“You are not forgetting Wednesday evening,” he cautioned, referring to her dinner party.
For a moment it was obvious that she had done exactly that.
“Oh—no, of course not. I have things fairly well in hand, and even if Agatha does stay until tomorrow, that is only Tuesday. Will you come to the Bower with me, Addington?”
“I would prefer not to.”
She accepted the rebuff with only a slight tightening of her lips. “Doctor?”
“Well, I—Yes, of course.”
MacKenzie sighed to himself. He’d become accustomed to a nap after lunch. But now Caroline Ames, for whom he had come to have feelings that went far beyond casual friendship, was asking him for help. He could not possibly refuse her.
“Good,” she replied. “We will go at once.”
Since it was obvious that nothing would deter her, Ames threw up his hands and set off in the rain once more to find them a cab. Shortly they heard the horse’s hooves on the cobblestones outside, and Caroline and the doctor, stoutly protected against the weather with waterproofs, galoshes, and her capacious umbrella, bade Ames good-bye.
He stood at the parlor window and watched through the lavender glass as the narrow black cab wobbled its way to the end of the square and turned down Pinckney Street. It was early afternoon but already growing dark. What state Agatha Montgomery would be in—or what tale of horror Caroline would bring back to him—he could only imagine.
It was a bad business, this murder. Nothing for a lady like Caroline Ames to be involved in.
In the cab, Mackenzie glanced at his companion. Beneath the brim of her dark gray bonnet, her face was strained and pale. Her hands in their black kid gloves were clenched in her lap, and although her gaze was directed toward the passing row upon row of redbrick and brownstone town houses that lined the streets, he doubted that she saw them. He cast about for some comforting thing to say to her, but he could think of nothing. For the time being she was estranged from him, and he acknowledged to himself that the very fact of her concern for her friend was part of the reason he had come to care for her: She was a woman of tender sensibilities, kindness and goodness personified, just as all women were supposed to be but were not.
Soon they crossed over the Boston & Providence railroad tracks and passed into the South End. This was a district much like the Back Bay and built around the same time, thirty-odd years before, but as it was literally on the wrong side of the tracks, it had quickly fallen into shabby disrepair. Its handsome buildings had been cut up into apartments, and, worse, single rooms for rent; many of them had deteriorated through years of neglect. As the cab rolled by, MacKenzie saw more than a few disreputable-looking characters who would never have ventured onto Commonwealth Avenue or Beacon Street or the Ameses’ place, Louisburg Square. But he noted, too, a number of churches. There must be some kind of faithful flock existing hereabouts, he thought.
Bertram’s Bower, on Rutland Square, was one of a number of matching brownstones that curved around a small oval “square,” a kind of miniature Louisburg Square. Here MacKenzie could see that some effort had been made to keep property values up: The high iron fence that encircled the little oval was intact and free of rust, the brass door knockers on the houses were brightly polished, the doors themselves freshly painted. Someone—Agatha Montgomery?—had seen to it that this little enclave, at least, would not succumb to decay.
They alighted, MacKenzie paid the driver, and sheltered by Caroline’s umbrella they mounted the tall flight of steps to the Bower’s door. He lifted the knocker and brought it down sharply twice.
It was opened by a frightened-looking young woman in a white bib apron over a plain dark dress.
“Yes, sir?”
“Hello, Nora,” Caroline said.
“Oh! Miss Ames! I didn’t—” She broke off, obviously embarrassed.
“Is Miss Montgomery in?” Caroline asked. She smiled at the girl, whom she knew from her embroidery class.
Nora hesitated. “No, miss,” she said, not meeting Caroline’s eyes.
“You mean, she is, but not to visitors?” Caroline said gently.
Nora nodded.
“Well, I imagine she will be in to me—to us,” she corrected herself.
Nora’s eyes slid unhappily to MacKenzie.
“This is Dr. MacKenzie,” Caroline added. Standing on the stoop, they were getting thoroughly wet, and with a graceful gesture that waved the girl aside, she stepped into the vestibule, and MacKenzie, shaking out the umbrella, followed.
“Oh, but, miss—” Nora began, looking more frightened than ever.
“Never mind, dear,” Caroline said. “I’m sure Miss Montgomery will see us.”
She moved into the dim, bleak front hall, MacKenzie close behind. Two meager gas jets on the wall by the stairs provided the only illumination, hardly sufficient on this dark day. The place had an institutional smell: a combination of cooking odors, strong lye soap, and an indefinable smell that was the odor of many human bodies crowded together. But it was oddly silent, he thought. Surely now, at mid-afternoon, a place like this should be buzzing with activity? Or perhaps not; perhaps the girls were at their classes, and the noise and chatter would come later, when they were released.
“I will just go and see—” Caroline began, when suddenly, from the back of the hall, a woman appeared. She was middle-aged, of middling height, with a mannish look to her—broad shoulders, short, thick neck, and a coarse-featured face.
“I told you not to admit anyone!” she snapped, addressing the now thoroughly cowed Nora. Then, seeing Caroline, she caught herself. “Miss Ames,” she said, but hardly in a welcoming tone.
“Matron Pratt,” Caroline replied easily. “I have come to see Miss Montgomery. This is my friend, Dr. MacKenzie.”
As Matron Pratt flicked her cold gaze over him and instantly dismissed him, his greeting died on his lips.
“She’s not in,” Matron said.
“She isn’t? Oh, dear, I am sorry.”
Just then they were aware of a movement at the top of the long, narrow flight of stairs. A young woman—another resident of the place, obviously—had started down, but when she saw Matron Pratt, she stopped.
“One demerit, Slattery!” snapped the matron.
“But I was just—”
“Back to your class! Or I’ll give you two!”
Stifling a sob, the girl retreated.
Caroline tried again. “Mrs. Pratt, I know what a difficult time this must be for you, but I wanted to see Agatha, just for a moment.”
“She’s not fit to see anyone, Miss Ames.”
“So she is here?”
“Yes.” Matron Pratt’s cold gray eyes never wavered as she met Caroline’s anxious gaze. “But she’s in no condition to see you. The police have been all over the place, all morning. I swan, I don’t know how we are supposed to get on with our business here, with them poking and prying.”
“Yes,” murmured Caroline, aware that Nora was edging away from them toward the stairs. “But if she could see us, even for a moment—”
“Cromarty!” snarled Matron Pratt. “You were told not to allow anyone in! Two demerits!”
Nora stared at her, appalled. “But, Matron—”
“You heard what I said! Get back to class now, or I’ll make it three!”
As Nora scrambled up the stairs, they saw a female coming down, and this time she did not flinch and flee at the sight of Matron Pratt.
“Agatha!” Caroline exclaimed, relieved to see her friend at last.
The proprietress of Bertram’s Bower peered down at them, squinting a little, as if she could not see clearly. She moved aside to let the luckless Nora pass, and then descended slowly, clinging to the banister; once she seemed to stagger, but she caught herself before she fell.
“Oh, Agatha! I came as soon as I heard the news.” As Miss Montgomery reached the bottom of the stairs, Caroline seized her hands. “And I have brought my friend, Dr. MacKenzie,�
� she added.
He advanced and held out his hand. Miss Montgomery did not seem to see him at first, but then she took his hand—hers was icy cold—and mumbled a greeting.
She was as plain a woman as he had ever seen, with graying hair parted in the middle and pulled back severely into a knot. Her face was long and rather equine, with a prognathous jaw and thin lips; her complexion was muddy, and her eyes were a watery color that he could not put a name to.
He chided himself: This was not some would-be debutante, but a woman in severe distress whose looks hardly mattered. And so he spoke to her gently, and said he hoped they were not intruding.
She did not seem to understand him. Shock, he thought; shock and stress, and very little sleep last night, more than likely.
Matron Pratt hadn’t moved, but her rather threatening presence did not deter Caroline.
“Dear Agatha,” she said, “can we not sit someplace and talk for a bit? I could use a cup of tea, and—”
Suddenly Miss Montgomery came back to them. “You must pardon me, Caroline,” she said with an attempt at a smile. “I—we—have been—most upset.”
“Of course you have,” Caroline replied warmly. “I came as soon as I heard the news. I could hardly believe it.”
“Come,” said Miss Montgomery, “we will go into my private room. And, yes, tea is a good idea. Matron, would you have one of the girls bring us a tray?”
Glowering, Matron Pratt pinched her mouth into an even tighter line than before. “You should rest,” she said. MacKenzie wondered at her tone: Was she in the habit of ordering Miss Montgomery about?
“I have done that,” Miss Montgomery replied. “And now I will take tea with Miss Ames. And her friend,” she added.
She led them past a door labeled Office and back along the hall. At the end was an arched doorway that gave onto a good-sized dining room, empty now, the long tables laid with places for the next meal. Opposite was an unmarked door, which Miss Montgomery opened.
“Oh!” She stopped short, nearly causing Caroline to collide with her. Then she advanced slowly into the room—a small, chilly parlor—and Caroline and MacKenzie followed.
A young woman had risen from a chair by the window. She was of medium height, plain—homely, even, and with her eyes reddened by weeping. In her dark dress and white apron, she was obviously a resident of the Bower. Caroline recognized her, in fact, as one of the girls in her Thursday afternoon sewing class. She nodded at Caroline, but she addressed herself to Miss Montgomery.
“Excuse me, miss,” she began. “I know I shouldn’t be here—”
“No, Brown, you certainly should not,” Agatha Montgomery replied grimly. “Whatever are you thinking of?”
“I’m thinkin’ of Mary, miss.”
They were—had been—roommates, Caroline remembered.
“We are all thinking of Mary,” Miss Montgomery replied a little more gently. “But you should not be breaking the rules—”
“I just wanted a word with you, miss.”
Caroline knew this girl, Bridget Brown, as dutiful and humble, the way Bower girls were supposed to be, and never one to make trouble. She was amazed that Bridget had the gumption to stand up to Agatha Montgomery like this.
“As you see, I am occupied just now,” Miss Montgomery said. “So go back to your class, and if Matron sees you and tries to give you a demerit, tell her I said you were to be let off this once.”
But Bridget was not so easily disposed of. “I need to speak to you, miss,” she said. Although her eyes were cast down in a properly subservient attitude, her voice was steady and determined.
The proprietress of the Bower stared at her for a moment as if she were weighing something in her mind. Then: “You may come to see me before supper,” she said. “But for now, you must return to your class.”
Uncomfortably aware that she, too, was probably breaking one or another of the Bower’s many rules, Caroline stepped forward and put her arm around the girl to lead her away. “Dear Bridget,” she murmured, “this is a terribly difficult time for you. I came here today to see if I could do anything to help Miss Montgomery”—they were in the hall now, and walking toward the stairs—“but if I can do anything for you, as well, or for any of the girls here, you must let me know.”
Bridget stopped and stepped away from her to face her. “I don’t know how I could do that, Miss Ames, seein’ as how we aren’t allowed to use the telephone.” She nodded toward the instrument on the wall by the office door.
An indisputable point. “What did you want to ask Miss Montgomery?” Caroline said.
Bridget bit her lip. Then: “I wanted to ask her—somethin’.” Bridget’s eyes flashed up at Caroline; then she looked down again.
Something private, obviously. Caroline didn’t know the girl well enough to press her further.
“All right, Bridget. As she told you, you may speak to her later. But before you go back to class, I want you to promise me that you won’t leave the Bower until the police catch the man who—who killed Mary.”
Bridget had gone very pale. “You mean, because he might get me too?”
“Yes. That is exactly what I mean.” Caroline did not want to frighten Bridget more than she was already frightened, but she felt it was necessary to speak so, to keep her safe. “He might get any of you,” she added. “So you must stay here. Will you promise me that?”
“Can’t stay in all the time, Miss Ames. You could go crazy, stayin’ in this place.”
“Well, then, promise that you will go out only in the daytime—and not alone! You must always go with one or two other girls.”
Bridget gave her a last, imploring look. She was crying again. Caroline thought she was about to say something more, but then, without replying—without promising what Caroline had asked of her—she turned and ran up the stairs. Poor thing, Caroline thought. She is grieving for her friend, and neither Agatha nor I can be of much help to her.
Agatha Montgomery’s parlor was furnished in what looked like cast-off items—probably from some of the same benefactors who supported the place, Caroline thought as she rejoined the other two. Miss Montgomery motioned her visitors to sit on a worn horsehair sofa, while she took a wooden rocking chair.
“I apologize for that intrusion,” she said. “Thank you, Caroline, for dealing with her. It was good of you to come. In my experience,” she added with some bitterness, “people often turn away at the first sign of trouble.”
“Dear Agatha, can you talk about it at all?” Caroline said gently.
Miss Montgomery shook her head. “It is very hard,” she said, and they heard the catch in her voice.
“Yes. I know it is. But if you could—”
A rap on the door, and a girl came in bearing a tray. No hot-water jug, Caroline noted; the tea was already brewing in the pot, then. When Miss Montgomery did not move to pour, she rose and did so herself.
“Here,” she said, handing a cup to her friend. “This will do you good.”
Miss Montgomery took a few sips of the steaming brew and then, seeming somewhat revived, set her cup and saucer back onto the tray.
“You knew Mary,” she said.
“A little. She was always in the office, so I didn’t see her much. A slightly built girl, with brown hair and a pretty Irish face?”
“Yes.” Miss Montgomery grimaced as if she were in pain. “Yes, she was pretty. And very slight indeed—seriously underweight—when we took her in. In fact, she was near death. She had pleurisy, and she could not draw a breath without agony. Under our care, and with Dr. Hannah’s help, she revived.”
“Dear Dr. Hannah,” breathed Caroline.
“But even as sick as she was, I could see right away that she was different from the others,” Miss Montgomery went on. She paused to take a handkerchief from her cuff and dab at her watery eyes. “She was really quite bright, and surprisingly well spoken. She was about nineteen or twenty, but she seemed younger—hardly more than a child.”
&
nbsp; “And so after she had stayed her three months—” Caroline prompted.
“I asked her to stay on, to be my secretary. I had been managing without one, but the work never lets up, and I really thought I could not go on unless I had help. I asked Randolph about it, of course, because he oversees the budget and I needed his permission to pay Mary a small salary. It wasn’t much—not nearly what she was worth.” Miss Montgomery paused again and thought for a moment, lost in her memories.
Then she went on. “Eventually, Randolph came to see what a good investment it was. He even came to the point of offering to buy us a typewriting machine. All the most forward-looking businesses use them, and she was eager to learn. He’d bought her an instruction manual, and she was studying it. Oh, she was a wonderful girl! I cannot understand why—”
She broke off, and there was another pause. MacKenzie shifted uncomfortably on the hard sofa. Undoubtedly because of the weather, he thought, his knee had begun to ache.
Miss Montgomery began to speak again. “Last night, even though it was Sunday, Mary said she would work in the office to bring the account books up-to-date. Matron had gone to her regular Sunday evening religious service over on Columbus Avenue—with a Mrs. Mary Baker Eddy, do you know her?—and I was at evening prayers at Trinity Church in Copley Square. Miss Cox had come in to mind the girls, as she does when both Mrs. Pratt and I are out.
“I got back shortly before nine. The house was quiet. I did not see Matron, but I did not expect to because her Sunday evenings generally last until ten. Miss Cox gave her report—all was well, she said—and I said good night to her and she left. All the girls were asleep upstairs—or in their rooms, at any rate. The office was dark, so I assumed that Mary had finished her work and had gone to bed.”
She paused, as if to gather her strength. They waited silently, caught up now in the drama of her story.
She went on: “So, seeing nothing amiss, I went to my room at the top of the house. I never heard Matron come in, and I was asleep when the policeman came. It was Officer Flynn, our neighborhood patrolman.”
MURDER AT BERTRAM'S BOWER Page 2