Beacon Street Mourning

by Dianne Day

  Everything was clean and tidy, and appeared to be exactly as it was the night Father died, and all the other days and nights before it, since his coming home from the hospital. This was as unsurprising as it was unhelpful.

  If only I’d been able to keep my wits about me when I found Father dead, how differently things might have gone that night, and the day after! I cursed myself for those hours of childish regression until I found my hands were shaking so much that I could hardly proceed.

  “What’s done is done, Fremont,” I said aloud to myself. There was no point blaming myself any more than I had already, it would be a waste of time and self-destructive. Nor should I doubt the little bit of memory I did retain, of how the nurse sat sleeping, the position in which Father lay.

  I reconstructed the scene in my mind but it did no good. No new ideas sprang to mind, no new observation leaped out at me.

  I conducted the most diligent search of which I was capable throughout the bedroom, and found nothing other than the things one would expect to find.

  In the dressing room it was another story.

  At first I thought that, like the bedroom, this one held nothing worth noting. Yet some instinct nagged and nagged at me all through my search of drawers and shelves, in pockets of jackets and trousers and shirts and inside shoes, even in the secret recess at the back of the carved base of the washstand, where I’d liked to hide things when I was a child. Nothing! Nothing, nothing, nothing, and yet nag, nag, nag.

  “What?” I asked aloud in exasperation.

  Then I knew: the dressing room was too neat, neat in a way that was not Father’s way. Not that he was messy, but he had not been one of those people who square up corners and make sure everything is spaced out equally along an invisible line. Someone, most likely Augusta, had been through everything here, down to the very back of the very bottom drawer. She had restored order, all right, but in an excessively orderly fashion that told its own tale.

  I did not know what she’d been looking for, or what she’d found, but one thing she had removed I did know: pictures of Mother. Every single informal photograph of my mother was gone from the places in his drawers where Father had sentimentally and randomly kept them, so that—as he had told me—he might stumble over Mother from time to time. It made a nice surprise, he’d said.

  Augusta’d had that whole day when I was drugged with the laudanum, I thought—a whole day to do this wholesale clean-out job. Damnation!

  But, all right. If she had gone over this dressing room so meticulously, she’d done it because she was looking for something, hiding the evidence, effecting a cover-up. That was evidence of a kind in itself. It was enough to keep me going.

  And besides, I knew Father, and I knew all the secrets of this house.

  I had been here in his two rooms too long anyway; it was time to go downstairs.

  First I went into the kitchen, where I found a tin of graham crackers and put some on a plate—not because I was hungry but because the crackers would provide an excuse for being in the library: I could say, if challenged, that I’d been unable to sleep and had come downstairs for a snack and to look for a book. It might have been nice to have a cup of coffee to go with the graham crackers; but making it would take too long, so I settled for sweet cider from a stoneware crock. Then I took my small-hours-of-the-night repast into the library, which had been my destination all along.

  I did need to sit down; my legs were growing tired. I’d conducted this entire search without the aid of my cane. Not by design—I’d just forgotten and left my room without it.

  I sat behind Father’s desk and turned on his banker’s lamp with its green shade—he had electrified this lamp with a cord running up the brass part and a lightbulb where the wick for the kerosene used to be. I sat in Father’s chair until I felt its leather cushions, so soft from years of bearing his weight, forget the contours of Augusta’s recent brief occupation and shape themselves to my body. I ate graham crackers, spilling a few crumbs as I would have if I were eight years old and being allowed to sit at this desk; and as I would have at eight, I brushed them into the palm of my hand and dumped them on the plate. Then I drank a little cider, and all the while my eyes roamed over the desk and around the room.

  I was operating on a strong hunch: If Father had hidden something in his dressing room—or even if he’d just kept this thing, whatever it was, in a safe place there—if it were truly important, he’d likely have had a duplicate. That duplicate he would have put away here in the library.

  I was excited. What if Father himself had come to suspect, as I did, that his long, slow illness was caused by some kind of poison? Oh, I doubt he’d have thought Augusta was the one poisoning him, but this did not matter since he was no longer around to be asked. Nevertheless, if he had suspected someone, and if he’d found any kind of proof, he would have hidden it away. And Augusta would have looked for it the first chance she got.

  Father’s desk is an antique from the eighteenth century. Actually it is not a true desk but rather a library table. Like many items of furniture from that period, it has cunningly hidden compartments; due to the shape of the table these are long and shallow, most of them concealed behind a flange that disguises the depth of the tabletop, and some are tiny recesses—big enough only for something like a key—hollowed out of the table legs, hidden by a detail of carving.

  I found a treasure trove of photographs of my mother, most faded to shades of brown, in the secret shallow drawers. I also found something else: a bottle. Not whiskey, but it did contain alcohol, according to the label. Some of the liquid remained.

  Eventually, after going through all of the secret drawers and in addition searching behind certain books on the shelves where I knew Father had sometimes hidden things, I found three of these bottles. I took one and left the other two. Michael had to see this. He would confirm if the liquid in the bottle was meant for what I thought, and he would know too how we could find out if this stuff had slowly killed my father.

  SEVENTEEN

  MY FATHER’S OBITUARY, black-bordered in the traditional manner, was printed in the newspaper the next morning. Along with the rest of Boston, I read of his various accomplishments, and finally that a graveside service for Leonard Pembroke Jones would be conducted in Mount Auburn Cemetery at eleven o’clock, Friday morning March 26, 1909. This was the first I’d known of the exact time and place, as Augusta had not seen fit to inform me, nor had I been willing to ask her.

  A graveside service at this time of year could be rather uncomfortable for the attendees, I thought, but Father would not have minded. Grudgingly I admitted that Augusta had made the right choice: it made sense not to have a church service for a man who so seldom went to church.

  Mother would want flowers to go with him into the grave, I thought; she’d been very fond of flowers, especially lilies and roses. White lilies, pink roses (if there were hothouse roses to be had), in one of those long arrangements for the top of the wooden coffin, that was what she would have chosen. And so I would choose them for her, for us both.

  Flowers: Dimly from childhood I remembered early mornings tagging along behind Mother or Myra Porter to the Haymarket, which was full of wholesale vendors of flowers and vegetables, all those mingled fragrances and colors under skies that were always gray in recollection. Mother always said, for the best and the freshest of these perishables, one must go early. And so, although the hour was still early, I knew those who dealt in flowers would already be abroad, and I telephoned a Back Bay florist and placed my order.

  I had no sooner hung up the telephone and put on my coat than the front doorbell rang, and Mary Fowey, pale-faced but alert and neat as a pin, scurried to answer the door.

  I expected Michael, but it was William Barrett who came inside.

  Mary was saying, to the accompaniment of an even smaller version of her dip than she used for most people, “Begging pardon, sir, but was that Mrs. or Miss Jones you was asking for?”

  I distinctl
y heard William reply, “Mrs. Jones.”

  I thought: Hmmm. Then I revealed my presence by stepping out of the telephone alcove.

  “Never mind, Mary,” I said, “I’ll speak to Mr. Barrett in the parlor. When Mr. Kossoff arrives, show him in there if you will.”

  “Yes, miss,” she said politely, but she lingered and I turned to her. “Will you be in to breakfast, miss?” she asked.

  “No, but I have time to speak to Mr. Barrett. Thank you, Mary.”

  “Welcome, miss, I’m sure.” But still she didn’t scurry off and so I looked at her again, my eyebrows raised this time. “Coats, miss? I thought as how you and the gentleman might like me to take your coats if you’ll be in the parlor.”

  Well, of course she would think that—she was a well-trained maid and William Barrett and I were both dressed for the out-of-doors, he because he had just come in and I because I was about to leave. But the house was chilly, there was no fire in the parlor, and I did not intend William should feel too welcome lest he settle in.

  So I said, “No, thank you. I don’t expect we’ll be here long.”

  This time Mary took my hint and returned to the back of the house without making her next offer, which would have been to light the parlor fire.

  “Caroline,” William said, unbuttoning his long black overcoat, “I can’t believe I haven’t seen you since … When was the last time?”

  “It was at the hospital, I believe, and do, if you please, call me Fremont.”

  I preceded him into the parlor and perched on the edge of one of the wing chairs flanking the stone-cold fireplace, then said further, “I was leaving one day when you were on your way in to see Father, about a week before he was discharged and we brought him home.”

  “Ah yes, I remember now. In any event, my condolences on your loss.” The expected words. As if to be completely consistent, William perched in the expected place: on the other wing chair, though somewhat farther back from the edge of the seat than I had done.

  “Thank you,” I said. “On my part, I must apologize for having been unable to stop by your office when I was at the bank yesterday. My business with Mr. Sefton took more time than I’d thought it would.”

  “I understand. Legal matters can be time-consuming.” William had removed his hat, and his surprisingly stubby, pale fingers were turning it around and around by the brim.

  “The maid said you’ve often been here to the house. I had no idea, until after Father, ah, after he was gone, that Mary had been instructed never to receive callers or even to allow cards to be left. I’m afraid that may have created some misunderstandings, not only with you but with others among my father’s friends.”

  William flushed slightly and for a moment could not meet my eyes.

  I wondered why.

  Then he cleared his throat, tucked his chin down, and said, “I expect people will understand. Most know that for the past couple of years nobody but Augusta’s favorites has been welcome here.”

  “How … interesting.” I placed my cane (which I was being careful to take with me today whether I needed it or not) squarely in front of me and then folded my hands on top of it, left hand over right. It is an old woman’s gesture that gives one a feeling of authority; small compensation for the infirmity that causes one to need the cane, but be that as it may. “Perhaps you can enlighten me, William. Who would those favorites be?”

  “Oh, well”—he glanced away, his eyes darting rapidly from the parlor door to something behind me to the carpet—“nobody at the bank.”

  “And?”

  “Well, Cosgrove, I suppose—”

  “Cosgrove? I thought you said Dr. Cosgrove was surprised to hear of my father’s condition when you contacted him, and you didn’t do that until I wrote to you, which was not much more than two months ago.”

  “Since then, I mean,” William said hastily, “just since then he’s been here a lot. But you’re here too, so surely you knew how much he was here?”

  Maybe not to the extent William seemed to imply, I hadn’t; but more importantly, how did he, William, know?

  I shook my head. “I hadn’t paid attention,” I said, a rather large fib that I intended to be disarming.

  Then I proceeded to tell an even larger one: “But then, Dr. Cosgrove is not of much interest to me, other than his having taken such good care of Father. If he was here often, well, he had good reason. I suppose that would be why I didn’t particularly notice.”

  William simply nodded and continued to look uncomfortable.

  I decided to increase his discomfort: “You came to see Augusta this morning, I heard you say. I’m sorry, but I myself have not yet seen her this morning; I believe she has not been downstairs at all. She’s been keeping much to her room since Father died. Grief-stricken, I’m sure. I’d be surprised if she’s even dressed. May I give her a message for you later on, when I next see her?”

  “Is her son still here?”

  Now, how did he know about that?

  “Larry Bingham?” I asked, giving myself a bit of extra time to think.

  “I know the young man as Lawrence, but I expect we mean the same person.”

  “Augusta has other sons, I’m told,” I said without precisely answering the question. I was setting out on a tangent, a kind of fishing expedition. William Barrett had not been truthful with me. He knew more of the doings of this household, and of Augusta in particular, than he had ever let on. I do not take it very kindly, I must say, when I am misled or, worse, outright lied to.

  He said, “I’ve heard, too, that she might have other children, but I haven’t met them myself.”

  This was getting more and more interesting. From the early days of Augusta’s tenure, when she’d been known as “the Widow Simmons,” I knew she had a nephew. Indeed, she had almost persuaded Father to marry me off to this nephew, who had sounded sufficiently loathsome that I had not bothered to meet him. But as for other relatives, including any putative sons, I had only Father’s vague mention of “her many relatives” in one of his letters.

  William asked, “Will they be here for the funeral, do you think, her other children?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “I’ve not heard. As for Larry, he had to go back to New York. Something about a job on a newspaper that couldn’t wait. He said that he and Father were not overfond of one another in any event, so I am not offended that he didn’t stay.”

  The doorbell rang. Mary came scurrying again, this time to admit Michael.

  As she was opening the front door, William said hurriedly, “Your stepmother will need someone at her side for the funeral. It is most unfortunate her son cannot accompany her. Augusta is not the sort of woman to do well through something like this alone.”

  How eager William Barrett was to volunteer!

  This was an interesting wrinkle. Had Augusta charmed him, as she did so many, in these few weeks of William’s knowing her? Or had he really known her for much longer than he had led me to believe? And why would he do that?

  One thing I knew for certain, from my father’s experience: Augusta was a woman who did not improve the longer one knew her. Rather the opposite.

  Who knew if it was mischief or compassion that caused me to do what I did next? As Michael came into the parlor and I prepared to leave the house with him, I took pity on William and said, “You’re quite right. If you don’t mind waiting an hour or so, I’ll have Mary go upstairs and inform Mrs. Jones that you are here.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” William responded. Which was exactly what I’d thought he would say. Poor man.

  I GLANCED UNEASILY at the sky when Michael and I came out of the Parker House after breakfast. The clouds were high, thick, and not so much gray as white—a snow-laden sky.

  “Father’s funeral may have to be postponed,” I said.

  “Hm?”

  “I think it’s going to snow, and the services are to be graveside only. I suppose it’s a good thing we had that little thaw yesterday�
�even so I wonder that they can dig the grave.”

  “In Russia, where the ground freezes as solid as a rock, the bodies of those who die in winter are buried in banks of snow where they also freeze until spring thaw.

  But it is possible here, where it is not quite so cold, to break ground that is frozen only near the surface. If they could not dig the grave, someone would have said so, Fremont.”

  “I suppose,” I conceded rather glumly.

  I hadn’t wanted to enter the Common by the path that leads around the Old Granary Burial Ground—there being entirely enough of burying and graves in my life already—so we walked up Tremont Street, past Park Street Church with its elegant white steeple. Though I do not know the facts about my own house, it seems I’ve always known this steeple is over two hundred feet high. I looked up at it soaring over us as we turned right just past the church and entered the Common.

  A few dauntless mothers walked their babies, who were all wrapped up like little bundles inside their carriages, but otherwise very few people were abroad. Winters here are capricious; they tease you into a visceral recollection of spring, only to bring the cold down upon your head again with a vengeance.

  Yet for my purpose fewer people were better than many and I was glad at last I could get to something I had not quite dared to do in the dining room of the Parker House.

  “I have something to show you,” I said, and withdrew the flat dark brown bottle from where I’d been keeping it, inside my fur muff.

  “What’s this?” Michael took the bottle and turned it over once in his hand. Then he read the label, which said:

  Dr. Zahray’s

  HERCULES TONIC

  Exclusively for

  MALES

  An erectile Performance enhancer

  Active Ingredient: Fresh Testicle

  Also Contains: Alcohol, Water, Strychnine, and Glycerol

  “Hmm,” Michael said, which was precisely what I’d thought he’d say.