by P. B. Ryan
He swallowed the last of his tea and gestured with the empty cup. “Would you care for some? I drink gallons every night. Only thing that keeps me going till my shift’s over.”
“No, thanks—I just had two cups of coffee. Is this your regular shift?”
He nodded as he refilled his cup from a pot sitting on top of a little stove. “Four to midnight, later if there’s anything afoot. Many’s the shift I’ve eaten breakfast at my desk. Low man on the totem pole, don’t you know, and a mick to boot, so I’ll probably be the night man till the Second Coming. The weekend man, too, ‘cause they’ve got me workin’ Saturdays and Sundays.”
“You must get days off, though.”
“Mondays and Tuesdays, but it’s not the same.”
The office door slammed open. Harry stalked out without a word, his battered face darkly flushed, his expression that of a surly adolescent who’s been forced to sit through a dressing-down.
Will stood in the doorway rubbing the back of his neck as he watched his brother leave. “Were you there the whole time they were questioning my brother?” he asked Cook.
The detective nodded. “Strictly as an observer. Nobody was much interested in what I had to say.”
“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Not at all.” Cook invited them back into his office and gestured them into the chairs facing his desk. “Hitchcock!” he called.
A young uniformed cop appeared at the door. “Detective?”
Cook held out the whiskey bottle and glass. “Take these back to where you got ‘em. Can’t stand the smell of the stuff, not since I gave it up. And close the door on your way out, would you?” When they were alone, he asked Will, “What is it you want to know, then?”
“Did they actually interrogate him, or was it a complete farce?”
“Well, they started out pretty serious—had to put the fear of God in him, don’t you know—but after about five minutes of that, your brother started making offers. Once they agreed on a price, they treated him like the Prince of Wales.”
“Did they ask him about the scarf?”
“First thing. He told ‘em it went missing from his office recently—he’s not sure when, ‘cause he didn’t notice it right away. Said he assumed Bridie Sullivan stole it, on account of she’d always admired it.”
“Pretty convenient,” Nell said.
“They asked him about his comings and goings over the past week or so,” Cook said. “Not that it matters much, seeing as how nobody knows when those two were done in. That was about it, I guess. Not much in the way of an interrogation.”
Nell asked, “Are they allowed to just stop investigating a case without solving it?”
“They’re calling it a murder-suicide,” Cook said. “The official story’s gonna be that Virgil Hines strangled her out of jealousy over Harry Hewitt, then realized what he done and drowned himself.”
“Drowned himself,” Will said.
“In a foot of water?” Nell asked.
Cook shrugged. “I seen a drunk drown in a rain puddle.”
“Because he passed out,” Nell said. “A man can’t commit suicide by lying facedown in a shallow stream.”
“Won’t there be a coroner’s inquest?” Will asked.
“Nah. Why would they want the coroner involved, and post-mortems, and folks asking all kinds of prickly questions?”
“It isn’t routine in suspicious cases?” Nell asked.
“It is in Boston,” Cook said. “And probably in Salem, too, unless the right palms are greased. All’s they have to say is that it’s an open and shut case and autopsies would just prove what they already know. Saves the city of Salem the cost of hiring a surgeon to cut those two open.”
Will scrubbed his hands over his face, muttering something under his breath.
Detective Cook sat back and folded his arms, his chair squealing rustily as it swiveled back and forth. “You’re a curious family, you Hewitts. First you get pinched for murder, and your old man moves heaven and earth to make sure you swing. Now it’s your brother that’s facing a murder charge—two murder charges—and he buys his way out of that mess, with your help, mind you, only to have you boo-hoo’in ‘cause he’s getting off.
“Dr. Hewitt doesn’t think his brother did it,” Nell said. “He thinks Harry just paid off those cops to avoid trouble with his father, and that an autopsy might help to prove that it wasn’t him.”
“How so?” Cook asked.
Will said, “The scarf around Bridie’s neck was knotted rather than twisted, and it didn’t leave much of a ligature mark. Also, if you were of a mind to murder somebody, would you do it with a weapon that was undeniably yours, and leave it around the victim’s throat for the police to find? It’s too obvious, absurdly so.”
“You think he was set up?” Cook asked.
“I think it’s a possibility, and if that’s the case, I want to clear my brother’s name for real.”
And, of course, he wanted to know in his heart that Harry wasn’t guilty of such a heinous crime—not just for his sake and Harry’s, but perhaps his mother’s as well—but William Hewitt was hardly the type to so casually bare his soul.
“I wouldn’t draw too many conclusions about that scarf being left behind,” Cook said. “You’d be surprised, the boneheaded things some criminals do, especially the amateurs—and especially when they’re under the influence. Your brother’s absinthe habit is no secret in this town, Dr. Hewitt. As for the ligature, they don’t always leave obvious external marks.”
“I know,” Will said, “but an autopsy would show signs of strangulation. Or it might reveal how she was really killed.”
“What if it helps to point the finger at your brother?” Cook asked. “What then?”
“I suppose I’ll have to address that problem when it arises—but I don’t think it will.”
Cook scratched his great jutting boulder of a chin. “Do you share Dr. Hewitt’s opinions on the matter, Miss Sweeney?”
“I’m as eager as he is to uncover the truth,” she said, diplomatically omitting the fact that her working theory—Harry strangling Bridie and killing Virgil when he tried to intervene—wasn’t quite the same as Will’s.
Detective Cook twirled back and forth for a minute as he sipped his tea. “Like I said, those Salem cops nixed the idea of autopsies when they took that money from your brother. But before they knew how it was gonna play out, they went to the trouble of asking the families to sign letters of consent for post-mortems.”
Will sat up straighter in his chair. “Did they sign them?”
“Virgil Hines’s folks did—anything to clear their son of the murder-suicide stigma, even posthumously. But the Fallons—the dead girl’s folks?—they were another story. Didn’t want their daughter’s body cut up just to prove that Hines was the no-good, vicious brute they always thought he was.”
“Just hypothetically,” Will began, “what if the families insisted on autopsies? What if they both signed the consent letters and provided their own surgeon?”
Cook sipped his tea thoughtfully. “Surgeons don’t come cheap.”
Will said, “What if one volunteered his services? What would he have to do to get access to the bodies?”
Nell turned to look at Will.
Detective Cook smiled slowly. “They’re at a private mortuary in Salem. You’d—the surgeon—he’d have to bring the letters of consent, and then they’d let him at it, I suppose.”
“These letters,” Nell said. “How are they worded?”
“You mean could you write them up yourselves?” Cook shook his head. “Sorry. They’ve got to be issued by the City of Salem, in the right clerk’s handwriting, with the city seal on the bottom. And signed by the next of kin, of course. No mortuary employee would settle for anything else.”
Will slumped back in his chair, cursing under his breath.
“And the thing is,” Cook said, “when those Salem cops worked their deal with your brot
her, they threw out them letters, figuring they wouldn’t need them anymore.” He raised his teacup to his mouth and drained it in a leisurely but thorough manner.
Nell and Will both looked toward the wastepaper basket next to the detective’s desk, a few inches from Will’s feet.
“Course, it’d be worth my job to let such documents fall into the hands of mere civilians—and I like my job. Oh, lookit this.” Cook tilted his cup to show them its empty interior. “Time for another refill. Can I bring some back for either of you?” he asked as he rose and circled his desk.
“Er, no,” Will answered. “We’ve got to be on our way fairly soon.”
“I’ll just be a minute, then.” Cook paused a moment to shut the blinds on his door before leaving.
The moment the door clicked shut, Will dragged the wastebasket toward him and started rummaging through it. “Here, open these.” He dropped a handful of crumpled papers in Nell’s lap and emptied the rest onto his own. They worked swiftly, flattening out paper after paper until at last Nell saw the glimmer of a gold seal imprinted with the words SALEM, MASSACHUSETTS. “Will—I think this is it.”
It was two sheets crushed up together, both neatly inked on engraved vellum bearing the heading Consent for Post-mortem Examination of Human Remains. The letter granting permission for Virgil’s autopsy was signed Clement Hines. That for Bridie was unsigned.
The doorknob rattled.
Nell folded up the letters and stuffed them in her chatelaine as Will returned the wastebasket to its former position. They both stood as Colin Cook reentered the room.
“Setting off now, are you?” the detective asked.
“Yes, you’ve been most helpful.” Will said as he held out his hand. “If there’s ever anything I can do for you, you mustn’t hesitate to ask.”
“Just let me know how it all turns out,” Cook said. “I hope you’re right about your brother’s innocence—for your sake, not his. My gut tells me nothing’s gonna save that one in the long run.”
“It won’t be because I didn’t try,” Will said.
* * *
“What happened to Harry’s face?” Nell asked Will as they stood beneath a street lamp in front of City Hall trying to hail another hack.
“He said it was a mishap resulting from an overindulgence in absinthe.” Will stepped off the curb to scrutinize the approaching vehicles.
“Because that’s what you told him to say. You did that to him. You went to see him last night and... Was it an actual fistfight, or...?”
He sighed, his back to her. “Not a fair one, I suppose. Harry’s not very good at that sort of thing. Another gap in his tutelage for which I am ultimately responsible.”
She waited.
Presently he turned to face her, his expression grave. “Some lessons need to be seared in place with pain. It’s the only way some people can learn.”
“You were punishing him for what he did to me?”
“How could I not?” He looked down, rubbed his neck, met her gaze. “I, uh, I told him I’ll break both his arms if he ever touches you again, or threatens to. A compound fracture of each radius. Not too much effort on my part if I have a good club or mallet or some such, but the experience would be memorable, I should think.”
“Yes, I should think it would.”
He spied a hack then, and flagged it down. Nell smiled as he handed her into it.
Chapter 17
“Finally,” Nell muttered when the steeple bells started pealing, signaling the end of Mass. She and Will had been killing time on the front steps of Charlestown’s Immaculate Conception Church for over half an hour, waiting for Bridie Sullivan’s parents, who worshipped here, to step outside.
This was the first time since Nell had come to work for the Hewitts that she’d had the middle of a Sunday morning to herself. Her usual practice was to attend the six o’clock Mass at St. Stephen’s, then watch Gracie while Nurse Parrish went to King’s Chapel with the Hewitts, after which she was left to her own devices. But last night, after returning home from City Hall, she’d asked Viola for the entire day off, explaining that she had the opportunity to uncover new information about the death of Bridie Sullivan. Horrified by the double murder, and eager to provide Bridie’s mother with any information she could, Viola had readily agreed.
Nell had attended early Mass as usual this morning, having arranged to meet Will afterward for their drive north through Charlestown to Salem. But as she was returning to her seat after receiving Communion, she noticed him sitting in the very last pew in his ubiquitous black coat and vest, his low-crowned stovepipe on his lap, quietly taking in the proceedings. He’d smiled at her, but she’d been too rattled by his presence there to smile back.
“Here they come,” Will said as the front door of the modest brick church swung open. Parishioners filed out into the morning sunshine, all in their Sunday best, be it silk frocks and morning coats or patched calico and freshly boiled shirts. “You don’t see them?” he asked as the procession started to thin; having met the Fallons, it was up to Nell to point them out.
She shook her head, wondering where they would be at this hour on a Sunday morning, if not at Mass—although it had been less than twenty-four hours since the discovery of their daughter’s body.
“Perhaps,” Nell said, “Mrs. Fallon was too distraught to come to...” A familiar face appeared among the departing congregants—two familiar faces, although they weren’t those of the Fallons. They were young and flaxen-haired, the woman petite, the man big and slow-moving. “Evie?” Nell called out. What was the brother’s name? Ah, yes... “Luther?”
Evie stared at Nell for a moment before recognition lit her eyes. She approached tentatively, her brother hovering over her like a pet bear. “You’re the artist lady from the mill.”
“That’s right—Nell Sweeney.” Nell introduced the siblings to Will, who lifted his hat and bowed to Evie while uttering some pleasantry. She looked away, her throat reddening, as if this were the first time a man had ever greeted her properly, which perhaps it was.
Luther stared at Will, slack-jawed. “You talk funny.”
Will responded as cordially as if he were conducting small talk at a dinner party. “I was brought up in England.”
“Is that near Boston?”
“Afraid not, no.”
Nell said, “Evie, do you happen to know what Mr. and Mrs. Fallon look like? Bridie Sullivan’s parents,” she added.
“I know who they are,” Evie said. “The mother, she came to the mill after Bridie was fired, askin’ about her. Terrible, what happened. Father Dunne told us at the beginning of Mass.”
“Bridie’s dead,” Luther said.
“Hush, Luther,” his sister murmured. “We all know that.”
“She was a bad girl.”
“I said hush,” Evie repeated, a little more stridently. “Don’t speak ill of the dead.”
“Did you notice whether they were in church this morning?” Nell asked.
“Oh, sure. Mrs. Fallon, she’s there every week. Mr. Fallon, too, usually. They both came today.”
“Do you have any idea where they are now?” Nell asked.
“I seen ‘em headin’ into Father Dunne’s office after Mass, with some fella. Someone said they was meeting with Father to plan the funeral, and that the other fella was Bridie’s husband, but...”
“But what?”
“That can’t be...can it? She never wore no wedding ring, and she was... She sure didn’t act married.”
“Good riddance...” Luther shook his big head like a horse trying to loosen its bit. “Bridie was bad.”
Evie opened her mouth to chastise him, but before she could, Will asked, “Why do you say that, Luther?”
Luther looked at his sister, then at Will, and then he started scratching his big, unkempt head. “Couple reasons...”
“What’s one?”
“She was tryin’ to make Mr. Harry give her money.”
“Evie told you ab
out the blackmail?” Nell asked.
Evie said, “He don’t know that word.”
“It’s like stealin’, to make somebody give you money,” Luther said.
“What was the other reason Bridie was bad?” Nell asked him.
He ducked his head. “I’m not s’posed to say.”
Nell said, “Was it because of...what she did with men?”
“That’s right,” Evie said. “But he don’t understand—“
“Not them others, just Mr. Harry,” Luther said. “It’s what she done with Mr. Harry, ‘cause him an’ Evie’s fixin’ to get hitched.”
Evie blushed violently, her eyes like silver dollars. “Luther!” She slapped his arm. “Why would you say that?” She wouldn’t meet Nell’s gaze, or Will’s. “He don’t know what he’s sayin’. He’s simple. Been that way since—“
“Am not!” Luther exclaimed. “And I do so know what I’m sayin’. You said yourself you and him was gonna get—”
“I didn’t mean it,” Evie said, her chin quivering, her too-bright eyes flitting between Nell and Will. “Dog-gonnit, Luther...”
“You said ‘good riddance’ when Father said they found Bridie dead. You whispered it, but I heard you.”
“I did not!” Evie gasped, her eyes shimmering.
“You did so. I know what that means, ‘good riddance.’ It means you’re glad she’s—”
“You just hush!” Evie grabbed a fistful of her brother’s coat sleeve and started tugging him away. “We got to go. He don’t know what he’s sayin’. He makes stuff up sometimes.”
They left quickly, little Evie hauling the big man behind her like a child walking some huge, lumbering pet, Luther whining all the while.
“An unrequited infatuation?” Will asked as he and Nell watched them disappear around the corner.
“Apparently. She gets teased about it at the mill. It upsets Luther. He seems to be very protective of her. He almost killed a man last year for being rude to her.”
“My word.” Will’s gaze shifted. “Nell... Is that them?”
Nell turned to see Mr. and Mrs. Fallon and a brawny young man with a shock of thick, sandy hair—Bridie’s husband Jimmy Sullivan, presumably—coming down the church’s front walk. “That’s them.” Except for Mrs. Fallon’s hat—an old-fashioned black coal-scuttle bonnet—the couple appeared to be wearing the same clothes they’d worn for their audience with Viola last week, dyed black. Mrs. Fallon’s eyes were glazed, her nose bright red. “This won’t be easy,” Nell murmured.