Lies That Comfort and Betray

by Rosemary Simpson

  There was something else, too. As a copper, if they succeeded in locking him up, he wouldn’t last long enough to learn the prison ropes. He’d get a knife in the ribs or his head held down in a toilet, neither of them an easy way to go. He could survive the cells in the Tombs where prisoners were locked up while they waited for trial, but he’d never make it through the kind of sentence given to murderers who didn’t hang.

  The rhythmic pounding went on until the two detectives were too tired to continue and their fists in the black gloves hurt too much to strike another blow. McGuire was bloody and only semiconscious, but in his own way he’d beaten them. Except for the single sentence denying any guilt in the killing of Ellen Tierney, he never said a word.

  *

  “They took me to the prison infirmary,” Tim Fahey told Prudence and Geoffrey. “According to my medical chart, I fell down the stairs while trying to get away. An attendant handcuffed me to the bed.” He pressed a hand to his bruised and bound ribs as he leaned against the bars of his cell for support. “How did you find me?”

  “Josiah.” Prudence smiled at their secretary’s persistence. “He never stopped demanding to be shown a copy of your transfer documents and I think he called in nearly every favor he was owed.”

  “Will you thank him for me? A lot of people arrested the way I was get permanently lost in the Tombs.”

  “There’s been another murder, Tim,” Geoffrey said. “Another Irish maid. She spent time with both Nora and Colleen Riordan. In fact, she worked just a few houses down the street from Miss MacKenzie’s. Her name was Ellen Tierney. Did you know her?”

  Fahey made the sign of the cross and murmured a quick prayer. “I know the name because Nora mentioned her, but she never came to Staten Island to visit. Was she … ?”

  “Just like Nora. It has to be the same man. The press didn’t print any of the details of Nora’s killing because they weren’t given them. Byrnes ordered the autopsy suppressed. The only way this man could have duplicated what was done to Nora is if he was the one who murdered her.”

  “They’ll have to release me,” Fahey said. “If I was in here, how could I have killed again? There’s no way they can pin this one on me.” In his mind he was nearly a free man.

  “It won’t be that simple.” Geoffrey handed a copy of that afternoon’s Tribune through the bars. It was folded open to the story of Mick McGuire’s arrest. “Someone dug up or the department deliberately leaked McGuire’s past disciplinary actions. He has a nasty reputation for being too vigorous about enforcing shakedowns. He wasn’t satisfied with the bag coming into his precinct, he had to add to it on his own, and sometimes he ran into victims who weren’t inclined to make an extra payment just to finance his promotion to sergeant. There’s no history of him cutting anybody up, but he’s sent more than one storeowner to the hospital.”

  “Nobody has had the nerve to bring charges against him,” Prudence said, “but everyone knew what was going on.”

  “He isn’t a slasher?” Fahey said desperately.

  “No, but they’re pinning Ellen’s murder on him just the same. Phelan gives the identical reasons he did when they arrested you. According to him, McGuire found out that Ellen was cheating on him, got mad drunk, and cut her up.”

  “We know it doesn’t make sense,” Prudence added. “Two identical killings ascribed to two different men? All it’s going to take is one really smart reporter with good sources. Once the questions start flying, Byrnes will have to drop the charges.”

  “Byrnes is a law unto himself,” Geoffrey reminded her.

  “What happens next?” Fahey asked. “Do I go to trial?”

  “I’m working on trying to get you out on bail,” Geoffrey told him. “The best thing you can do is nothing at all. Don’t answer any questions, don’t do anything to draw attention to yourself. Rest and sleep as much as you can. You need to heal, Tim.”

  *

  “What will happen to him, Geoffrey?” Prudence asked as they handed their visitors’ cards to the guard at the main entrance to the Tombs. The cold, overcast day matched her mood, but the hansom cab into which they climbed had a basket of hot bricks on the floor. Danny Dennis had a long history of taking care of Miss MacKenzie and Mr. Hunter. He left the trap door in the roof of the cab open by a couple of inches so he could better hear their conversation.

  “They’re setting him up,” Geoffrey said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s in writing that he injured himself by falling down a staircase while trying to escape. It’s also in his record that he was taken care of in the infirmary and returned to a regular cell pretty much on the mend. The next time Tim Fahey attempts an escape he won’t survive it. They may not use the stairs excuse again, but it will be something just as effective. Only more lethal.”

  “What about McGuire?”

  “They can always claim that since he was a copper, he knew the details of the Nora Kenny case. They’ll accuse him of faking a copycat killing when he murdered Ellen.” Geoffrey thumped twice on the roof of the hansom. “Danny, I’d like to go by Ned Hayes’s place before we go back to the office.”

  “Is it time for him to call on his reporter friend from the Tribune?” Prudence asked.

  “Maybe. But it’s past time for him to have heard something from McGlory. Word from the streets gets back to him faster than over a telephone line. Ned warned us that Billy might take the bit between his teeth and run with it if he’s got a personal interest in catching up to our New York Ripper. We need to know if that’s what’s happening. Fahey and McGuire are too close to the rope for my liking. It wouldn’t take much to put it around their necks.”

  “Time is running out.”

  “For both of them.”

  *

  The cobblestones where Ellen Tierney’s body was found had been repeatedly scrubbed and thoroughly rinsed; there was nothing left to mark the spot where she had lain. Yet Alice was irresistibly drawn to where she could reimagine the scene, checking for details she might have missed, straining her ears to imagine a sound she hadn’t detected. She made herself faint and dizzy with the intensity of her concentration until she had to sit down in the chair she’d drawn close to the window and lean her head into the enveloping folds of the drapes.

  She was positive she’d witnessed poor Ellen’s murderer bringing his victim home. Strange to think of it that way, bringing her home, but those were the words that leaped into her mind. Her father had interrupted Detective Phelan’s interrogation and then used his influence with Tammany Hall to make sure the Metropolitan Police stayed away from his daughter and every other member of his family.

  The few questions the detective had managed to ask both frightened and unnerved her. Alice didn’t think she could bear it if she had to explain what her vigil was for … so that someone in heaven, God or Our Lady or one of the saints, would change Francis Nolan’s mind so he’d allow his daughter to become a nun at the Visitation Monastery in Brooklyn. It sounded odd even to her.

  If she so much as hinted at what sometimes went on in the private lives of the Nolans, her father would see to it that she suffered. She didn’t know exactly what he would do to her, but from past experience she knew it would be unpleasant. No amount of apologizing or pleading would soften the punishment. In Francis Nolan’s world, you were made to pay for what you did.

  Something had upset Joseph at dinner, though Alice had no idea what it could be. No one had mentioned Ellen’s name or even obliquely referred to what had so disturbed the household on Sunday. As often happened, the meal was taken in a silence broken only by the scrape of silver against china and the faint noises of polite eating and drinking.

  Maybe Da had said something; Alice knew her mind had been wandering. Joseph suddenly stood up, muttered a vague excuse to his mother, threw his linen napkin on the table, and stormed out of the dining room. They heard his footsteps race up to his second floor bedroom, then down again. Then the thud of the front door. After that
there had been an oppressive stillness that weighed down each of the remaining courses.

  Alice couldn’t remember what she’d managed to eat; everything she put in her mouth tasted like uncooked flour.

  *

  “The other girl’s name was Nora Kenny, Miss Alice. I never met her, but our Ellen knew her through Miss MacKenzie’s maid Colleen. The three of them were of an age, you see, and when Nora came over from Staten Island and they had a few free hours, they’d spend them together.” Mrs. Flynn wasn’t sure she’d been clear enough in her explanation. “Nora’s mother had worked for the MacKenzies for years, out there on Staten Island, so whenever extra help was needed, either she or Nora or both of them would come into the city.”

  “I understand. Thank you, Mrs. Flynn.” Alice had drifted downstairs to the housekeeper’s room after discovering that her mother had gone early to bed and her father withdrawn into the smoking room where no one was ever permitted to disturb him. No matter the illness or indisposition that made her keep to her room or take to her bed, even if it was nothing more serious than loneliness, Mrs. Flynn always saw to it that Miss Alice was well cared for and cosseted. There were times when Alice fervently wished Moira Flynn and Lillian Nolan could have changed places.

  Tonight Alice wanted to talk to someone about Ellen Tierney.

  “It’s terrible, what’s happened to those two girls,” Mrs. Flynn said, pouring tea. “Drink this up, Miss Alice. I’ve put honey in it for your throat.” She spread butter on thin slices of toasted soda bread. “Soda bread sits easy in the stomach. Just take a bite or two. You’ll start feeling better.”

  “I was so surprised, so shocked.”

  “Of course you were. So were we all downstairs. Mr. Tynan has told the rest of our girls they’re not to be out alone, no matter the time of day or where they might be going. And when they do go out, they’re to stop by me first and then again the minute they get back.”

  “Oh, no, Mrs. Flynn.”

  “Yes, Miss Alice. You know how coachmen are, the worst gossips in the world. Well, Jack Scully has been talking to Miss MacKenzie’s Kincaid. He says our Ellen was cut up like their Nora. Mr. Tynan thinks it’s just a matter of time before one of the newspaper reporters discovers that and writes a story about an American Ripper. Wouldn’t that be something now?”

  “Was Ellen … were either of them … ?” Alice couldn’t think of the right words to ask the question.

  “Interfered with? If they were, no one’s saying anything about it. They arrested Mick McGuire, which is no great surprise to anyone. He’s a handsome boyo, but with a temper on him like nothing I’ve ever seen. You don’t know the fist is coming at you until it lands. If he’s that bad sober, there’s no telling what he’ll do when he’s taken a few.”

  “It’s too awful to think about.”

  “Upstairs and off to bed with you, Miss Alice. I’ll take you up myself. There’s no sense worrying yourself into a spell. You’ve too soft and tender a heart. I’ve always said that, right from the time you were a tiny little girl.”

  Mrs. Flynn helped Alice out of the chair that seemed to be holding her prisoner, clucking sympathetically all the while. She’d been surprised when her employer’s daughter appeared in her parlor doorway, and she wasn’t certain it was her place to tell her what Scully had reported about the Nora Kenny murder being so like Ellen’s, but if she didn’t, then who would? Worse than Miss Alice knowing what happened would be her stewing and fretting over what she didn’t know but could only imagine. Not that Mrs. Flynn revealed everything Jack Scully had told her. There was such a thing as reticence and discretion.

  Especially with someone as delicate as Miss Alice.

  *

  The door to Joseph’s bedroom had been left ajar. Not by more than a finger’s width, but enough to tantalize. Alice hadn’t been inside her brother’s private quarters since the last time they’d played the game. Years ago. She couldn’t remember how many.

  “I’m all right, Mrs. Flynn. Really I am. I can put myself to bed. Perhaps if I could have another cup of tea, I’d manage to fall asleep.” Alice stood in the middle of the second floor hallway, positioning herself so the housekeeper’s back was to the cracked bedroom door. Every member of the household knew that Mr. Joseph’s room was sacrosanct; the door was always closed and locked. Even the maid who cleaned and changed the linen had to do so under his watchful eye.

  “I’ll have Cook brew up one of her tisanes, the one with chamomile flowers in it. That should help you drift off.” Mrs. Flynn started back down the stairs. “I’ll put an extra teaspoon of honey in it, Miss. Your voice sounds scratchy.”

  Alice took a few steps toward her bedroom in case Mrs. Flynn turned around. As soon as the housekeeper was out of sight, she changed direction. She took a deep breath to steady herself, then slipped into Joseph’s room and closed the door behind her. Snicked the latch in place in case someone should be passing by and try the knob. She hadn’t much time, no more than five or ten minutes; Mrs. Flynn would hurry Cook along and either send or carry up the tisane herself.

  Joseph always kept his room meticulously neat; even as a child he’d returned each toy or book to the place he’d chosen for it. Nothing and no one was permitted to interfere with whatever his system was. The very few times a maid moved an object as she dusted there’d been temper tantrums and a tight lipped anger that lasted for days.

  He’d kept the props for their play locked away somewhere; he’d never told Alice where he hid them. Whenever he summoned her, the habit and cassock were already laid out on his bed. Later, as the play grew more intricate, more frightening, he’d taken what he called God’s tools out of a leather sack that looked as though it had been stored somewhere dusty. She remembered running her hand over it once, surprised at what clung to her fingers and palm.

  Nothing would be in his bedside tables or armoire, but she took a quick look just in case. No leather sack or ball of material stuffed under the bed or behind the books stacked neatly in glass fronted cabinets along one wall. Nothing out of place, nothing to indicate that he might have played the game by himself. Recently perhaps. He’d been furiously angry when a weeping Alice told him she would no longer put on a nun’s habit and follow his orders, even though the cassock and collar he was still wearing so intimidated her that until that last day she hadn’t dared defy him.

  “You’ll come back when I tell you to,” Joseph had snarled at her, the small whip with the hooks on the end of its nine leather tails clutched in his twitching right hand.

  “I won’t,” Alice had cried. “You can’t make me. I’ll tell. I’ll tell and then Da will send you away. Or something worse.” She couldn’t imagine what that might be, but it didn’t matter.

  Saliva dripped from the sides of Joseph’s mouth. He was like a dog on a hot afternoon, worked up with running too hard in the heat and about to collapse.

  Alice never did go back. Nothing her brother promised or threatened could convince her to set foot in his room again, or to trail miserably behind him into the dim recesses of the attic.

  She played her own game of nun after that, but in her game there weren’t any whips and nobody ever made Alice take her clothes off.

  CHAPTER 19

  Billy McGlory seldom left the safe confines of Armory Hall nowadays, but something stirred in him when Kevin Carney’s eyes shone with excitement and his voice danced up and down the scale as he described tracking Joseph Nolan through the streets of New York to Madame Jolene’s establishment. Once upon a time McGlory had known every crack in every sidewalk of the streets he too had called home. He’d found a place for himself in the Irish gangs that were as dangerous to belong to as they were comforting, like a family that rallied around you when you needed it but cut your throat if you ratted on any of its members. Which was a large part of what had made him what he was today. There were times when someone like Carney could make him wish for a minute that he was much younger, still living a life that teetered close to viol
ent death with every breath he took.

  Edwin Hayes always reminded him of those days because Ned had saved him from the death Billy undoubtedly deserved. Hayes had pulled him out of the street where he’d taken a knife wound to the gut, the kind of cutting almost no one survived. Then he’d secreted him with a healer whose skin and accent told McGlory she was New Orleans born and bred, a conjure woman in whose tiny, overheated rooms he’d been nursed and dosed and voodooed back into life.

  He remembered lying in a narrow bed for weeks, rag and corn husk dolls dangling over his body from strings tied around nails driven into the ceiling. The flickering light of dozens of candles confusing his vision, the smell of incense and bitter herbs prickling his nostrils, the ever present sound of Mama Oshia chanting and tinkling her bells. Mumbling. Talking to her gods and goddesses as if they were next door neighbors who’d dropped in for chicory coffee and conversation.

  Hayes had been fired from the Metropolitan Police for spiriting McGlory away and into hiding. Then had come the fast downward slide that McGlory hadn’t thought anything but the grave could stop. He’d seen to it that the drugs Ned ingested were free of the rat poison often used to cut them, but he hadn’t interfered much more than that. Something or someone else had snatched the ex-detective back from the abyss, so Billy hadn’t been able to pay off his debt. And the thing about Billy McGlory that everybody knew was that he always paid his debts.

  He’d known about the Kenny killing before Ned Hayes came to warn him that rumors of a Ripper would be bad for business. And incidentally ask for the fruits of his network of informants. Even before Ned finished laying out his argument McGlory had known he was right. He’d sent out the word and within days Kevin and his dog had shown up. There were two dead girls now and two highly unlikely accused murderers in the Tombs. It was only a matter of time before another carved up body appeared and the story the police were so intent on concealing broke wide open.