Which the Colonel had had on Monday afternoon, but which had not been in the hotel suite when Addington found the Colonel's body some hours later.
“I don't know how Mama came to have them.”
Ah, but perhaps I do, thought Caroline; and for a moment, standing on the sidewalk in front of the grocery, she felt ill.
Mama—Isabel—had them because she had taken them from the Colonel's suite. She had gone there on Monday evening—she must have. Had she searched his rooms for some random thing she might take away with her? Or had she known the letters were there and looked for them specifically?
And if she'd known that, it could have been only because she herself gave them to him. Because she had worked for him.
Had she also killed him?
Either he'd been dead when she went to him, or—yes— she had killed him.
Why? If she had worked for him, why would she have killed him?
Because he was blackmailing her, too. Someone must have told him about Alice.
And who had known about Alice? Who had discovered Alice with Harry Morgan?
Marian Trask.
But Isabel hadn't learned that until late Tuesday night, after the Cotillion. And on Thursday, seizing her opportunity, knowing Marian would be at the Bower…
Isabel and Marian had once been good friends. She'd seen the evidence of that earlier this afternoon, when she'd hunted out the photograph: a happy group at the Christmas Revels, two smiling women at the center, arms linked: Isabel Dane and Marian Trask. But then someone had betrayed Marian to the Colonel—one of two people, Susan Henshaw had said, and what better suspect than Marian's so-called friend, Isabel Dane?
Well, Marian had gotten her revenge, hadn't she? Had gone to the Colonel—must have done, right after the Newport season—and told him about Alice, thus putting Isabel in the Colonel's power.
Revenge.
But had Marian known the worst of it—that Isabel had taken Alice to New York, not for a funeral, but for an illegal operation?
Probably not. But who had known?
The person who, as Alice had said, had given Isabel a name.
The third person whom Isabel had tried to silence. But she hadn't succeeded; the shot had missed. The police couldn't find the bullet, Addington said.
Who else knew about Alice?
Did Val? No. Almost surely not. But did Isabel realize that? Would Isabel try to eliminate Val, too, from the list of people who knew—or might know—Alice's secret?
And Val's letters… Isabel had probably known about them since the summer before last, when Val, at Newport, had had them returned to her. Val had stayed with Isabel and Alice that summer… and Isabel, knowing about her letters, could have bribed Val's maid to take them… could then have given them to the Colonel in lieu of a payment she couldn't make when he started to blackmail her about Alice sometime in the past two months.
She set off again, hurrying toward Chestnut Street. Rather than wait for Val to come to her, she would go to Val. She hoped Euphemia was still laid up. And George— please let him be gone. She would give Val her letters immediately, of course, to relieve her from the burden of her worry. But more important—much more—she must warn her about Isabel.
She turned the corner. Not far to go now. As she paused to catch her breath, she felt cold fear pluck at her heart, at the edges of her mind. Then she hurried on through the fog.
THE WARDRESS SHUT THE DOOR WITH A LOUD CLANG, AND Ames faced Serena Vincent across the battered metal table. They were in a room adjacent to the cells, but even with the door closed they could hear the cries of the women locked up. As she had been—with the dregs of the city, prostitutes, felons, petty thieves. And yet the experience seemed not to have soiled her. She sat quietly, beautiful even in her drab prison garb. But she looked unwontedly fragile, too, he thought—stunned. Not surprising, given that she'd been incarcerated here for the better part of twenty-four hours.
Most irregular, Crippen had grumbled. Well, he was right about that, at least. They'd sent for her lawyer, but he hadn't arrived yet. On this late Saturday afternoon, Ames thought, he was undoubtedly at home, preparing for his evening's engagements.
“What has happened?” she said.
“Bad news, I'm afraid—but good news, as well. You'll be out of here within the hour.”
“They said they wouldn't give me bail.”
“Bail is beside the point now. I have managed to convince Inspector Crippen that he arrested the wrong person.”
“For the murder of Colonel Mann?”
“Yes—and for Mrs. Trask's, also. They succeeded—at last—in matching the bullets. And if they ever find the bullet that was aimed at you at the theater, I believe it will match also. They searched your apartment for a weapon, Crippen said, but they couldn't find one.”
“They tore the place apart, I have no doubt.”
“They may have, yes. It is their job.”
“Do they think I disposed of it after murdering the Colonel and Mrs. Trask?”
“Not now they don't.”
“Is that your good news?”
“Yes.”
Her hands were clasped on the table. He reached over and covered them with his own as she held his gaze steadily. “And the bad?” she said.
Not just yet, he thought. “Mrs. Vincent, yesterday afternoon on Boylston Street, a woman spoke to you.”
“Yes?”
“You know to whom I refer. Mrs. Dane.”
Her face took on an expression of—what? He couldn't put a name to it. Pride, pity, an awareness of some harsh truth beyond anything he knew.
“What of it, Mr. Ames?”
“Well—it is just that—women like Mrs. Dane—ambitious women, who believe that they need to be—ah—careful in their associations, would not ordinarily—”
He was botching it. She finished it for him.
“Would not ordinarily speak to a woman like me?” She managed to smile, but he heard the stinging bitterness in her voice.
“Yes.”
She arched an eyebrow. “I cannot say what Mrs. Dane might do in any particular situation.” She withdrew her hands from his. “What is your bad news, Mr. Ames?”
“Richard Longworth is dead.”
She stared at him for a moment in stunned silence. “How?”
“By his own hand.”
And now her last vestige of strength seemed to desert her, and she sagged in her chair as if she would faint.
In an instant, he was on his feet and at her side to catch her as she slipped sideways. He seized her shoulders, feeling her warmth through the flimsy prison cloth, and eased her straight as he shouted for the wardress.
“Poor man,” Mrs. Vincent said softly. “He was always so very—”
So very what? Ames thought. So very in love with you? So desperate to keep you that he was driven half mad, driven to threaten you, and, in the end, to take his life rather than live without you?
She moved, and he thought at first that she was pushing him away, but then he realized that she'd put her hands over his, pressing them to her shoulders as if his touch kept her conscious. Her head was bowed, as if the weight of her glorious hair was suddenly too heavy. He saw the line of her cheek, her throat, and for an instant—no more—he wondered how it would be to touch that luscious, creamy skin, to brush it with his fingertips, to bend and touch it with his lips….
The door opened. The wardress entered, followed by a man Ames did not know.
“She's fainting—get water—smelling salts—”
“No. I don't need anything.”
“My dear Serena!” the stranger exclaimed. In two steps he was at her side, staring at Ames with a hostile look across the top of her drooping head.
She pressed Ames's hands to her shoulders one last time, and then, quite deliberately, she removed them.
“Mr. Coolidge—Mr. Ames,” she said. Then she looked up to smile at Ames. “Thank you. I am all right now.”
He stepped back. The wardress
had disappeared. Coolidge—her lawyer—was a man of about sixty, with graying hair, a canny, narrow face, and gold-rimmed spectacles. Ames knew his brother but not him.
Mrs. Vincent turned to Coolidge and said, “I am to be released, Mr. Ames tells me.”
“And about time, too, my dear. I have told Crippen, I will bring charges against him—”
“No. No charges. I just want to leave. What time is it?”
“A little past six,” Ames replied.
“Time to get to the theater, then,” she said.
“Impossible!” Ames addressed himself to Coolidge. “The woman who committed the crime for which Mrs. Vincent was arrested—yes, it is a woman—is still at large. And very dangerous, I believe. Mrs. Vincent must go directly home, and she must not leave her apartment under any circumstances. You must instruct the concierge not to admit anyone. I would even suggest that you hire a guard for her—”
“Oh, surely that is not necessary,” Mrs. Vincent interrupted.
“In any case, you must not think of performing tonight— not at all, in fact, until this business is settled once and for all.”
She glanced up at Coolidge. “Perhaps we should listen to him, Frederick. He is very knowledgable.”
Coolidge frowned. “How do you know that she is in danger?” he asked Ames.
“Because—” Impossible to speak of such things, Ames thought, but he had no choice. “Mrs. Vincent, I would ask you—I gave you a name just now, someone who spoke to you yesterday. But I must be sure—did she also speak to you this past summer in Newport? Ask your help, perhaps?”
She stood up, seemingly recovered from her shock at the news of Longworth's death, and she lifted her chin a little as she replied. “I cannot tell you that.”
“You must.”
“No. I cannot.”
“But I must make absolutely sure—”
She had stepped away from the table, and now her lawyer moved protectively to her side.
“Frederick, will you take me home?” she said to him.
“Yes, of course.”
Ames felt a sharp pang of envy. He'd pressed too hard, and now he'd lost whatever gratitude she'd had toward him.
Then Coolidge said firmly, “No more questions, Mr. Ames,” and the wardress came back, bringing neither water nor smelling salts, and it was time to go.
As Ames left the room, he glanced back. Mrs. Vincent had moved into Coolidge's arms and was resting her head on his shoulder.
Damnation!
He took the stairs to the first floor two at a time. Should he speak to Crippen again? No. Undoubtedly Crippen was gone in any case, to deal with Longworth's suicide. Ames couldn't wait; he had to see to Val.
He emerged from City Hall and stood on the broad granite steps. He was a fastidious man, very clean about his habits, but just now, having visited the Tombs in the basement, he felt dirty, soiled in a way that would not be washed clean with soap and water.
He took a deep breath, inhaling the sour salt smell of the sea, the smothering fog. He could not see as far as the curb, and across the way, at the Parker House Hotel, the big globe lights at the entrance were nearly obscured.
Go to Val, he thought. Even with MacKenzie's protection, she needed to be told, to be warned.
And still he hesitated, reluctant to plunge into that white, fog-drenched wilderness. He needed time to think, and yet he had no time, he needed to get to Val.
A man, hurrying up, bumped into him, muttered an apology, and continued on through the great heavy doors. The little incident spurred Ames into action. With what seemed an enormous effort, he set off. He'd go to Euphemia's house first, to make sure that Val and MacKenzie had left for Lou-isburg Square.
With a mounting sense of dread, he forced himself to walk quickly. Then he began—tried—to run. His legs felt like lead; they would not obey him, they hardly seemed to move. His breath came hard and painfully sharp, and he heard it tearing at his lungs, gasping, never enough, he could not get enough of that sour salt foggy air. Beacon Street lay before him, up the hill to the State House. Up and up—this little hill had never seemed so steep, so endless. He could see nothing beyond himself. As if from a great distance, he heard the muffled cries of frustrated drivers, the neigh of a panicked horse, the murmur of people walking past, ghostly figures haunting this weird white landscape, appearing suddenly out of the fog to startle him and then, as swiftly, disappearing again.
He came to the top of Beacon Street. The redbrick State House loomed dimly before him, its gilded dome invisible. He clung to a lamppost to catch his breath. He must get hold of himself. There was work to be done yet, tonight, and he must be ready for it.
A spectre came toward him out of the fog. He heard his own cry of terror die in his throat.
“A man, passing, stopped to stare at him.
“All right, sir?” the man said.
Yes—yes, thank you.” He did not recognize his voice; it was a stranger's voice, harsh and ragged.
He pushed himself away from the lamppost. “Quite all right,” he said.
The man walked on, down Park Street; Ames went on down Beacon and turned up Walnut. In his mind's eye was not the body of Richard Longworth, not the frowning annoyance and blank confusion of Deputy Chief Inspector El-wood Crippen, not even the pale, anguished face of Serena Vincent, but something else entirely: a magnificent portrait by John Singer Sargent of a woman in her pride, her torment, wearing her heirloom pearls.
CAROLINE STUMBLED A BIT AS SHE HURRIED ALONG THE last of the sidewalk leading to Euphemia's house. A bad night, a terrible night, but she had good news for Val, and that thought cheered her. Yes—concentrate on the good news: Val's letters had been returned. It would be an enormous relief for Val, never mind what had happened with George. Val would find someone else, some splendid new young man, and one day there would be a wedding, after all.
At Euphemia's, lights gleamed through the cracks in the shutters. Please let George be gone, Caroline prayed again as she mounted the steps and brought the door knocker down sharply. And if Val—
“Good evening, Miss Ames.”
“Good evening, Saunders. I wonder if—is Mr. Putnam here?”
“Mr. Putnam? No, Miss. He left a little while ago.”
Thank heaven. She wanted to enter, but the butler did not step aside. “Miss Val isn't here, Miss Ames. She left with—ah—Dr. MacKenzie, I believe the gentleman's name is. She said to tell you that they went to Louisburg Square.”
Dr. MacKenzie. Now why had he come here and taken Val away?
Because Addington had told him to, of course. There could be no other reason.
“Thank you, Saunders.” Even as she tried to sort it out, she remembered Euphemia. “How is Miss Euphemia?”
“Still laid up, Miss, but on the mend.”
“Good. You don't need to tell her that I called.”
“Yes, Miss.”
Home, she thought. I must get home. What has happened?
Before the butler could say anything more, she had started off again, slipping on the uneven, fog-coated bricks but determinedly pushing on. She thought she heard him calling after her, but she couldn't make out what he said and she didn't want to turn back. Something about Euphemia? She wasn't sure. Well, she'd see Euphemia tomorrow in any case. When she came to Louisburg Square she almost sobbed with relief. Only a moment more—and, yes, there was Val now, standing in the window. They hadn't closed the shutters, probably to allow the parlor lights to stream out, as much as possible, into the darkness and gloom of this dreadful night, to light Caroline's way home. The thought warmed her, and the sight of her young cousin spurred her on.
She hurried up the steps, her key in her hand. Inside, she did not stop to shed her damp jacket and hat but went at once into the parlor, throwing open the pocket doors, a glad cry on her lips.
“Val! Wonderful news! You won't believe—”
But Val's startled gaze, which had briefly met her own, suddenly veered to one sid
e, and Caroline's words died on her lips as she followed it.
A woman stood by the fireplace. Her face was tortured, her eyes wild. And there was a fourth person in the room, as well: Dr. MacKenzie.
Caroline opened her mouth to say something to the woman. Later, in fact, she thought she did say it, and perhaps she did. Everything happened so quickly that, searching her memory afterward, she could never be quite sure.
“Why, Isabel”—yes, that was who it was, this frantic woman with the blazing eyes and the oddly twisted mouth— “whatever are you doing with that gun?”
A TREMENDOUS EXPLOSION SHATTERED THE SILENCE, AND Caroline felt a blow—a painful, agonizing blow—that knocked her to the floor. She was conscious of MacKenzie's horrified expression as he leaped forward. He and Isabel wrestled for a moment; then MacKenzie fell. Through a haze of pain from the searing wound in her shoulder, she heard Val screaming and MacKenzie shouting, and she smelled gunpowder, a sharp, acrid smell that made her want to retch, or perhaps it was the pain that did that.
In the next moment, as she thought she must be dying, she saw the others from what seemed a far distance; their voices echoed oddly in her ears as she realized she was losing consciousness, and she fought to keep it.
Isabel had seized Val by the arm, and now she was herding her toward the door as Dr. MacKenzie painfully raised himself from where he had fallen.
“Don't try to follow, Doctor,” Isabel said—and how strange her voice sounded, choked and dry as if it hurt her to speak. “If you do, I will kill her—I swear it.”
She meant Val, Caroline realized, and she tried to protest, tried to make some motion, however fruitless, to stop Isabel. But she could not; she lay on the floor just inside the pocket doors and saw the room revolve, fade in and out, fade to black.
When she came to, MacKenzie was leaning over her, his face a rictus of worry, or perhaps it was the pain from his damaged knee that made him look so. He was opening her bodice, searching with skilled, amazingly gentle hands to see where she had suffered her wound, and now Margaret's face appeared as well, and she uttered a shriek before she clapped her hand over her mouth.
“Miss Ames, can you hear me?” MacKenzie was saying to her.
The DEATH OF COLONEL MANN Page 28