Beacon Street Mourning

by Dianne Day

  Now it was my turn to nod.

  “I must say, though, your father’s cardiac arrest cannot have been caused by the same poison. It had to have been a different one. The poisons that could cause a heart to stop are all so toxic that even given in small amounts, his death would come within days if not hours.”

  “You’ve confirmed something I suspected, but really I know nothing about poisons. My partner, Michael, was going to look into it but right now he is occupied with another matter. From your own expertise, Martha, have you any idea what poisons may have been used, and how Augusta could have obtained them?”

  The teakettle, which had been rumbling on the burner, then seized by a brief silence, now erupted into a whistle. Martha took advantage of the subsequent teapot-filling interval to think silently. As she brought the teapot back to the table she shook her head.

  “I really can’t say. You should have asked for an autopsy, that’s the only way to tell, and even then it isn’t always possible.”

  “I tried,” I said, twisting my lips into a bitter approximation of my feelings on that score. “But Augusta was Father’s legal next of kin, only she had the right to ask for an autopsy. Searles Cosgrove informed me of this fact when I went to ask his help. He was no help at all, by the way. In fact, he rather surprised me, because at our first meeting some weeks earlier, his attitude had been considerably different. Or so I’d thought.”

  “Hmm,” Martha said. She poured tea, a third cup for each of us, then slowly stirred sugar into hers. “Well, I can give you a little information but I’m not sure how much good it will do. Incidentally, if I haven’t said so before, I think you are right to be concerned and thinking along these lines. I was very surprised by your father’s sudden death. In fact, his whole illness did not follow any predictable path I’ve ever seen before.”

  “Thank you. Any help you can give me at all will be much appreciated.”

  “All right. About the poisons: the ones that could cause an illness of long duration are not that hard to obtain, because they’re in things most people have around the house. Such as rat poison and many different kinds of cleaning agents.”

  “Cleaning fluid?” I perked up, recalling the bottle I’d found in Augusta’s room.

  “Certainly. Much harder to obtain would be whatever caused your father to die suddenly. There are several poisons that mimic heart attack, but in their natural state—I mean things like plants, the leaves and berries and mushrooms and such—they’re not strong enough to kill quickly or reliably. For that your poisoner would almost have to have the substance in refined form. Which suggests it was obtained from a druggist or a chemist. Not everyone could do that.”

  Our eyes met.

  “In other words, Augusta had an accomplice,” I said.

  “You think it may have been Searles Cosgrove?” Martha asked.

  “He’s one possibility.”

  “If you would trust my discretion, I may be able to find out some more about Dr. Cosgrove’s behavior in recent weeks by talking to Anna Bates,” Martha offered. “I have a feeling she would welcome someone to confide in about now.”

  “Oh?”

  “Um-hm. Shall I try?”

  “Yes, please,” I agreed.

  “All right, I will. Now if I do that for you, perhaps you will tell me something in return, and in advance: What does all of this have to do with something I read in the Boston Sunday Globe this morning, about Augusta Simmons Jones having been fatally shot?”

  TWENTY-TWO

  MARTHA HENDERSON’S QUESTION, which was a straightforward and simple one, brought me up short. The reply I gave was woefully inadequate:

  I said only, “I’m not sure.”

  While that was the truth, of course it didn’t satisfy her. Nor had I expected it to; what she really wanted from me was a fuller, personalized account of what I knew about the murder, and so I told her.

  Even then, I knew it wasn’t enough. I didn’t really know the answer to her question, because I hadn’t thought about it. I hadn’t wanted to think about it. As long as the police didn’t suspect me of shooting her, I didn’t care who’d killed Augusta Simmons Jones—that was the awful truth. I tried to explain this to Martha in a way that didn’t make me sound like a completely horrible person.

  “My problem is,” I said, “I know from experience that I cannot concentrate on more than one investigation at a time. If there’s a connection, I’ll come across it. Meanwhile I have to find out if Augusta really did poison Father, and if she had an accomplice, who that person was.”

  Martha then said something wise: “If the woman was doing something like that to your father, most likely she has done other nefarious things, and it is not too surprising that someone would want her dead. One way or another, Fremont, there is likely to be some connection.”

  I said she had given me food for thought, and shortly afterward we made our goodbyes. Martha promised to be in touch when she’d had a heart-to-heart with Nurse Bates, and I went off home to Beacon Street.

  MONDAY BROUGHT newspaper reporters to the house, and gawkers, and old friends calling. I should have anticipated this happening, but I hadn’t, which put me quite out of sorts with myself and wreaked havoc on my plans for the day as well. I could hardly rush out the door saying, “So sorry, can’t stay, I’m going to buy a car.” Short for motorcar, of course—it’s the shorter form I prefer—it sounds somehow much better than auto for automobile.

  I talked briefly from the steps to the reporters, waved to the gawkers, then put aside everything else in order to receive the callers as they trickled in one or two at a time. After a while, I began to be glad to see old friends, both my own and the family’s. Truly, in the weeks since my return I’d begun to think I must have alienated everyone when I left Boston for California, and that was why no one had come to call.

  Most but not all of the callers had been here just three days ago for Father’s funeral. This morning they were simply curious, and some were wanting, however awkwardly, to pick up our friendship, wherever we had left it off long ago.

  They all said the same thing: It was a shame, or worse than that, quite horrible really, what had happened to Augusta (they couldn’t bring themselves to say the word “murder”), but still, it would be so much easier to come to the house now that she was out of the picture. When each caller left I said, as was expected, “I hope you’ll come again,” and they said of course they would. The surprise for me was I’d meant it, and I hoped they did too.

  Eventually midday came, and with it the usual cessation of social visits as all women went home for the noon meal. For some, their husbands would come home and this would be the main meal of the day; for others, it would be a lighter luncheon—followed, for the women, by an hour of rest, and for the men by a return to work. Briefly I wondered how it had come to pass in puritanical Boston that women of a certain class got to have naps after lunch.

  While I was wondering about this, I went on to wonder if women have better instincts for understanding people than men do. Of course, there are exceptions like Michael, and certain men who make a profession out of understanding others, but in the main it did seem to me that women are able to see with a clearer inner eye. Every single woman who had been to my house this morning had seen through Augusta, perhaps not as deeply as I did, but they hadn’t liked or trusted her.

  I wondered what made the difference? Because in social situations Augusta would have been charming to the women too. She wouldn’t want to be socially ostracized—would she?

  Hmm. I wondered which had come first, her isolating herself with my father or the ostracism? Was it like the conundrum of the chicken and the egg? Would I ever know?

  I WAS FINISHING UP my lunch when Mrs. Boynton, the cook, came into the dining room. She was wearing her coat and hat, and although it was rather late in the day to be going to the market I assumed that was what she had in mind. But I was wrong.

  “Miss Jones, seeing as how you’ve Myra Porter here
now and little Mary as well, you won’t really be needing me. So I’m givin’ in my notice. Startin’ now, if you please.”

  I put down my fork. “Mrs. Boynton, sit down for a minute, won’t you? Let’s talk about this.”

  She looked uncomfortable—in fact, she inspected a dining chair carefully as she pulled it out, as if she were judging whether or not it had been sturdily enough made to hold her weight. Mrs. Boynton was a large woman, but not that large. To my relief, she judged the chair worthy and sat, then looked at me warily. Her hat was flat, like a rather large porkpie, an unfortunate mauve color with a feather dyed to match that stuck straight up.

  “Did something happen that has made you want to leave?” I asked.

  “Well, I should think so, oh my yes. The woman what hired me got herself shot right across the street, that’s what happened! I never had to talk to no police before, never in all my born days, and that’s a fact. I just want to go on mindin’ my own business and stay out of trouble, that’s all.” She nodded emphatically.

  “And you believe you cannot stay out of trouble if you continue to work here, is that it?” I was, as they say in the courts, leading the witness, but why not—there were no lawyers present to object.

  “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” she said, nodding again.

  Whatever that meant.

  Mrs. Boynton knew something she hadn’t told the police and it was bothering her, I had picked up that much, but how I would get her to tell me I had no idea. I could only, as it were, go fishing.

  “Well,” I said with a smile, “we should start with the most important thing first: How much are you owed in wages? I will of course pay you whatever you were promised by Mrs. Augusta, and I think for the extra trouble you should have a bonus, don’t you?”

  She shook her head. “No need. I been paid through the end of the month. I don’t believe in takin’ bad money nohow.”

  That stung, although I didn’t think she’d meant to wound me. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean. How do you come to the conclusion that my money is bad money?”

  “It’s all Jones money, isn’t it? It’s what she wanted, the Jones money, and now she’s got herself killed and all, I want no part of it. You seem like a nice woman, Miss Fremont, you always been nothin’ but kind to me, I never even heard you raise your voice to nobody. But Mary—well, Mary heard Mrs. Augusta being ugly to you on the very same blessed day your daddy was laid in the cold ground, and it was about money. Another time I heard Mrs. Augusta with my own ears be ugly to that boy of hers, and that was about money too. When we was in church yesterday the priest gave his homily on Money Is the Root of All Evil, and I got to thinkin’ he’s right.”

  “I hate to think my family’s money is tainted,” I said.

  “Wash it in the blood of the lamb,” Mrs. Boynton said, “there’s the ticket.”

  That made a charming mental picture! I said, “I beg your pardon?”

  “Give it to the church. Take the curse off’n it.”

  “Mrs. Boynton,” I said, suddenly inspired, “if you don’t want a bonus on leaving your employment here to keep for yourself, perhaps I might give you a sum of money you could contribute to your church?”

  She tucked her chin down, which had the effect of trebling it, had herself a good think in that position, and finally said, “I guess that would do all right.”

  I excused myself and went into the library to write a check, which I made out to her name in case she should change her mind later. Actually I myself would rather have seen her buy a new hat with the money than wash it in the blood of the lamb, but we all have our differences.

  Back in the dining room, Mrs. Boynton had apparently been uncomfortable sitting at the table by herself, because she was standing again, somewhat uncertainly. But at least she hadn’t left yet. I handed her the check, which was of course a bit of a bribe, and just as her fingers closed on it I asked, “Can you remember exactly what Mrs. Augusta said to her son when they were having that argument about money?”

  “Oh, she was bitter, she was powerful mad at the poor boy. Anybody can see he’s just young, he’ll be better when he’s older. I got a boy too like that, can’t keep things straight—it doesn’t do to expect too much of ’em till they’re all growed up, y’know.”

  “I agree. Mr. Lawrence will no doubt improve as he matures. What do you suppose she had asked him to do, that he messed up?”

  “Well, they was having this argument in the pantry, so I think ’twas something to do with some food or drink, like he was sposed to have got somethin’ special for the evenin’—most likely ’twas drink, because even if I’m not here evenins, which I’m not, if ’twas food she’d’ve asked me to cook it ahead and leave it. Anyways, the poor boy, he musta got the wrong thing, on account of she was yellin’ at him somethin’ fierce.”

  “Please, Mrs. Boynton, this could be important: exactly what did she say?”

  The cook rubbed her nose, and her eyes took on a faraway look, as people’s eyes will do when they are listening to something inside their heads. “She said as how he had to be awful stupid to bring her the wrong stuff all the way from New York. If he couldn’t get it right, why’d he bother to come, and she’d have to do it herself now, and would he please tell her why, when this whole thing was finally over, she should share all the money she’d get with him, if he was too stupid to do his part right.”

  My heart beat faster as Mrs. Boynton put words to my suspicions. She was as near to a witness as I was likely to find! “And what did you think she was referring to when she said all that?”

  “Why, I thought it was for makin’ your father a special treat, most likely that hot drink he likes to have before he goes to sleep of a night. Since it was to come all the way from New York, I thought maybe some kind of fancy chocolate.”

  I WENT UPSTAIRS and lay down, but I have never been very good at taking naps, and so I was soon back downstairs again. Rummaging around in Father’s desk drawers, I found a notebook in which only a few sheets had been used; I tore these out, saved them under the blotter because they were in Father’s handwriting; then I used the notebook to record my thoughts about this investigation. It was highly appropriate, I thought, to be writing such notes in a book where he had written with his own hand not long ago.

  I have the ability of total aural recall, which is similar to that of some people who have what is called a photographic memory—they can recall exactly anything they have seen, as if their mind has taken a photograph of it; I can recall anything I have heard word for word if I wish to write it down. I do not know how long photographic memory lasts, but my aural recall will not last forever. I must write down what I have heard within a day or two or it will be gone.

  First I wrote down what Mrs. Boynton said she’d overheard between Augusta and Larry. Then I wrote down what Martha Henderson had said about poisons. After that I wrote a few of my own speculations, including a reminder to myself that I should give the bottle of cleaning fluid I’d found in Augusta’s dressing room to Michael when he got back, so that he could take it for chemical analysis to the same place he’d taken that horrible tonic.

  As I was writing that, I heard the doorbell ring, and shortly Mary came into the library with a cream-colored envelope in her hand.

  “For you, Miss Fremont. It was brought by a messenger and he said he’s to wait for your reply.”

  “Oh.” It had been a long time since I’d had such an urgent communication, with a messenger waiting and all.

  No one could have been more surprised than I was when I read it:

  Dear Fremont,

  I do not know if you can ever forgive me, but I have made the most dreadful mistake and wish to explain myself, as well as make amends.

  I would be very grateful if you will join me for luncheon tomorrow at Locke’s, at which time I will tender my apology and my explanation in person. Please send your reply by the messenger—if it is in the affirmative, I will call for you at Bea
con Street just before noon.

  Your obedient servant,

  William Barrett

  Locke’s! He had certainly tipped the scales in his favor by dangling this plum before me. Locke-Ober’s establishment is a fancy bar and restaurant for men only, with private dining upstairs where women may enjoy a meal once a week on what is called Ladies’ Day. Of course I would go—even without the incentive of a meal in an excellent and usually forbidden spot, I was too curious to know what in the world William could possibly have to say for himself to turn him down.

  My answer, which I wrote on an ordinary sheet of lined paper that I tore out of the notebook, was brief:

  William: I will be delighted to have luncheon with you at the time and place mentioned, but do not call for me. I will meet you at the bank instead, as I have some other business I must attend to—

  Fremont

  I put my sheet of inferior-quality paper into the thick, creamy envelope—which I had observed bore the name and embossed seal of Great Centennial Bank on the back flap—then I crossed out my name on the front and wrote his instead.

  “Mary, will you kindly give this to the messenger? And if there are any dimes for tips out there on the hall table, please give him one of those as well.”

  “Yes, miss,” she said, and did her little dip. Both of these are things I dislike, I would vastly prefer to be called Fremont instead of “miss,” with no dip, but they’d been trained into her and I did not think I would ever be able to train them out.