Francis Nolan didn’t have much use for priests, but he never underestimated their importance and influence. Lillian and Alice would weep and pray, only one of them sincerely, but if Joseph knew his father, and he thought he did, the entire family would be in the carriage and on the way to Saint Patrick’s right on schedule. Whatever there was to find out about how Ellen had died wouldn’t turn up at the Nolan mansion.
Idly, because his mind was flitting from one unsettling thought to another, Joseph remembered overhearing Mrs. Flynn and Cook discussing the girl, their speculations about what was going on between her and her policeman, their conviction that she’d been caught. He wondered where Mick McGuire had been last night and whether Ellen had gotten around to telling him he was going to be a father.
Some men didn’t react well to that kind of news.
CHAPTER 14
“There’s been another killing just like Nora’s, Geoffrey.” Prudence held the nickel-plated candlestick telephone in her left hand, the earpiece in her right. “I don’t know any more except that the girl whose body has been found worked in the Nolan household at the end of the street. Their coachman sent a boot boy to tell Kincaid what was going on. ‘Cut just like Miss Nora Kenny,’ is how he put it. Jack Scully, the Nolans’ coachman, made the boy repeat the sentence until he was sure he wouldn’t forget it. The morgue wagon hasn’t arrived yet, but a detective and several uniformed patrolmen are already at the Nolan house.”
“Stay out of it, Prudence. Wait for me. I’ll hail a hansom cab from the stand in front of the hotel.”
“I’m going down there, Geoffrey. I know the Nolan daughter. Alice is her name. She’s about three years older than I am, and she was always kind when my governess and I met her in the park. There’s an older brother, Joseph, and Mrs. Nolan made a point of calling on my mother when she was ill. The families don’t move in the same social circles, but we can at least call ourselves acquaintances. They came to my father’s funeral.”
“Prudence, don’t leave the house until I get there.”
She moved one finger rapidly up and down on the bar that summoned an operator. Connections were uncertain at best and often came to an abrupt end with no explanation of what part of the telephone service had failed. She heard Geoffrey calling her name through the staccato clicking, but she didn’t answer. She’d made up her mind to pay an early morning call on the Nolans and didn’t relish an argument about it. She laid the earpiece down on the desk instead of in its cradle on the candlestick phone.
Geoffrey might figure out what she’d done, but by then it would be too late to stop her.
*
Prudence nodded politely to the policeman standing at the foot of the Nolan front steps. She seemed to belong there, so he let her pass without attempting to stop or question her. The women toffs were worse than the men; they plain didn’t like to be approached by anyone not of their set and made no bones about it. Best to look the other way.
“I’m sorry, Miss MacKenzie,” Tynan told her firmly and politely, “but Mrs. Nolan and Miss Alice aren’t receiving visitors.”
“They’ll see me, Tynan,” she said, brushing past the butler so quickly he was forced to step back out of her way or risk bodily contact. “I know what’s happened, and there’s no point pretending it can be kept a secret. The police are here and I’m sure the coroner is on his way.”
“Prudence MacKenzie? Is that you?” Alice Nolan descended the main staircase unsteadily, one hand clenching the banister, the other gathering her skirts so they wouldn’t trip her up.
“I came as soon as I heard,” Prudence said.
“I’m glad you did. My father sent up word that the detective wants to meet with all of the family in the parlor. Will you come with me?”
“I’m not sure I’ll be welcome.”
“Please, Prudence. I would greatly appreciate it.” Alice looked both frightened and uncertain, as though she desperately wanted to say something, but wasn’t sure how it would be received.
“You can tell me anything you want, Alice.” Prudence led her down the final few steps of the staircase. “I won’t say anything to anyone unless you tell me it’s all right.”
“I saw him,” she whispered. Her hand on Prudence’s arm shook, and she was as pale as a woman about to faint. “I saw the man carry Ellen’s body into the courtyard this morning. Before dawn. I was awake. Praying. And I heard a sound. I looked out my window and I saw him.”
“What time was this, Alice?”
“A little past three. I checked the clock on my mantel. I’m sure that’s right.”
“Then what did you do?”
“Nothing. He didn’t see me because I never opened the drape wide and I stepped away from the window as soon as he’d put down what he was carrying.”
“You’ll have to tell the police.”
“No, Prudence, I can’t. They’ll ask why I wasn’t asleep at that hour of the morning, and I’ll have to tell them. I can’t bear to be mocked for what I do.” Alice gulped air and sagged against Prudence, who braced herself to keep the girl upright. “It won’t make any difference. I couldn’t see anything but a figure carrying what I thought was a delivery, a rug. He laid it on the ground and then he left. I never saw his face or anything else that would make him stand out.”
“Are you sure there isn’t anything more you could tell them?”
“I know there isn’t. They’ll have already figured out that someone, a man, had to have carried her into the yard, and I can’t add any more to that. Please, Prudence, don’t say anything.”
“I won’t, Alice. I promise. But imagine how embarrassed you’ll be if they find out later you deliberately withheld evidence.” She tightened her grip on Alice’s hand. “It won’t be as bad as you think.”
*
“Let’s make this quick, Detective,” Francis Nolan said. “I’ve already put through a call to your chief. He agrees with me that the girl was murdered somewhere else and carried here by someone who wants to ruin the Nolan name. I won’t let that happen.”
Detective Phelan nodded his head in agreement, but he wasn’t at all sure that was what Tom Byrnes had really said. He’d have to wait until he got back to the Mulberry Street headquarters of the detective division to find out. In the meantime, he’d tread carefully and question lightly. He had a feeling the chief of detectives would want this case handled the same way the Kenny case had gone, though it might be harder this time if anything leaked to the press. There hadn’t been another Ripper story from London, so the New York reporters would leap all over this one if word got out about the way the body had been sliced.
The uniformed policeman who would be making notes of the interview took out his pad and pencil. Detective Phelan seated himself on an elegant brocade armchair. Without invitation.
When Francis Nolan’s lips tightened Phelan knew the man was provoked enough to make a mistake if he had anything to hide.
“What can you tell me about Ellen Tierney?” Phelan asked Lillian Nolan, taking in the woman’s carefully put together appearance and look of tight control. She wasn’t acting like the mistress of a maid who’d been found brutally murdered in the courtyard of the family mansion. He wondered if the husband had told her what to say and how to behave.
“You’ll have to ask Mrs. Flynn, the housekeeper, for details about her,” Mrs. Nolan said. “The girl did her work adequately or she would have been dismissed.”
“How long did she work for you?”
“Obviously not long enough to make any kind of impression,” Francis Nolan interrupted. “I don’t understand why the family has to be subjected to your questions, Detective. All the information you need can be obtained from the housekeeper and the butler. My wife does not concern herself with the junior servants. Nor do I.”
“I wonder whether young Mr. Nolan can tell us anything.” Phelan smiled at the extraordinarily handsome young man leaning casually against the wall beside the fireplace. He was clearly implying that the
sons of wealthy families often considered it their right to make free with their mother’s maids.
“You asked those same questions outside in the courtyard,” Joseph said. “I don’t know any more about the girl now than I did then.”
Before Phelan could reply, the parlor door opened. A fragile looking young woman stood frozen as her parents, her brother, and two strange men stared at her. “I’m here as you requested, Father,” Alice Nolan said.
When she stepped into the parlor, everyone could see that she hadn’t come alone. Prudence MacKenzie, as tall and self-assured as Alice was tiny and timid, smiled with every confidence in the world that her presence would be welcome.
Detective Steven Phelan breathed a string of silent curses.
“I’m so glad I thought to come up and offer any assistance my household staff or I might be able to provide,” Prudence said, not letting go of Alice’s chilly hand. “I met Alice just as I was coming in. It’s been a terrible shock for her.”
Francis Nolan looked uneasily at the girl he once considered a suitable bride for his son. Joseph had adamantly refused to consider the match because, he said, she was a Protestant. To the socially ambitious head of the Nolan family, religion didn’t matter nearly as much as money and an old name. Both of which Prudence MacKenzie had. With the added advantage of being an orphan.
He’d heard rumors about her when her stepmother died. Gossip had it that she was behaving in an unacceptable, even scandalous way. Now here she was sticking her patrician nose into this morning’s messy business. He had no idea why she would waste her time on Alice, but Francis didn’t look gift horses in the mouth. Prudence was a wealthy young woman sorely in need of a husband to control her. He might be able to salvage something from this debacle.
“It’s kind of you to have come, Miss Prudence,” Francis said. “I’m sure Alice appreciates your company at this difficult time. As do we all.” He looked meaningfully at Joseph, who refused to meet his eyes.
“Detective Phelan.” Prudence paid no attention to the puzzled looks from the Nolan family.
“Miss MacKenzie.” He was too annoyed to bother being anything but frostily polite.
“Detective Phelan and I met two weeks ago,” Prudence said. “In Colonial Park.” She stopped then, waiting to see if he would continue the explanation. He didn’t. “It was a professional rather than a social encounter.”
“I’ve spoken briefly with your senior staff,” Phelan said, attempting to ignore the young woman whose unwavering gaze was unsettling to him and unseemly for her. The visit she and Hunter had made to the Tombs had been reported to him, of course. He’d seen to it that Fahey was moved out of their reach, but here she was again, like a bad penny that kept turning up in your pocket. “I understand the maid in question was walking out.”
Mrs. Nolan looked inquiringly at her husband, who nodded his permission for her to speak. “The housekeeper was anticipating having to replace her,” she said, conveying unmistakable disapproval of a servant having any sort of private life. “The girl had told her that she planned to marry, which would mean immediate dismissal.”
“I believe it was one of your patrolmen, Detective,” Joseph Nolan said. “Perhaps he’s the one you ought to be questioning.”
“We’ll speak to him.” Phelan didn’t like being told how to do his job.
“The girl got herself in trouble and now she’s paid for it.” Joseph brushed imaginary dust from the mantel as though that would remove the offending maid from their lives.
“I agree with my son,” Francis said brusquely, dismissively. “In any case, whether or not she was caught doesn’t matter as much as the fact that she’d no business leaving the house at night. Alone. Without permission.”
Detective Phelan was liking Francis Nolan less and less. There was a phrase the Irish used among themselves to describe his type. A Mick on the make. That’s what they called the climbers on the way up who threw off everything that marked them as Irish. They treated their fellow countrymen with the scorn they themselves had had to endure when they first got off the boat. No Irish Need Apply. No Dogs Allowed. As soon as he got back to headquarters he’d find out everything Nolan was paying good money to hide. In the meantime, he couldn’t afford to forget that the man had been able to get through to the chief of detectives. Via Tammany connections, probably … which meant he wasn’t someone whose feathers you wanted to ruffle.
“The policeman’s name is Mick McGuire,” Alice said unexpectedly. When all eyes turned to her, she blushed and ducked her head. “I asked Mrs. Flynn,” she mumbled.
“What on earth made you do something like that?” her mother asked angrily. She had a feeling it was considered not quite de rigueur to evince any sort of interest in one’s servants and their friends.
Alice’s head came up when Prudence pressed her hand encouragingly. “I saw him from my window,” she explained. “The policeman. He came out the kitchen door with Ellen on his arm. It was her afternoon off.”
“What were you doing looking out your bedroom window?” Mrs. Nolan was incensed. “What if someone had seen you? It’s beyond improper for a young lady to be staring out onto the street like some harpy from the tenements.”
“My window overlooks the courtyard, not the street,” Alice protested.
“Would you have been looking out your window last night, Miss Nolan?” Detective Phelan asked. The mother had taken the interrogation off on an entirely different tack for a moment, but she’d inadvertently given him another line of inquiry. He didn’t wait for the daughter to answer. “Did you see Mick McGuire carry the girl’s body through the gate?”
Alice stared at him. How could he know I saw someone? How could he know that? She felt Prudence’s hand tighten around her own again, giving her courage and support. “I don’t know who it was,” she stammered. “All I saw was the shape of a man carrying a rug. I thought it was a rug.”
“What time was that?” Phelan demanded. Sometimes the only way to get information out of witnesses was to hit them hard, badger and thump the truth out of them. “What time?”
“I’m not sure. Past three o’clock, I think. Nearly four?”
“You’re telling me that you were looking out your bedroom window at three or four o’clock in the morning and when you saw a man carrying a body across the courtyard you thought it was someone making an early morning delivery of a rug? Is that what you’re saying, Miss Nolan?”
“That’s enough,” Francis Nolan interrupted, cutting Phelan off with an imperious sweep of his hand. “My daughter has told you what she saw. She will not be answering any more questions.”
On a nod from his father, Joseph Nolan yanked on the tapestry bellpull hanging beside the fireplace.
“The butler will see you out,” Francis Nolan decreed.
“I’ll need to ask questions of the staff, Mr. Nolan,” Detective Phelan said, taking his time standing up. “I can do it today and be finished or I can come back tomorrow. And perhaps also on Tuesday, if I have to jog their memories.”
Prudence thought they looked like two single-minded bulldogs facing off over possession of a square of sidewalk.
“Perhaps today would be better,” Lillian Nolan put in. “Then the police wouldn’t have to come back at all, Francis.” She’d almost called him Frank, but he hated when she used that nickname in front of other people. She didn’t want to get his back up, but she didn’t want policemen in her house again either.
“Take Detective Phelan downstairs, Tynan,” Mr. Nolan instructed when the butler appeared. “He has questions for the staff.” He turned back to Phelan, bound and determined not to allow control over his household to slip from his grasp. “You can start with Scully, and don’t take too long about it. I’ll expect my coachman to be ready to drive the family to Saint Patrick’s on time.”
Phelan knew he’d be closeted with Chief Byrnes as soon as he got back to Mulberry Street, so he might as well get statements while he could. He had a feeling the Nol
an family would become unavailable after this morning, and that Byrnes would be directing this case from afar. He needed to find out what the staff thought of Patrolman Mick McGuire and whether any other young stallion had come calling for the dead girl.
He looked back over his shoulder as the butler led the way out of the parlor. Miss MacKenzie had ensconced herself as comfortably as though she were one of the family. He hated knowing she would probably end up learning far more about the Nolans and their dead maid than he would. And that she’d pass the information on to the ex-Pinkerton partner who had been asking too many questions down at the Tombs.
Byrnes had reprimanded Phelan for the damage done during Fahey’s second third-degree interrogation, but not too severely because the chief had been known to rough up a man so badly his own mother couldn’t recognize him. Phelan had carted Fahey off to the prison infirmary, signed him in, then promptly misplaced all of his paperwork. He ought to be healed up by now, at least enough to be put back into a regular cell as soon as his charge sheets miraculously reappeared. They could have him tried, sent up the river or hanged in a couple of weeks. That should get the toff and his girlfriend off his back.
If Mick McGuire turned out to be dirty, as nearly every cop on the force was, including the chief, he’d go the same way. Not without proof, of course, but that was always easy to come by. McGuire had a reputation for using his fists too often and too hard as he kept order on his beat. The press would make mincemeat of him, and he was probably guilty. Who better than a copper to fake a copycat killing?
“Detective?” came the soft voice with the edge of steel in it.
He turned around, hat in hand.
“I just want to say how much Mr. Hunter and I value your work.”
Which meant they knew he was behind Fahey’s disappearance and they weren’t planning on getting off his back anytime soon.
Lies That Comfort and Betray Page 14