MURDER AT BERTRAM'S BOWER

by Cynthia Peale

“A visiting Britisher. A fellow who has done some investigating of his own, apparently, into the Whitechapel murders.”

  “Nigel Chadwick,” Ames said.

  “I don’t know his name. They didn’t say. All I know is, that piece is going to cause a commotion. People are going to be upset—even more than they are already. Only last night, one of my men had to rescue a fellow over on Columbus Avenue from a pack of screaming women, claiming he was going to murder one of ’em.”

  “And was he?”

  “Of course not. He was a perfectly respectable fellow, just stopped a girl to ask directions of her, and she became hysterical.”

  “You have ascertained where this man was on the night Mary Flaherty—”

  “Yes, yes, of course. We checked him out. He was with his family in Dorchester, a dozen witnesses to attest to it. But about this newspaper piece, Mr. Ames. We have to move quickly, before the entire city gives way to panic. Not to mention the possibility of copycat crimes. I’ve no doubt we’ll have at least one of those before we’re through if we don’t catch this fellow soon. I have to tell you, I don’t think this business of the note moves us along at all. With all due respect—and I appreciate your help, Mr. Ames, don’t think I do not—but with all due respect, I have a hunch we’re going to resolve this case, and very quickly too. That young Irish fellow at the Bower—”

  “Garrett O’Reilly.”

  Crippen’s eyebrows rose. “You know him?”

  “I know of him, yes. And you told us the Reverend Montgomery brought up his name.”

  “Well, then. There you are.”

  Where are we? thought MacKenzie, struggling to keep his expression free of the dislike he felt for the little police inspector.

  “Look at it this way, Mr. Ames,” Crippen went on. “We have already agreed that whoever put Mary preggers was in all likelihood the one who did her in, isn’t that so? Yes. Now I ask you, who is more likely than that young Irish fellow to—ah—succumb to the temptations all around him in a place like Bertram’s Bower?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And, consequently,” Crippen went on; he was puffed up now, warming to his theme, “if he succumbed, and if he then became frightened of being found out, what was more likely than he’d try to—ah—eliminate the person who could name him as her seducer? And consequently ruin him, hah? The sole support of his widowed mother, isn’t he? Wouldn’t like to be discharged from his place at the Bower, would he? Couldn’t afford to be, in fact. So there you have it. I’m bringing him in anytime now. We’ll soon see what kind of story he makes up to try to defend himself. One thing I’m sure of—he won’t know anything about typewriting machines.”

  Ames stared at the little inspector, his lips pressed together as if to forcibly stop some angry retort from spilling out. Then, quietly: “I would ask you to keep an open mind, Inspector.”

  “Open mind? Of course I have an open mind, Mr. Ames. That’s my job. You’re leaving now? Just stop by my secretary on your way out, will you? Have him make a copy of that note. I’ll put it in the file, even though I can’t see what good it does us. But I thank you for bringing it.”

  Ames looked dreadful, MacKenzie thought—angry, and deeply troubled. They waited for a moment by the secretary’s desk while the young man copied the decoded note, and then they were out in the corridor once more, their footsteps echoing on the worn marble floor. Municipal employees hurried by, including a few young women in dark skirts and high-collared white shirtwaists, with celluloid sleeve protectors over their cuffs. MacKenzie hated to see them. Females who ventured into the working world would inevitably be coarsened by the experience; they belonged at home, Angels of the Hearth, presiding over their proper domestic sphere. Like Caroline Ames.

  “I want to see Delahanty,” Ames muttered. But in Newspaper Row on Washington Street, Delahanty’s office was empty. A note on the door instructed callers to go inside and make themselves at home; Delahanty would be back within the hour. Since there was no time noted, it was impossible to tell how long that would be.

  They had been waiting for only ten minutes or so, however, when Delahanty appeared. At once he apologized for keeping them. “I’ve had the devil of a time with my printer—I needed to go to his plant to make my corrections for the next issue. How are you, Addington? Any news? That was a nice time your sister gave us last night, even though I think that English fellow is off on the wrong tack when he talks about the Ripper coming over here.”

  “Yes, well, listen to this, Desmond.”

  As Ames proceeded to tell his friend of the interview with Inspector Crippen, MacKenzie saw the Irishman’s face, ordinarily cheerful and bright, darken into anger.

  “That man is a pox on the population,” he exclaimed. “It’s always the Irish, isn’t it? We are responsible for every petty theft, every assault, every murder—”

  “Can you get hold of the lad?” Ames interrupted. “Send him a message—either at the Bower or at his home?”

  “Yes. What shall I tell him?”

  “What I told Martin Sweeney—that he must come to me if he has any trouble with the police. You must insist that he do so.”

  Delahanty flushed a little, and he hesitated, biting his lip. He looked almost hostile. “Now, why would a man like yourself, Addington, do a favor for an Irish lad? The Irish being the plague on the city that they are.”

  “Not as much a plague as an incompetent police force. God damn it, Desmond! Do you think all of us are blind bigots?”

  Delahanty shook his head. Suddenly, he seemed embarrassed. “No, I don’t. It is just that—well, I don’t want to see an innocent lad hanged because he happens to have come from the wrong place.”

  “Nor do I. Will you tell him?”

  “Yes.”

  Ames’s face brightened. “Will you come to the St. Botolph for lunch?”

  Delahanty—educated, charming, “literary”—was a member, thanks to Ames’s sponsorship and over the objections of some of the older men.

  “Not today, thanks. But—” Delahanty put out his hand, and Ames took it. “I beg your pardon, Addington,” the Irishman said, his voice a little rough. “I did not mean to—”

  “I know what you meant. Don’t give it another thought. But do get word to that boy that he must come to me for help if necessary.”

  “He might not want to. For a lad like Garrett O’Reilly, Louisburg Square is alien ground.”

  “Nonsense. If his situation grows desperate enough, Louisburg Square will seem a safe haven.”

  It was nearly noon. In the street, boys were crying the early editions of the afternoon newspapers. All their high, shrill voices cut through the dank air like sharp little knives, but the Star’s boys were getting the most business: “Read all about it! Jack the Ripper! Police stymied! Jack the Ripper here in Boston!”

  With a muttered oath, Ames plunged through the crowd, threw down a penny, snatched up a paper, and began to read. MacKenzie, seeing the big black headline—JACK THE RIPPER HERE!!!—did the same. Heedless of the throngs swirling around them, they stood on the sidewalk and read the columns of badly set type that contained the poisonous drippings from Nigel Chadwick’s pen:

  … brutal evisceration … women of the streets … a faceless, nameless terror … a monster who, unsatisfied in London, has come across the sea to prey on the citizens of Boston … the beast will strike again, for his thirst, far from being slaked, only increases with the blood of each new victim … a warning to the gentler sex—do not walk at night, do not venture from the safety of your hearth.…

  “What rot,” muttered Ames. He looked around. All up and down the sidewalk, people were holding the same newspaper, reading, transfixed by Chadwick’s reckless scribblings, glancing up with frightened eyes, murmuring in low voices to their companions, looking about them to see if, even now, the killer stalked them.

  “Crippen was right to be concerned,” MacKenzie remarked as they started to walk. Jostled by the crowd, he bumped into a wom
an absorbed in the Ripper story. She started, threw him a frightened glance, and quickly moved away. Several men nearby glared at him threateningly.

  Ames seized MacKenzie’s arm and shouldered his way through the crowd. They turned up Bromfield Street in search of a herdic.

  “Damn the man for his mischief,” muttered Ames.

  MacKenzie was shaken. He’d seen the look in the men’s eyes—fierce and hungry, hunters’ eyes, eager to seize him and—what? Beat him? Lynch him perhaps? In any case, exercise some rough justice, frustrated that they could not catch the real murderer who now, thanks to the traitorous Nigel Chadwick, had terrified the city and would continue to do so until he—or someone supposed to be him—was caught.

  Jane Cox lived in a threadbare apartment on Phillips Street, on the back, less affluent side of Beacon Hill. She was a small, neat woman whom Caroline knew only slightly, since they did not travel in the same circles. However, they had in common Agatha Montgomery and Bertram’s Bower, and so Caroline was able to dispense with the formalities and get to the point at once.

  “You didn’t see Mary go out last Sunday night?” she said.

  Miss Cox frowned. She sat perched on the edge of a Windsor chair with her hands clasped in her lap. “No. I had the girls in Bible study in the reading room.”

  “Which Mary was not obliged to attend.”

  “No. She had”—Miss Cox’s frown deepened—“extraordinary privileges.”

  “So I understand. So when you came in, she was working in the office.”

  “I did not see her. I saw only that the gas was turned up—the door was ajar—and I assumed she was there.”

  “You did not speak to her?”

  “No.”

  “And nothing unusual happened during the evening?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  Caroline shifted slightly on her chair. Her corset was too tight—it was always too tight—and her head ached after the excitement of the previous evening. Perhaps she should not have come out this morning, but she had been restless after Addington and Dr. MacKenzie left, and she hadn’t wanted to stay in.

  “And after Miss Montgomery returned, you passed the office on your way out, and it was dark?”

  “Yes. I have told all of this to the police, Miss Ames, and I don’t see—”

  “I understand. And I don’t mean to press you, but it is such a dreadful thing for Agatha—Miss Montgomery—to have to bear, and if any of us can be of any help to her at all—”

  “I will not go there again until this man is caught,” Miss Cox said with an air of prim dismissiveness.

  “Oh, but you must! It is very important that all of us stand by her—”

  “And be murdered for our pains?” Miss Cox exclaimed. “We do enough for her as it is. I hardly think that we need put our lives in jeopardy as well. I do not even want to leave here”—with a frightened expression she looked around the small, poorly furnished room—“and walk to Charles Street, never mind going over to the South End. I will not visit the Bower again until they catch this man. No woman is safe on the streets of the city until he is behind bars.”

  Caroline bit back the angry retort that sprang to her lips. People like Jane Cox—she thought of her as a sunshine patriot, a summer soldier—were too infuriating. Coward, she thought as she rose to take her leave. You can stay in this miserable little room for the rest of your life for all I care.

  But as she descended the stairs and came out onto the street, she could not repress the thought that Miss Cox’s sentiments were probably shared by most of the people—the good people of the city—who were connected to Bertram’s Bower. Despite her own efforts of the previous evening, demonstrating her loyalty by inviting Agatha and the reverend to her home, most people would probably take the path of least resistance and turn their backs on Agatha while this terrible trouble persisted. Just as she’d foreseen.

  This afternoon was one of her afternoons to teach at the Bower. Even more than usual, she looked forward to it. She’d speak to Matron Pratt, she thought, and to some of the girls.

  Lunch at the St. Botolph Club on lower Newbury Street was always more or less the same: some kind of soup, cream of pumpkin in season, clam chowder or consommé otherwise; some kind of overdone fish or fowl or meat, wet cod or dried-out chops; soggy vegetables; Boston cream pie or Indian pudding for dessert.

  This day, the dining room hummed with conversation, as it always did, members trading gossip, trading family news and financial information. Ames and MacKenzie could hear the convivial voices as they came into the lobby, and through the open doors they could see the large communal dining table ringed with men.

  Before they could go in, however, someone emerged from the members’ room opposite.

  “Ah! Ames! Have you a moment?”

  It was Edward Boylston, who last night with his wife had attended Caroline’s dinner party.

  “Yes, of course. Doctor, would you wait?”

  MacKenzie said he would, and set about studying the announcement board, where there were often listings of some interest.

  Boylston led the way to a quiet corner. He seemed upset, Ames thought.

  “It’s about the Bower,” Boylston said.

  “What about it?”

  “I had another look at the account books this morning.”

  “And?”

  “And something doesn’t add up. I’ve had my suspicions for some time now, but—”

  “How do you mean?”

  “David Fairbrother told me last week what he’d given to the Bower in December. And on Monday, Harry Venn said he’d given—well, quite a large amount. But the books don’t show it. They show something from both those men, but not the right amount.”

  “You assume they were telling you the truth?”

  “Of course. Why would they lie?”

  Ames shook his head. “No reason. What do you propose to do about it?”

  “I don’t know. I had planned to speak to the reverend, since he does the fund-raising, but in view of the trouble they have just now—”

  “Yes. I understand. Well, perhaps you’d better wait until the police make an arrest in the murders.”

  But this did not satisfy Boylston; he seemed to want to say something more.

  “You know the police, Ames.”

  “Some of them, yes.”

  “And your cousin—”

  “Yes. Sits on the board of commissioners.”

  “I’ve never had much to do with the police myself, thank heaven. So I didn’t know—You see, Ames, I am wondering if this—ah—irregularity in the books has to do with that girl’s murder.”

  “Which one?”

  “The first one—Mary Flaherty.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, she worked in the office, didn’t she? I used to see her there myself. She had access to the account books. What if she spotted something wrong and spoke about it to someone who didn’t want it known?”

  “If, as you say, a lesser amount was noted in the account books than was actually given, how would she have known that?”

  “Hmmm. That’s true enough.”

  “I think you should wait for a few days,” Ames said. “Let us see if the police can make an arrest in the murders, and then you can take your concerns to an attorney.”

  “Yes. You’re right. This is no time to start some new trouble over there. I must say, Miss Montgomery looked poorly last night. I suppose she takes it very hard, all this trouble. My wife thinks the world of her, you know.”

  “As does Caroline,” Ames replied. Account books, he thought. Why hadn’t he looked at them himself? But it wouldn’t have done any good; he wouldn’t have known the correct amounts to look for.

  He parted from Boylston with a promise to meet again the following week, and then he joined MacKenzie and they went in to lunch.

  MacKenzie examined the plate of soup that the waiter placed before him. Clam chowder. Well, that was all right; in his time in Boston, he�
��d grown fond of clam chowder. As he began to spoon it up, he looked around.

  Desultory talk rose and fell. He listened for any mention of the murders at Bertram’s Bower, but he heard none. The newspaper that carried Chadwick’s poisonous article was not one these men read, and in any case, it had just come out; most of them would have missed it on their way here an hour or so earlier.

  No, the murders of two poor girls over in the South End would not concern the members of the St. Botolph Club. Their lives were safe and secure, well removed from poverty and scandal—particularly now that the blackmailing Colonel William d’Arcy Mann and his scurrilous gossip sheet, Town Topics, had been done away with. The men here had been glad enough of that, MacKenzie knew; some of them had paid up to the Colonel, and some of them, thinking Addington Ames had killed him, had congratulated him for doing so.

  As the main course appeared—roasted fowl of some kind with cranberry sauce and mashed potatoes—a new arrival came in. He was of average height, neatly attired, with a high, domed forehead, a small beard, penetrating blue eyes, and a businesslike manner. Professors were popularly supposed to be absentminded and rather vague, but William James was just the opposite: precise, brilliantly focused, ever alert.

  Ames nodded to him across the table. Professor James was just the man he wanted to see, and so, half an hour later, lunch over, the members scattered to their afternoon’s business, he and MacKenzie and the professor retired to one of the club’s private rooms.

  “I must be in Cambridge at three,” James said, “but yes, I have a little time. How are you, Doctor?”

  MacKenzie said he was well enough. Although he had met William James several times, he was not yet accustomed to speaking easily to this world-renowned professor of psychology—a new discipline, not yet considered legitimate by many in the academic world.

  “What is it, Ames? These murders over in the South End?”

  “You know about them.”

  “Yes.”

  “My sister—” Ames began.

  “Has she recovered fully?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Good. A nasty thing, a bullet wound. But you would know about that, Dr. MacKenzie, would you not? So what interest has your sister in these crimes, Ames?”