CHAPTER 15
“The victims have to have characteristics in common,” Geoffrey Hunter said. “You can’t have two nearly identical murders without something to link them together. It’s not logical.” He was pacing from one end of Prudence’s library to the other, stopping occasionally to slide a book from a shelf, glance at its title page or the first few paragraphs of text before returning it to its place.
“I’ve made a list of what we know about Ellen Tierney,” Prudence announced, swiveling her head to follow Geoffrey’s progress back and forth across the carpet. “I’ll do the same for Nora.”
“Start with age and nationality. Ellen was nineteen years old, so was Nora. Both Irish.”
“Nora was born in this country,” contributed Prudence. “As was her father. It was her mother, Agnes, who came from Ireland.”
“Both Catholic.”
“Yes, but so are most of the Irish who’ve emigrated.”
“The ones from the northern counties are Protestant. Many of them ended up in the southern states. The North Carolina mountains are full of their descendants.”
“Don’t get off track, Geoffrey,” Prudence scolded. She loved that his mind leaped nimbly from one topic to another, but she was determined to keep everything organized. “Back to the lists. Similarities in age, nationality, and religion duly noted. Next?”
“Ellen’s hair was red, Nora’s black.”
“But both had blue eyes.”
“Height? Size?”
“Ellen was taller than Colleen. I remember seeing them together on one of their half days. Nora was much shorter, hardly bigger than a child.”
“So our murderer doesn’t confine himself to one type of female.” Geoffrey absentmindedly laid a book he hadn’t opened on a table instead of returning it to its shelf.
“Not if you’re talking about looks.”
“What else?”
“Mrs. Nolan said her housekeeper informed her that Ellen thought she would be married to a policeman by the new year. Nora’s wedding was set for then, also. I was planning to attend. I’d even decided on a wedding gift.”
“Both girls were brides-to-be.”
Prudence doodled a tiny cradle and a question mark in the margin of the two-columned list she was making. When she looked up Geoffrey’s eyes were riveted to what she had designed. “I think it’s best to speak frankly,” she said. “Not beat about the bush or cloak certain topics in euphemistic circumlocutions.”
“We know that Nora was pregnant. Was Ellen also carrying a child?” Geoffrey didn’t think he had ever been that blunt with a woman.
Prudence blushed, but only slightly. “Joseph Nolan said something surprisingly improper when I was there, given that ladies were present in the parlor when he made the comment. He said the girl had gotten herself in trouble and paid for it. His father agreed with him.”
“Did you get the impression he was speaking from personal knowledge?”
“He’s difficult to read, Geoffrey. He sounded condemnatory, but not the slightest bit guilty himself. More to the point, both the Nolan men seemed to be making an effort to blame Mick McGuire for the murder. Joseph Nolan told the detective he should be questioning McGuire instead of wasting his time and bothering the family. Francis Nolan isn’t the gentleman he pretends to be. Perhaps that’s why I don’t remember my father ever speaking of him despite the fact the Nolans are near neighbors.”
“I don’t imagine this autopsy report will be made public, any more than Nora’s was,” Geoffrey speculated. “If Byrnes has his way, the papers won’t print any of the details.”
“Ned Hayes leaked a story to the New York Herald once before. He could do it again.”
“To Russell Coughlin, you mean?”
“Why not? Coughlin has credibility with his editor and he’ll go to any length to beat out the competition.”
“Let’s wait,” Geoffrey said. “Coughlin may pick this up on his own. In the meantime, would Colleen know? About Ellen, I mean.”
“She might. I suppose it’s possible Ellen confided in her. The one person I don’t think Ellen would have said anything to was Mick McGuire. Not yet. Especially if she wasn’t sure. He might have reacted badly. She wouldn’t have wanted to take the chance if it was a false alarm.”
“Whoever our killer is, he’s taken precautions to be sure no one would know whether either of his victims was expecting a child.”
“I hate to think about that, Geoffrey. It brings up horrible images. Sometimes when I was very little I’d be sent to the kitchen when the doctor came to visit my mother. I can remember Cook’s strong fingers tearing the innards out of the chicken she was going to roast that night. I had nightmares.”
“What else did Ellen and Nora have in common?” Geoffrey asked. He watched as Prudence brought herself back into the present. She was strong, he thought, and getting stronger every day.
“Ellen was a maid. Nora helped her mother take care of a family of six men—her father and the five brothers. Ellen’s universe centered around the Nolan household here on Fifth Avenue. Nora was a world away on Staten Island and rarely came into the city as far as I know. But those are differences.”
“There’s always the possibility the two killings were unrelated, except for being performed by the same monster.”
“I don’t understand.” Prudence looked up from studying her lists.
“What I mean is that it may be a waste of effort to look for similarities between the victims. Each of them might have been an entirely random choice.”
“You don’t really believe that.”
“No, I don’t, but I thought I’d see what you thought of the idea.” Geoffrey smiled. He liked that Prudence questioned and challenged everything he said.
“I don’t know much about people who kill, other than what I read in the newspaper about the Ripper,” Prudence said slowly, thinking aloud as she put together an argument that would be both accurate and convincing. “What allowed them to identify his victims in the first place were the similarities. All of the women were prostitutes, all worked the Whitechapel area, all were slashed and mutilated, the only difference being the degree of destruction. The police seem to feel that was more a function of time than anything else. In other words, the London Ripper fled when he thought he was about to be interrupted or discovered.”
“I’m following you.”
“Our murderer has had all the time he could want. He’s been able to kill and mutilate and then wrap the bodies up as neatly as you please before taking them where he intended them to be found.”
“Agreed,” Geoffrey said.
“That wouldn’t happen if they were random killings, if he struck when opportunity presented itself. He planned Nora’s death. Ellen’s also. He thought through what he was going to do and how he would dispose of the bodies. Nothing was left to chance. That’s the most important similarity. Ellen and Nora both encountered him in a place and at a time of his choosing.”
“Place first. Wherever it is, they felt safe,” Geoffrey decided. He had to get inside the killer’s mind, had to think like a man who planned to take advantage of the innocence and gullibility of inexperienced girls.
“Staten Island and Fifth Avenue. Nora wouldn’t have been familiar with all of the streets around Fifth Avenue and I can’t think of any reason why Ellen would have visited Staten Island.”
“I remember your saying that Colleen and Ellen went out together on some of their half days. Was Nora ever here working for you when she might have spent time with them? Could they have made an afternoon of showing Nora the places they liked to visit? We already know she had no difficulty getting here from the ferry dock.”
“I can ask Mrs. Morgan to check the household diary,” Prudence offered. “She would have noted the dates and hours Nora worked. And if we need to go back to when Mrs. Barstow was housekeeper, we have those records, too.” Prudence got up from her desk, crossed to the fireplace, and tugged on the bellpull.
&nbs
p; “Do you ever think of Mrs. Barstow when you ring for the new housekeeper? Or of Jackson before Cameron appears?”
“I do, Geoffrey, though not nearly as much now as I used to. For the longest time, I had nightmares about her body in the stables, as if I were somehow responsible for her murder. She never did anything more serious than spy on me for Victoria. It was always Victoria who slipped the additional laudanum into my food or drink. She didn’t trust anyone else in the house not to feel some loyalty to me. Except Jackson. I sometimes think Mrs. Barstow was as much my stepmother’s victim as I was. She didn’t deserve what Jackson did to her.”
“He was still alive when Danny Dennis and Kincaid took him to Bellevue, but he didn’t last long enough to receive any kind of treatment,” Geoffrey said, remembering. “Kincaid told me later that Danny refused to identify him. He said that in Ireland they believe a dead man buried without a name is the devil’s plaything and that he wanted to be sure the bastard ended up where he belonged, in an unmarked grave in Potter’s Field on Hart Island.”
“Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be able to forget any of what happened because of the Great Blizzard.”
“You will,” Geoffrey promised. He could have told her that he doubted he’d ever put behind him the far worse nightmares he’d lived through as a Pinkerton, but he hoped life would be kinder to Prudence than it had been to him. He wanted her to have hope, to believe in herself. And in him.
There was so much about Judge MacKenzie’s daughter that was unlike other young women of her age and class. Somehow she had escaped the sameness of the lovely, accomplished society belles whose mothers and governesses molded and shaped them into carbon copies of one another. Well mannered, well dressed, well coiffed. Good dancers, skilled conversationalists, practiced flirts. Bound by the limitations of good taste and marketable virginity.
Prudence was both brave and vulnerable, an intriguing combination that aroused Geoffrey’s admiration and his desire to protect. Her mind had been trained by one of the best jurists in the state; she probed for answers, weighed evidence and arguments, and was never entirely satisfied with results that would have gratified anyone less demanding. She challenged her partner’s intelligence, something no other woman had ever done. She surprised him, confronted him, treated him with the careless affection she might bestow on a brother, and occasionally looked at him in a way that made him wonder if she could possibly have guessed what was happening to him. What was beginning to grow between the two of them.
When she spoke of the Great Blizzard, he drew back, instinctively sensing that the wounds she carried had not healed. Then she would seem to have forgotten the losses and the pain enough so that he dared to move ever so slightly closer. It was an odd sort of minuet they were dancing, he thought, likely to break any moment into the breathless sweep of a waltz. He imagined holding Prudence in his arms—her lovely face in profile; tall, slender body moving in obedience to his direction; the fragrance of her hair; the scent of perfume on her skin; the sway of hips; the oneness of two people dancing in concert.
“Geoffrey?”
“Sorry. I was woolgathering.” From the amused look on her face, he knew she thought it a most un-Pinkerton thing to be caught doing.
*
The butler who answered Prudence’s summons had been in her family’s service since before she was born. Summarily dismissed by Judge MacKenzie’s scheming widow, he had reluctantly and only briefly left the household, returning immediately after Victoria MacKenzie’s fatal brush with the laudanum she had used to control her late husband’s daughter. Never again would he allow anything or anyone to harm the child he loved as if she were his own.
“Would you ask Mrs. Morgan to come up, please, Cameron? She’ll need to bring the household diary with her. I want to check the dates when Nora Kenny worked here. And especially whether she might have spent a half day with Colleen and Ellen Tierney.”
“I know she did. I remember how much they looked forward to it. It would have taken a month of half days to do and see everything they planned. I don’t recall the date, though. Shall I send Colleen up with Mrs. Morgan? She’ll remember where they went.”
“Yes, please do. And come back up yourself, Cameron. Mr. Hunter and I are putting together a list of things that Ellen Tierney and Nora had in common. We need every scrap of information anyone can provide.”
“I’ll have Cook prepare an early tea.” He exited the room as quietly as he had entered.
“You’re very fortunate in your servants, Prudence.”
“My father said that if you treat a man or woman with respect and have a care for their dignity, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t be able to spend a lifetime together. He provided handsomely for Mrs. Dailey, my mother’s housekeeper. The same for Cameron. He doesn’t need to earn his livelihood anymore, but he won’t consider leaving until he’s trained someone he approves of to take his place. And please don’t ask me when that’s likely to happen.”
*
Colleen had a wan look about her, as though she had very recently gotten up from a sickbed. First Nora, now Ellen. It was all she could do to close her eyes at night for fear she would be next. She hadn’t confided her dreadful apprehension to anyone; it was as if giving it voice would also grant permission for it to happen. She went about her duties in a sleep deprived daze, breaking down into tears whenever she was alone. She didn’t want to contemplate what had happened to her two friends, but she couldn’t stop thinking about it.
“I’ve brought the household calendar, Miss MacKenzie,” Mrs. Morgan said.
“What we’re looking for are recent dates when Nora Kenny came here to work.” Prudence glanced at Geoffrey, then at Colleen. “Once we know what they are, I’d like Colleen to tell us whatever she can remember about where in the city they might have gone together, especially if Ellen went with them.”
“Nora was here in September, at the end of October, then again two Saturdays ago.” As soon as Cameron had told her what Miss Prudence wanted, Mrs. Morgan had searched for Nora’s name in the household records and marked the places where it appeared.
“Colleen, do you know if Ellen ever went to visit Nora on Staten Island?” Geoffrey was prepared to explain why he had asked the question, but Colleen anticipated him.
“She never did, sir. She would have told me if she had. Ellen was so wrapped up in Mick McGuire that she was sparing very little of her free time for her girlfriends. If you’re thinking to find a place where they both could have gotten someone’s attention, it won’t be on Staten Island. That I can promise you.”
“What did Nora do at the end of October? Why did you send for her, Mrs. Morgan?”
“It was the two-headed girl, Miss.” Colleen’s cheeks reddened.
“What two-headed girl?”
“The Two-Headed Nightingale. Miss Millie-Christine. She was the featured attraction at Mr. Dorris’s variety theatre and museum on Eighth Avenue. Each head speaks a different language, German and French, if I remember right. And then the heads sing in harmony. Nora came on the Monday. That would be the twenty-ninth. I had the afternoon off, and so did Ellen, but Mick was on duty, so we three went together. It was the strangest thing I’ve ever seen. And the crowds were terrible. I read in the paper the next day that five thousand people went to see Miss Millie-Christine that Monday.”
“Nora wasn’t paid for that day, Miss Prudence.” Mrs. Morgan’s right forefinger secured the page with the relevant entry. “But the following day, October thirtieth, she polished silver and darned sheets. Then on Wednesday, October thirty-first, I sent both Colleen and Nora to Saint Anselm’s to help get the church ready for All Saints Day.”
“Was Ellen Tierney at Saint Anselm’s?” Prudence tried to keep a rising excitement from her voice.
“Yes, Miss, she was. Mr. Nolan always sends some of his household before an important feast day. That day Mrs. Flynn could only spare Ellen, so she asked if I could lend her Colleen. It happened I could, seeing that N
ora had done the silver the day before.”
“What did the three of you do at Saint Anselm’s, Colleen? Can you remember?”
“Mainly we dusted and polished the pews. Jerry Brophy, he’s the sacristan, he kept us busy. According to him, there’s always work to be done.”
“Can you remember who else you saw or spoke to at Saint Anselm’s that day? Take your time. This is important, Colleen.” Geoffrey leaned forward in his seat, eyes fixed on Prudence’s maid.
“Father Mahoney, the pastor. He and Father Kearns, his assistant, were both there. Mostly they were talking to the organist and the choir director about the music to be played and sung at High Mass the next day. I remember hearing the organ now and then as they decided. Father Brennan was hearing confession even though it wasn’t a Saturday. The Ladies Sodality came in with flowers and then two of the nuns from the school brought in altar linens. Mr. Nolan came with a special bottle of wine. He said it wouldn’t do on the Feast of All Saints to put cheap wine in the chalice. I heard him say it as clear as anything.”
“Which Mister Nolan, Colleen?”
She closed her eyes as she pictured the wide central aisle of Saint Anselm’s. The figures standing there. “Both, Mr. Hunter. They came together, Mr. Joseph and Mr. Francis both. I remember thinking how much alike they looked. Anyone could tell they were father and son. Mr. Joseph carried the bottle of wine, but it was Mr. Francis who said that about not wanting to have cheap wine in the chalice on All Saints Day.”
“Where were Ellen and Nora when the Nolans came in?”
“Ellen was in the confessional booth, but she came out and went up to the altar to say her penance. She kept her head down and pulled her scarf up over her head so they wouldn’t recognize her. I’m not sure why exactly, but I know she didn’t like Mr. Joseph. She said he was odd and she tried to keep out of his way, but she never explained.”
“And Nora, where was she?”
Colleen screwed up her face as she tried to remember, but it was no use. She couldn’t picture Nora anywhere in Saint Anselm’s while the Nolans were there. “I think she may have gone with the Sodality ladies to put water in the flower vases. Jerry Brophy was giving orders right and left. He gets panicky sometimes when Father Mahoney gives him too much to do. He’s a good man with the simple things, but he’s easily confused.”
Lies That Comfort and Betray Page 15