by Dianne Day
TWENTY-ONE
THE NEXT DAY, being Sunday, should by the well-known tradition have been a day of rest. I, however, did not rest so much as I found myself restive around the house, feeling there must be something worthwhile I could do to further my investigation into Father’s death.
Michael had left on the train for New York City, where he intended to begin an investigation of Augusta’s past by questioning her son, Larry Bingham, if in fact Larry could be found. Then Michael would move on to question the other Binghams—oddly enough there had not been a single Simmons—whose addresses he had taken from Augusta’s address book. As I recalled, one was in New Jersey; the rest were in Connecticut, all easily reachable in a few hours by train.
For a moment I reflected upon how different this is from California, a state so vast that the urban Northeast would fit in only a part of it. Somehow my old environs had shrunk during my four years of living in San Francisco—especially the corridor from Boston to New York and the towns in between.
Soon after Michael left—that is to say, around ten o’clock on Sunday morning—I received a telephone call from a detective of the Boston police, McLaughlin by name. My memory being rather sharp after days of that not being the case, I thought to inquire after his health and that of his partner, Detective O’Neal. These two had been at the house yesterday. I found it quite encouraging to have my excellent memory back, but Detective McLaughlin seemed singularly unimpressed. In point of fact he was downright grumpy. He proceeded to ask me for about the tenth time if I could not tell him the whereabouts of “young Mr. Lawrence Bingham.” I felt like saying that if I knew I would hardly have sent Michael off looking, as it would be much more pleasant to have Michael here, but of course I could not say any such thing.
I could only reiterate the same thing I’d said the day before—that is, that Augusta’s son had been concerned about keeping his job and so had gone back to New York the day before my father’s funeral. I insisted I had not seen him since, which was of course true; and I said again I believed he was a reporter on the New York Daily News. Surely, I asked sweetly, they could contact him there? This was not what McLaughlin had wanted to hear but he rang off, and so, to my great relief, I was rid of him. At least, for a while.
As I hung up the telephone, I knew it would be only a matter of time before McLaughlin and O’Neal came to search Augusta’s room themselves. They’d be wanting that address book, and a diary too; and being of a somewhat suspicious nature myself, I was very worried they might think I had stolen the diary. They weren’t likely to believe a diary did not exist; I would’ve had trouble believing it myself if I hadn’t known Augusta.
The first search of her room, conducted on the day of her death, had been done by police officers of the rank and file while I was answering questions for the two detectives downstairs—a time-saving measure, no doubt, on that initial day of the investigation. I supposed it would be something of a coup, or at any rate something they could congratulate themselves on, if the two detectives were to find something the uniformed officers had missed.
If I were to put the address book back now, they need never know I’d had it; further, they might well be more likely to believe me when I said I had never known Augusta to keep a diary.
Yes! I really was functioning much more like my usual self. Such a relief!
Nevertheless, I wouldn’t put the address book back without making a copy of it for myself. It was unfortunate that I had no way of knowing which of the many names and addresses might be of use, beyond the family names Michael had already copied. I should have to copy all of it, which I subsequently did, and it took a good deal of time.
Meanwhile Ralph and Myra Porter, who had both stayed overnight in one of their old rooms on the third floor, had departed once more for Cambridge to tend to their affairs, which included giving notice on their rented apartment. Mary Fowey, who was religious, always had Sundays off to attend her church and to see her family in South Boston. I presumed she was Roman Catholic but had not actually inquired.
So I was alone in the house. I did the copying in the library, where I was more comfortable than in any other room of the house; indeed I wished I could sleep in the library too, with the sound of the grandfather clock ticking, its pendulum swinging in the tall case just down the hall. Ralph had set it back in working order first thing.
More than once as I worked I started at some unexpected sound. Many of these came from out-of-doors: although today the sky was slightly overcast, the weather continued to warm and the spring thaw was under way, with its inevitable sounds of things cracking. Icicles dropped with a crash from under the eaves. An occasional tree limb, weakened by long bearing the weight of winter snow and ice, now tossed by the strong March wind, broke and plunged to the ground like a bomb.
Some hours later, when I had finished my copying task and was climbing the stairs to return the address book to Augusta’s bedroom, I realized the wind was making me anxious. Surely it was the wind?
What with all that had been going on in this house, I had not paid more than superficial attention to the weather. But, now I thought back on it, this March of 1909 was conducting itself backward. It had come in like a lamb, but now it seemed determined to go out like a lion.
It was very distracting, all these noises at every door and window, wind moaning and squeaking and groaning, with the counterpoint of cracks and crashes from the melting snow and ice. Drips too. I began to wonder if all the sounds out there were from natural sources; had I possibly heard someone trying to work an old key in one of the new locks?
One by one I went to the doors—first listened through the door, then looked out a nearby window. Up close, I heard nothing on the other side. I didn’t see anyone lurking suspiciously near the house, or running as if to get away; and further, there were a lot of people walking up and down the sidewalk on this side of Beacon Street. When the weather is fine, that is to say sunny (wind does not count in an assessment of whether the day is fine or not), Bostonians are fond of strolling—it is one of our principal entertainments.
Sunday is a major strolling day. I did not really think anyone would try to break into the house in the middle of the day when so many people were about. Nevertheless, after checking to be sure that front, back, side, and basement doors were locked from the inside, I went around to all the downstairs windows to be sure they were locked too.
After I had done that I could think of nothing more to do. Because it was only two o’clock in the afternoon and Ralph and Myra could not be expected to return for another two or three hours, and Mary not until after dinner, I went upstairs to take a nap.
It was no use. I could not possibly sleep. So what worthwhile investigatory thing could I do on a Sunday?
“I know!” I said aloud in a burst of inspiration. I practically ran down the stairs—so quickly that I almost stumbled and had to remind myself to slow down—toward my goal, the telephone alcove. This little room with its single purpose, to hold that newfangled instrument, had been cleverly created out of a broom closet in the space beneath the staircase. I switched on the light and seized the telephone directory.
I was in luck! Martha Henderson, Father’s daytime private nurse, did have a telephone, and her address was listed. More luck: She lived in Back Bay, not too far, I could walk. I called to be sure it was the right person, that she was in and would see me, and upon receiving all replies in the affirmative I felt thrice blessed.
“IS IT MISS or Mrs. Henderson?” I inquired.
Even though that was not my favorite question, and I doubted it was hers either, one must be polite.
“It’s Miss, but please call me Martha.”
Ah, I thought, a woman after my own heart. I smiled.
“And do come in,” she added.
“Thank you, Martha.”
She lived at the back of a tiny mews, or pedestrian alleyway, off Newbury Street between Exeter and Fairfield. Her little house looked as if it might at one time have b
een the servants’ quarters to the large edifice of golden stone in front. Perhaps the owners of that one had an unusually modern attitude and were renting this out. If so, the nurse was reaping the benefit, because her place was charming.
Or, I thought suddenly, it could be the other way around. Both large and small houses could belong to her, and due to whatever circumstances, she had chosen to live in the former servants’ quarters—if so, then more than likely she supported herself at least partially by renting out her own large house. It was something I might have done, if necessary.
“This is a lovely little house!” I said enthusiastically. “I have always liked Newbury Street.”
“Yes, I think my little house has turned out quite well. I grew up on this street, in that stone house out front. When my parents died I moved in back here, and now I let out the big house for the income,” Martha said.
And I thought: Aha! I was right.
“Would you like some tea?” she inquired.
“Yes,” I agreed, “I believe I would. We could have it in the kitchen if that would be more convenient for you. I am quite fond of sitting around the kitchen table with tea or coffee and friendly talk.”
Martha Henderson was a tiny woman, barely five feet tall, with bones so small she put me in mind of a bird. Yet I knew she was very strong, because I had seen her help my father out of bed and do other nursing tasks that required strength.
I had the most striking feeling—almost a premonition really—that Martha Henderson and I were going to get along famously. Even more, I felt that she would somehow be of great help to me, even before we began to talk.
Once we did get to talking it was hard to leave aside socializing, for here I had found a woman much like myself—even though she had not quite the same degree of education and our parents had not moved in the same circle, which accounted for why we had not met before. Martha had trained and worked as a nurse because she wished to make a contribution to society and to be self-supporting. She cared not a whit for ostentation. And she continued to do nursing on a private basis, when the opportunity came along, not because she required the money to survive—living as modestly as she did, the rental of her house provided her sufficient income—but because she felt the work in itself was valuable and rewarding.
I told her about Michael’s and my detective business in San Francisco; this was an aspect of me she’d known nothing about. In the days she’d worked at nursing Father, Martha had seen me only as the daughter of a prominent man in one of those Beacon Street houses that of themselves tend to set up certain expectations. But now, knowing more about me, she too felt our sisterhood, as it were, under the skin.
“But you did not come here to talk about these things we unexpectedly find we have in common, I think,” Martha said.
“No,” I acknowledged regretfully, “I did not, but I’m still glad that we’ve had this opportunity to become acquainted. And I hope, when this business at hand is resolved, we can be friends.”
“Well, then”—Martha sat up straighter and folded her hands on top of the table—“let us get the business at hand over with, by all means. How may I be of help? On the telephone you said this concerned your father. You are aware, of course, that I only nursed him for those few weeks I came to your house on Beacon Street.”
“Yes, I am.” I looked into her eyes, which were a light hazel brown with streaks of green shot through them, both warm and lively. Except for the unusual eyes, her face was actually rather plain. I said, “Martha, may I take you into my complete confidence?”
“Yes, of course you may, Fremont.”
I wriggled in my chair, feeling a touch of that anxiety I’d felt earlier in the afternoon. “It would be easy to misunderstand what I’m about to tell you, but somehow I think you will not misunderstand.”
“I’ll try my best.”
“Very well. I have come to believe that my father’s final illness, which came over him gradually through a course of about two years, was not from natural causes. I believe he was being poisoned, and I suspect his wife, Augusta, of being the poisoner.”
Martha raised her eyebrows but said nothing, merely waited for me to go on.
“In part I believe this because Father did improve once he was put into the hospital—but he wouldn’t have been put into the hospital if I had not contacted someone at the bank where he used to work and insisted that something be done for him. I was, I guess one could say, stuck in California at the time.”
“Yes, you must have suffered some fairly recent trauma. I’ve observed the slight hitch in your gait, even when you’re using the cane.”
I smiled. “You’re very observant. I had both legs broken, and a head injury, but that is another story. To return to Father: While in the hospital he did improve, but only to a certain point. Dr. Cosgrove still expected him to die, and so sent him home because that is supposed to be the best place for it.” I paused, for emphasis, then continued:
“At this point, Martha, please make a mental note of the fact that Augusta always came to visit Father in the hospital at the time of the evening meal.”
“Noted.” She gave a sharp nod.
“Now, I was not in favor of bringing my father home to Beacon Street. I feared we would only be putting him back in Augusta’s clutches, though of course I could not say so. Therefore, I did the only thing I could think of: I asked Dr. Cosgrove to provide private nursing care for him at home. That was when he hired you and Sarah Kirk.”
“A wise decision.” Martha nodded again.
“You began looking after Father in the daytime; Sarah Kirk at night. You were both most assiduous in your duties and did not leave him alone for any appreciable length of time, including at meals. Under your constant care Father made a dramatic improvement. I know, for instance, that he had not a single hallucination after we brought him home, though he still had them sometimes in the hospital. In your care his appetite returned and his color improved, as anyone could see. I began to think Father might survive after all.”
“That’s so. I said the same to Dr. Cosgrove, that I thought perhaps we had been mistaken as to Mr. Jones’s illness having reached the terminal stage.”
“What did Dr. Cosgrove say?”
Martha blushed a bit. “He said nurses are not diagnosticians, and I should keep to my place.”
“That sounds like him.”
“That sounds like most doctors, but once in a while one will surprise me. Not every single doctor considers the nurse his personal servant.”
“Do tell,” I said dryly. “Now, Martha, I have no proof of any of this, which is why everything I say must remain confidential. Without proof, which believe me I am trying to gather, there is nothing I can do. However, reasoning from the facts as I have presented them thus far, this is what I believe. First, that Augusta was poisoning Father with some agent—I regret to say I do not know what—that for a long time only weakened him and made him less able to function as vigorously as he previously had done.”
Martha nodded but did not interrupt.
“Then gradually she increased the dosage, or perhaps the illness progressed on its own; either way he became more and more dependent on her. He lost his former zest for life. He was not able to go out socially anymore. Eventually he had to stop working. Slowly Augusta isolated Father until finally he was at home alone with her all the time. I believe that is what she most wanted, that he should be entirely dependent upon her until, at last, he would die. The problem was, Father had a strong heart. He kept on living and finally I was able to intervene.”
“A strong heart,” Martha mused, “yet he died of a heart attack, or heart failure. Cardiac arrest. That was what Sarah Kirk told me over the telephone when she called to say that I should not come in, because your father had just expired.”
“What time was it when Sarah called, do you remember?” This was a key fact, which I’d wanted to get from Martha, and she was giving it to me without my having to ask.
“It w
as early. About seven o’clock, I should think. I was awake but not really up yet. As you’ve seen, your house on Beacon was for me an easy walk so I could afford to lie in for a little.”
I shook my head. “Father could not have ‘just expired’ at seven A.M. I found his body myself at shortly after three. But wait, this is getting the sequence of events mixed up. Let me go back.”
Martha nodded. “Don’t worry, I’m following you just fine.”
“My theory is that Father improved so dramatically because with you and Sarah in constant attendance, Augusta could no longer administer the poisoning agent on a regular basis. She must have gotten a little frantic—she couldn’t have him getting well, or even just well enough to keep on living as a semi-invalid, not if people were going to be coming to the house and his daughter getting married, possibly staying in Boston—”
“Oh, are you doing all that? Excuse the interruption, I could not resist.”
“Well, yes, I am marrying my business partner, but where we will live after the marriage has not been settled yet.”
“I do hope you will be here so that we may continue our acquaintance, but please go on.”
“There is not much more to say. I do not know how she did it, but I think Augusta also administered the final dose of poison and made it look as if Father had died of a heart attack.”
“Hmm,” Martha said. She got up from the table where we both sat in her cheerful kitchen with its yellow walls and white-painted cabinets, refilled the kettle, and set it on again to boil.
“There’s a problem with some of that, but I think I can help,” she said.
“Precisely why I’m here.”
“Your father’s long illness was characterized by gastrointestinal symptoms. The delusions or hallucinations can come on when the body is sufficiently malnourished. Likewise his liver had begun to fail—but the liver is a remarkable organ and can regenerate itself. Apparently your father’s liver failure was fairly recent and not too far advanced. That would be why his color improved rapidly once Sarah and I began to look after him. This is strong support for your poisoning theory, Fremont. The liver processes toxins out of the body; once that toxin or poison was no longer administered, working his liver too hard day after day after day, the organ began to make a recovery.”