. I hardly know him, and yet I feel as though he is an old friend. He was smiling at her, waiting to hear what she had to say. So, somehow, she had to find the courage to say it.
“I—there was something I wanted to ask you.”
“Yes?” He inhaled heavily to get his pipe going.
“Something—personal.” He was a doctor, after all; he must be accustomed to dealing with people's troubles.
“It is about Addington,” she said. She heard her voice, stiff and strained, not her normal voice at all.
“What about him?”
“It is just—well, I was wondering—about Mrs. Vincent.”
“Yes?”
“It—she—” Really, Caroline, she thought, you sound like a ninny. Get on with it. “I wondered if you have any idea of what Addington's feelings for her are.”
“His feelings—?”
“I mean—” And now, suddenly, everything came out in a rush, and she heard herself chattering as if she could never stop. “You see, he has never—I mean, he has always been a—everyone says he is a confirmed bachelor. And he is, I believe, just as I am a—well, I am a spinster, neither of us has ever— There was one time, years ago, when he was attracted to a—a young woman, a very silly girl, flighty, not his type at all. I wonder why it is that serious, intelligent men like Addington are so often attracted to flighty females. Have you any idea?”
“I don't—” He was embarrassed; he felt himself flush, and he reached for his handkerchief to dab at his moistening brow.
“No, of course you don't. Men don't, in general. But do you understand what I am trying to say? I mean, Mrs. Vincent may be very beautiful—indeed, she is—but she is also an actress, a woman who was disgraced. So you see—”
At last he understood. “You mean, Miss Ames, that you are concerned that your brother might have developed an unsuitable attraction to Mrs. Vincent?”
“Yes,” she breathed. She felt as though an enormous weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “That is exactly what I mean. Oh, how good of you to understand.”
He felt as though he had performed some kind of heroic deed for her, when all he had done was listen to her confide her worries to him. She was sitting across the table from him, so he could not reach her hand; he pushed back his chair, stood up, and went around to where she sat. Feeling as though he did some rash deed, he rested his hand on her shoulder. He could feel her slight tremor as he did so.
“My dear Miss Ames,” he said softly. He heard the thump of the dumbwaiter in the back passage; he had only a moment to speak before Margaret appeared to collect the remains of the meal. “Your brother is a sound man—a very sound man.” It was high praise, and she understood that. “I doubt very much that at this point in his life he will do anything rash. Mrs. Vincent, attractive though she may be, is hardly his type of woman.”
For an instant—no more—she wanted to put her hand over his. But no, she had been foolish enough; she didn't need to compound her foolishness.
Margaret, looking run off her feet, knocked and came in. MacKenzie moved away; Caroline stood up.
“Thank you, Margaret,” she said; and, turning to MacKenzie, “And thank you, Doctor.”
THE NEXT MORNING, THEY HAD HARDLY BEGUN THEIR breakfast—Saturday bacon and eggs—when they heard the door knocker. The next moment, Valentine appeared. She must not have slept at all, Caroline thought, scrutinizing the girl's pale face, the dark circles under her eyes.
“Good morning, dearest,” she said. “Come have some coffee—or would you prefer tea?”
“Nothing, thanks.” Val accepted the men's greetings and sat down next to Caroline. The day had turned mild and misty, and she had brought with her a breath of salt air and smoke, overlaid by her own eau de cologne. She sat perched on the edge of her chair, her gloved hands clasped tightly around the little reticule resting in her lap.
The morning paper (which Ames had examined, criticized—“Can't they ever get it right?”—and put to one side) lay on the corner of the table. Val glanced at its bold black headline announcing Serena Vincent's arrest and then immediately glanced away.
She opened her reticule and produced a folded letter. “This came in the early mail,” she said, handing it to Caroline.
Caroline scanned the few lines, came to the signature, and uttered an exclamation of dismay.
“Why, this is from George!” she said to Val. “And with not a word about his rudeness yesterday afternoon—”
Wrong to bring that up, she thought as she saw Val's expression.
In his note, George asked to see Val at five o'clock that afternoon.
“No,” said Val. “Not a word about that.” She had taken off her dark blue kid gloves, and now she sat nervously working her hands, twisting her engagement ring around and around on her finger until Caroline wanted to put her hand on Val's to make her stop.
Ames looked at Val from beneath his dark brows and said gently, “Valentine, can you think of any way Mrs. Trask might have known about your letters?”
Val's face seemed frozen, and her lips hardly seemed to move as she said, “No. She couldn't have.”
“Why not?”
“Because—”
She is in pain, Caroline thought; real physical pain. But of course one feels pain when one's heart is broken. Val would hardly be human if she didn't feel it.
“Addington—” she began.
“No, Caro, it is all right.” Val suddenly stopped twisting her ring. “She couldn't have,” she said to Ames, “because she was not in Newport that summer—the summer before last. The talk was that her husband forbade her to come. Such nasty gossip—and, really, she wasn't such a bad person. I rather liked her the few times I met her.”
Do we tell Val the truth about Mrs. Trask? Ames thought. Is there more to that truth than we know? Had Mrs. Trask known about Val's letters? Had
she given—or sold—them to the Colonel? Impossible to say, now; and in any case, the letters had already done their damage even though, presumably, the Putnams knew nothing about them.
Suddenly, Val said: “George is going to break our engagement.”
“Oh, Val, dear, don't say that!” Caroline exclaimed; but even as she spoke, she chided herself. Why shouldn't Val say that, when it seemed to be the truth? People lived all their lives denying the truth, but sometimes the truth had to be acknowledged.
And dealt with.
It was fortunate, she thought, that Euphemia was laid up with la grippe. The interview with George was bound to be excruciating; Euphemia's presence would only make it worse.
Val managed a little smile. “I may come around afterward.”
“Of course, dear. Do!”
After Val left, Caroline and the men finished their breakfast. Then Ames announced that he was going out; where, he did not say. MacKenzie, whose knee was aching somewhat, agreed to meet him that afternoon at the St. Botolph for the opening reception of the Art Show.
“They always have something worth seeing at those get-ups,” Ames remarked. “You may even meet a real live artist, Doctor.”
After MacKenzie had retired to his room, Caroline went into the parlor. A fog was moving in; through the lavender glass, the evergreen shrubs and black wrought-iron fence around the little oval looked faintly blurred.
It was just past nine o'clock. At ten, she was expected at her Saturday Morning Reading Club. She felt she ought to go, even though she had not finished the week's assigned reading in Mr. Emerson's Essays. Mr. Emerson had been, no doubt, a wonderful man, but…
She sighed. She was in no mood for either the Saturday Morning Club or Ralph Waldo Emerson. She was far too keyed up and tense to sit placidly for two hours while one or another of her friends discoursed on transcendentalism.
In her mind's eye, she saw a thin, dark-haired woman flitting from group to group at the Cotillion: Marian Trask.
Who had, apparently, committed some indiscretion that caused her husband to pay ten thousand dollars to Colonel Mann.
And who, if Serena Vincent were to be believed, had tried to blackmail Richard Longworth.
Who was, apparently, a bigamist.
Until the past few days, Caroline had viewed the world as a more or less kindly place, well disposed toward people like herself. Now she knew differently. Now she knew that she and Addington—and Valentine; especially Valentine—were as vulnerable as anyone else to scandal's hot, foul breath. It had scorched Valentine; she herself had been singed a little, too. Forever afterward, she would carry the scar on her heart—her soul.
Why had Mrs. Trask wanted to talk to Addington?
As she turned from the window, she made up her mind. The Saturday Morning Club, today, would have to do without her.
HALF AN HOUR LATER, THE MIST HAD THICKENED BUT THE air was still mild, and so Caroline was too warm as she hurried past the brick and brownstone town houses that lined Beacon Street. It would not do to remove her gloves, but as she waited to cross at the corner of Berkeley, she surreptitiously undid the top button of her woolen jacket.
Her destination was five blocks distant. It seemed, suddenly, a very long way yet to go. She was not very tightly corseted today, but still, her body was constricted; she would not have been able to wear this outfit or any other, if it were not. Not for the first time, she thought of the Sensible Dress League and its somewhat eccentric devotees who urged women to give up lacing. People laughed at them, mocked them for being unladylike, but perhaps they were right, all the same. Surely it could not be what nature intended, to bind oneself up so tightly that one could hardly breathe?
Ten minutes later, a little breathless, she was climbing the brownstone steps of a house on Gloucester Street. There was a small mourning wreath on the door, and all the blinds were down. Still, that was the custom for houses in mourning; it didn't mean the occupant was not there.
“Yes?” said the black-clad maid who opened the door.
“Is Miss Henshaw at home?” Caroline offered her card, but the maid did not take it.
“No, Miss. Not today.”
“I understand. But this is most urgent—”
“Who is it, Betty?” came a voice from within.
As the maid turned to answer, Caroline thrust her card at her again and said, “Here—please show her this.”
As she waited, she thought, a month ago—a week, even— I never would have been so pushy—so rude. But a week ago seemed an eternity; she was a different person now, and she could never again be the Caroline Ames she'd been then.
After a moment, the maid came back and admitted her. A woman who might have been Marian Trask stood in the drawing room doorway, and for a moment the sight made Caroline's heart jump. Then she reminded herself that Marian Trask was dead, and she went forward.
“My dear Susan. I am so very sorry.”
“Yes.” Miss Henshaw took Caroline's outstretched hand. Her black dress seemed to have drained all color from her face; Caroline had never seen anyone so pale, not even Valentine, this morning. “Please come in.”
The drawing room was shuttered and dim; one gas jet burned beside the mantel. “I apologize for intruding,” Caroline went on, “but I must—I have an urgent reason for asking to speak to you.”
Miss Henshaw sat on a slippery-looking horsehair sofa; Caroline sat opposite her on a tufted, fringed, armless chair.
“You don't need to apologize, Caroline. What is it?”
“I don't know if you know this,” Caroline began, “but on the day she—on the day of Marian's death, she had sent a telegram to my brother, saying she would call on him at five-thirty in the afternoon. That was her day at the Bower—”
“I know. She went there regularly.”
“Yes. As I do myself. Well, in any case—she never came, of course, because she—”
Miss Henshaw nodded.
“And I was wondering if you could tell me why she wanted to see him,” Caroline finished.
Her words lingered in the air and seemed to echo loudly in her ears. I was wrong to come here on what must seem to her a flimsy excuse, she thought; I make impossible demands on this poor woman, I am being thoughtless and inexcusably rude—
“I saw your brother's name in the newspaper,” Miss Henshaw said abruptly.
Caroline nodded. “Yes. He—”
“Found the Colonel's body.” Miss Henshaw sat very straight, her hands folded in her lap; she might have been discussing the weather, Caroline thought, so cool was she, so oddly dispassionate.
“Unfortunately—yes.” Caroline leaned forward as far as her corset would allow. “I regret more than I can say, having to disturb you at this sad moment. But, you see—well, Addington went to the Colonel to retrieve some letters written by a—by a young friend of ours. I tell you this in confidence, and I know I can trust you to keep it. The letters were very indiscreet, and the Colonel had threatened to reveal them—and her—in Town Topics. I needn't say how embarrassed she would have been if the Colonel had carried out his threat.”
She could not tell for sure in the dim light, but she thought she saw tears glisten in Miss Henshaw's eyes.
“And so you see—”
“Did Mr. Ames get them?” Miss Henshaw interrupted.
“The letters? No. Unfortunately—no. He did not. But we know the Colonel had them late that afternoon, so Adding-ton thought that probably the person who—who killed the Colonel took them.”
Miss Henshaw thought about that for a moment; then: “And what does all this have to do with Marian?”
Caroline had in these few moments gone so far beyond the bounds of proper female decorum that she felt like someone else entirely, someone who had no feeling for another's sorrow, someone hard and cold, ruthless in her pursuit.
Val, she thought; I am doing this for Val. She had a brief vision of George Putnam breaking his engagement, and the sight stiffened her resolve.
> “It has to do with—Marian's death,” she said. “I mean— Addington believes it is somehow connected to the Colonel's. He believes she had something important to tell him, something that might have helped him in his search.”
“For the letters? Or for the man who killed the Colonel?” Suddenly Miss Henshaw lost her chilly demeanor; she put her hand on Caroline's and pressed hard.
“Does your brother believe that the man who killed the Colonel also killed my sister?”
“He believes—that it is possible.”
“I see.” Miss Henshaw sat back, pressed her lips together, and stared at her caller with unblinking eyes.
I have failed, Caroline thought. She knows something, but she will never tell it—or not to me, at any rate.
And what, exactly, might it be? Has she seen Godfrey Orcutt (a nom de plume, obviously) since his return, ostensibly to mend family relations? He is her brother as well as Marian's. Does she know—surely not—that he told Marian about Richard Longworth's being a bigamist? Does she know Marian tried to blackmail Longworth on the strength of that information?
And how can I tell her that, she thought. I should never have come here. She will never—
“We speak in the strictest confidence, Caroline.”
“Yes, of course.”
“What I am about to tell you must not reach the police.”
I can't promise that, Caroline thought, but “Yes, I understand,” she said.
“You know the Colonel was a wicked, wicked man.”
“Indeed he was.”
“I firmly believe that even as we speak, he roasts in hell.”
Caroline nodded.
“About two years ago, he demanded money from Marian. And of course she couldn't pay him. She never had money of her own. Everything belonged to her husband. And so, in the end, for the sake of their daughter—my niece—William paid. He is not a kindly man, my brother-in-law.” Miss Henshaw's face hardened into lines of anger. “He was always—very harsh with Marian. I believe that it was because of that—because of his treatment of her—that Marian, very foolishly, I admit, succumbed to the advances of someone else.”
Don't move a muscle, Caroline thought, or you will distract her and she will break off.
The DEATH OF COLONEL MANN Page 23