by P. B. Ryan
“Rival?” Will said through a burst of smoke. “He didn’t understand that it was over between him and Nell? You’d think, after all these years...and, my God, after what he did to her...”
“He still feels she’s his, body and soul.” Turning to Nell, he added, “The idea that you’d betray him with Harry...well, he finds it infuriating.”
Will sat forward, his elbows on the table. “Has he threatened to hurt her?”
Adam stared disconsolately at his neat arrangement of cup, plate, and napkin. “Yes. And...”
“Kill her?”
“Yes. And...other things. But what you’ve got to try to understand is that his feelings stem from—“
“What I understand,” Nell said tightly, “is that he’s still trying to possess me, to control me, to threaten me from behind bars. What I don’t understand is why you gave no hint of this when I was at the prison Wednesday afternoon. For that matter, neither did Duncan. You painted him as man who’d found Jesus and resolved to change his ways, and that’s exactly the role he played for me—fairly well, too. He almost had me convinced a couple of times. But then, he always could act. It was his one great talent.”
“It wasn’t an act,” Adam said. “He is trying to change. But change is a journey, and one that can take some time to complete. I told you what I told you—and left out what I left out—because I thought if he could only see you, talk to you, he could move beyond his anger and forgive you. And maybe you could forgive him, too. You and Duncan have a past together, Nell. You’ve been through so much. For heaven’s sake, you—“
“That was all over a long time ago.” Nell caught Adam’s eye and gave him a meaningful look, begging him without words not to say too much in front of Will about her past with Duncan. “There’s nothing to tie us together, not after what he did.”
He held her gaze for a moment before looking away; she saw understanding dawn.
Nell heard Will’s name spoken, and turned to see that desk clerk, the one who’d given Will his key, being directed to them by the headwaiter.
With a courtly little bow, the clerk said, “Good evening, Mrs. Hewitt, Dr. Hewitt...”
Adam looked at Nell. She cringed inside, knowing what he was thinking. Why would the hotel staff call her “Mrs. Hewitt” unless she were Will’s wife...or his mistress.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your meal,” the clerk said, “but there’s a messenger at the front desk asking for you, Dr. Hewitt.”
Will excused himself and exited to the lobby. Adam sipped his coffee without looking at her.
“It isn’t like you think,” she said. “Will and I—“
“Nell, please.” He held up a hand, but he didn’t look directly at her. “I’m not naïve. I don’t necessarily approve of these things, but I do understand how they happen. Believe me, I’d much rather you were honest with me and didn’t pretend—“
“But it really isn’t like that,” she said. “You know I’m a governess for the Hewitts. I wouldn’t jeopardize that by carrying on with a man.”
He sat back, frowning with a severity she hadn’t seen in him before. It was an expression that hinted at an undercurrent of grave intensity beneath his affable façade. “Secrets will eat you up like a cancer, Nell. Like this business about Duncan.”
“That. Yes, well...”
“How much does Will know?”
“Only that I was with him. Not...how we lived, or...anything else.”
“Don’t you think he has a right to know?” The query carried with it a whiff of judgment, reminding Nell that Adam Beals was, after all, an ordained minister.
She shook her head. “He knows too much about me as it is. He’s a good man in many ways, but...” She paused, not wanting to compromise Will’s privacy. “Men of his class have been known to be...intemperate from time to time. If he knew about...Duncan and all that, it might slip out sometime when he’s been...”
“Drinking? He didn’t even have wine with dinner.”
She hesitated.
“It’s not liquor, is it?” Adam asked.
“Please—I didn’t mean to suggest—“
“You didn’t. It’s my business to dig beneath the surface, but there’s a fine line between that and prying. I apologize if I’ve discomfited you.”
“No, it’s all right. I just don’t want you to think poorly of Will. He really is a good man—despite his lack of faith.”
Adam and Will had spent the soup course debating theological matters with a frankness that had Nell both laughing and cringing.
Adam smiled—a relief after such a serious interlude. “Most people are so intent on trying to act respectable around ministers that they can never really relax and be themselves. Will doesn’t have that problem. He’s excellent company, and that’s not something I’ve had very much of since...well...since my wife passed away.”
“Will likes you, too—I can tell.”
“That’s very gratifying. Speaking of the devil...” Adam said as the subject of their conversation came toward them holding an envelope.
“I’m sorry to cut things short,” Will said as he signaled their waiter for the check without retaking his seat, “but my brother’s being questioned by the Salem police in connection with the murders at the White farm.”
“That was quick,” Nell said. The Salem constables must have talked to the mill workers this afternoon. How else would they have targeted Harry so soon? Neither she nor Will had mentioned his name.
“They’re working with the Boston Detective Bureau, so they’ve got him at City Hall.” The waiter came over, handed Will a gold-plated pencil, and flipped open a small leather folio. “He asked me to come right down,” Will said as he signed for their meal.
“Do you think he did it?” Adam asked him.
The frankness of the question startled Nell, but Will merely slapped the folio shut and said, “No.”
Adam looked toward Nell, wordlessly asking the same question as Will pulled her chair out for her. She said, “I hope for his mother’s sake, and the sake of his immortal soul, that he’s innocent.”
Adam nodded solemnly as he stood, understanding, no doubt, that her answer meant Probably. “Have you considered leaving your brother to his own devices and trusting in God to sort things out?” he asked Will.
“My brother hasn’t been on speaking terms with the Almighty for quite some time,” Will replied. “I doubt God would trouble Himself.”
“You might be surprised.”
“I might be astounded. In the meantime, that leaves this humble mortal to do the sorting out. And, er...Nell, you might want to come with me. I believe my mother would expect it.”
“Of course.”
Adam took his leave after making arrangements with Will—at Will’s instigation—to meet him in the Revere House barroom Tuesday evening to discuss “this parole business.” She wasn’t sure Will was likely to exercise any real influence, given Adam’s strong feelings about the matter and the warden’s support of it. Hopefully Duncan’s recruitment of Virgil for spying purposes would work against him; perhaps not. Limited though his chances of success were, Nell was touched that Will was making the effort.
“He’s a little sweet on you, I think,” Will said as they walked from the dining room to the hotel lobby.
“Who? Adam? Don’t be silly.”
“He avoids looking at you. It’s a sure sign.”
“He’s an Episcopal clergyman and I’m Irish Catholic.”
“If you think that would keep him from admiring you, you don’t know very much about men and women.”
“Besides,” she said, as casually as she could, “he thinks I’m your mistress.”
“He does?” Will grinned. “I’m flattered.”
“What’s in the envelope?” she asked, wishing she didn’t find his reaction so gratifying.
Will withdrew a sheet of notepaper, unfolded it, and handed it to Nell. “This is what the messenger brought. He was instructed to hand it to no
one but me.”
Will,
You’re just about the last person I want to see, after last night, but...
“What happened last night?” Nell asked. She’d last seen Will around dusk at the edge of Boston Common as she’d escorted Gracie across the street for dinner.
“Just read.” He led her with a hand on her back to the front desk, where he asked the clerk to retrieve his bag from the safe.
...you’re the only one I can ask for help without it getting back to Father. I’m at City Hall, in the office of some detective. They seem to think, “they” meaning two coppers from Salem and the Boston cops who seem to be walking them through this, that I might have had something to do with the death of Bridie and that jailbird she was screwing. They told me you found the bodies, but I’ll be damned if I know how you got mixed up in this.
This matter must be nipped in the bud here and now, before they take it into their heads to arrest me. I cannot, I mean I absolutely CANNOT let the slightest whiff of this get back to the old man, or I’ll be cut off without a fip, and I’m not sure I could survive that.
If you would be so kind as to bring me $1,000 cash (the Salem cops want National bank notes in large denominations) AS SOON AS POSSIBLE so that I can get out of this shit hole and figure out how to come up with the rest without the old man finding out (because $1,000 is just a down payment on what it will take to make this go away) I would be most humbly appreciative.
Will, I know how you feel toward me right now, but they’re telling me I might hang. I am prepared to repay the $1,000, with interest if you so require, but for God’s sake bring it.
H.
Nell refolded the note without comment, but her face must have reflected her thoughts, because Will said, “He has no one else to turn to, Nell. You know my father means to disinherit him the next time he gets in trouble.”
“Do you realize you’ll just be just one more person helping Harry Hewitt to buy his way out of his problems?”
“Do you realize how my mother will take it if yet another son is arrested for murder and threatened with hanging? Thank you,” he said as the clerk handed him a fat, one-handled satchel made of alligator leather.
“That’s a doctor’s bag,” she said as he guided her across the lobby to a secluded corner.
“Don’t read anything into that.” He set the bag on a tea table, retrieved a key ring from inside his coat and unlocked it.
Nell sucked in a breath when she saw the bank notes—stacks and stacks of them, bound with ribbon and string—stuffed into the yawning satchel amid little sacks bulging with coins that looked large enough to be double eagles.
She said, “Your gambling swag, I take it.”
“That’s right.” Will slipped two stacks of bills inside his coat and returned the case to the clerk.
“I didn’t realize you were quite so lucky,” she said as he ushered her out the front door.
“It’s not about luck. It’s about mathematics—and common sense. Anyone who can add and subtract—and knows enough to steer clear of the skin shops—can win just a little bit more often than he loses. And in the long run, that’s all it takes.”
They went out to the sidewalk to search for hacks among the private carriages and horse cars rattling in and out of Bowdoin Square. It was getting dark; most of the carriages had their lanterns lit.
“You must harbor some doubts about Harry,” Nell said. “Do you intend to just help him to squirm out of this predicament and then completely forget the possibility that he may have murdered two people in cold blood?”
“Do you think I could do that?”
“No.”
Will looked at her for second, seemingly gratified by her answer. “Thank you.” He stepped into the street, arm raised. A little maroon cabriolet pulled over. “I mean to satisfy myself as to his guilt or innocence. In the meantime, I see no reason my mother should have to find out that he’s being questioned about these murders. City Hall,” he told the driver.
“You do care about her,” Nell said as he helped her into the open carriage. “I realized it last winter when you told your father he should put in an elevator for her.”
“I should have known he’d react as he did.” Will settled in across from her as the driver guided the little cab into the street. “He loathes new inventions—except for those that increase his profit margin.”
“He’s making inquiries, actually, about the elevator.”
“You’re joking.”
Nell shook her head. “An engineer came to the house a few weeks ago and drew up plans. I think your father might actually put one in.”
“The steam kind?”
“No, it has a sort of pulley system, like a big dumbwaiter.”
“Still...”
Nell smiled. “Yes, still...”
Chapter 16
“What the hell is she doing here?” greeted Harry as Nell and Will entered Detective Colin Cook’s office at the Boston City Hall.
It was a much finer office than the cluttered little cranny Cook had occupied at the station house on Williams Court. There were papers and books strewn about, to be sure, and the walls were papered with Wanted notices and crime scene pictures, as at Williams Court, but the room was twice as large and had windows on two sides, open to let the cool night air dispel the smoke from Harry’s cigar.
He sat—or rather, lounged—behind Cook’s desk, a glass and a bottle of whiskey in front of him, staring in disgust at Nell. Nell stared back, startled to find his nose heavily bandaged and an eye blackened. Two middle-aged men—immediately recognizable as constables despite their civilian sack suits—occupied the two chairs facing the desk, while Cook himself sat perched on the edge of a big filing chest, a dainty tea cup cradled in his massive bear’s paw of a hand.
Big Irishman...giant head. That was Colin Cook.
All the men except Harry rose to their feet when Nell joined them; Harry just glared and puffed on his cigar.
Detective Cook bowed to her. “Miss Sweeney,” he said in his faded but dense-chested brogue. “Always a pleasure. And Dr. Hewitt... Let’s see, last time I saw you, you were in a holding cell, covered in blood and filth.”
“I’ve had a change of clothes since then.”
“They suit you.”
“Christ, Will.” Harry gestured with his cigar toward Nell. “Did you have to bring along that goddamn—“
“You’ll watch your mouth in front of the lady,” warned Cook, “or I’ll give you a shiner to match the one you got. I don’t care what your name is.”
Nell expected Will to ask Cook if his men were responsible for Harry’s injuries. He didn’t, merely tossed the two packs of bills on the desk in front of his brother.
Harry picked them up and handed one to each of the Salem cops without even looking at them. Bracing himself to rise, he said, “I take it I’m free to go?”
They told him they were done with him for now, thanked Detective Cook for the cooperation of the Boston Police, and took their leave. Harry crushed out his cigar and stood. As he was reaching for his homburg and scarf on the coat tree in the corner, Will said quietly, “I’d like a word with you before you go.”
“Look...” Harry lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’ll pay you back as soon as the cards start falling my—“
“It’s not about the money.” Glancing toward Nell and Cook, Will said, “I wonder if you’d mind...?”
“Not at all.” Cook escorted Nell out into the central, high-ceilinged clerical area and shut the door, the upper half of which was glass hung with open blinds, like the door of Harry’s office at the mill; she couldn’t hear the two men inside the office, but she could see them. Harry sat down and poured himself another whiskey with a here-we-go-again expression. He offered some to Will, who shook his head. Will said something; his brother smirked.
“He’s a bad egg, that one,” Cook said.
“What happened to his face?” Nell asked.
“I know what you�
�re thinking, but I’ll have you to know he came to us that way. Even those Salem yokels aren’t dumb enough to start whalin’ away on a Hewitt. What he told us was, he had a little too much absinthe and took a spill.”
“Did he, now.”
“That’s a lot of green that just changed hands there,” Cook said. “I wouldn’t have expected a right-thinking, churchgoing lass like yourself to be a party to such shenanigans.”
“I’m more of a grudging witness than a party.”
Will was leaning over his brother, both arms braced on the desk, speaking intently, while Harry stared straight ahead, his whiskey untouched.
“Then we’re in the same boat, me and you,” Cook said. “I’m supposed to be showin’ them jackanapes the ropes, on account of neither one of them’s ever investigated a murder before. Only they don’t want my advice, they just want an office where they can conduct such business as you and me just bore witness to in there.”
Nell said, “Please, Detective, don’t try to pretend that you’re above taking graft. I know better, remember?”
Cook shrugged, swallowed the last of his tea. “And what would you do, Miss Sweeney, if they paid you peanuts, but there’s folks throwin’ money at you from all angles, and you’ve got a sweet little wife who deserves to live someplace other than a Fort Hill hovel and cook up something a little better than dried peas and potatoes once in a while? Yeah, there’s a few stray shinplasters end up in my pockets now and then, but, see, there’s so much of it here in Boston that I can turn it down when I’ve a mind to. Them boys from Salem, they’ve never had nobody offer ‘em the kind of cabbage Harry Hewitt’s offerin’, and they ain’t about to say nay to it.”
“You turn it down sometimes?” she asked skeptically.
“Some of these miscreants—“ he glanced through the door at Harry “—they’re just begging to get what’s coming to ‘em.” He shook his head. “Two young folks like that, layin’ out there dead for God knows how long, the girl strangled and...who knows what else. But...” He lifted his thick shoulders. “It’s not my case. Not even my jurisdiction.”