by P. B. Ryan
“You could have stepped in sooner in your brother’s defense,” she said. “A few seconds might have saved Harry from a boot to the head.” Harry, who’d suffered a gash to the forehead, had sniveled like a schoolgirl afterward, insisting that the constables be summoned to deal with Felix, which they were.
“Perhaps I thought another scar or two might improve his character,” Will said.
Nell looked down at her gloved hands, then back at Will. “If he’d never...done what he did to me, would you have reacted faster?”
He hesitated. She sensed he had some typically droll response on the tip of his tongue, but he simply looked her in the eye and said, “Yes.”
Nell nodded, looked away. The section of Tremont Street known as Colonnade Row looked so serene this time of night, with the windows of the mansions and townhouses almost completely dark and Boston Common deserted. It was even more beautiful in the winter, with snow glittering beneath the street lamps.
She’d grown to love living here. She loved Boston, and Viola, and her job, but most of all she loved Gracie.
Any whiff of scandal, and everything Nell most valued in the world, everything that made her life worth living, could be snatched away in a heartbeat. A bogus “understanding” with a gentleman was one thing, a love affair—a real love affair, furtive, clandestine—was quite another.
Nell turned toward Will, formulating in her mind what she wanted to say—or rather, didn’t want to say, but must. As she was groping for words, Will pulled the glove off his right hand. He lifted her left hand, unbuttoned her glove, and slid it off as well.
He took her hand in his much larger one and held it, nestled in her billowing skirts, warm flesh against flesh. And then he smiled at her. It was a very quiet smile. There was something melancholy about it, but something reassuring, too—deliberately so, Nell knew.
What he was telling her, without using ungainly words to do so, was We needn’t speak of it. We shall go on as we have been.
Will tugged his glove back on, stepped down from the buggy, and came around to hand Nell down. He walked her to the Hewitts’ front door, bid her good night, returned to his phaeton and drove away.
Chapter 10
“And this is the garden,” said Isaac Foster as he guided Nell and Will out the back door of his Acorn Street house the next morning, all three of them shielding their eyes against the sun.
A charming little place, Orville Pratt had called it. It was charming, all right, a forty-year-old, well-kept redbrick row house on a mossy cobblestone lane. But to Nell, who’d been born in a two-room hovel, the notion of a twelve-room townhouse being considered “little” was nothing less than bizarre.
The garden was a cozy niche walled in ivy-covered brick, its air perfumed by the flowering perennials planted around its perimeter. “Those are medicinal herbs, most of them,” Foster said. “A special interest of mine. It tends to be very quiet out here, very relaxing—especially in the evening.”
“I can imagine,” Nell said.
“Beacon Hill is the ideal location for a surgeon,” Foster said. “Massachusetts General and Harvard Medical School are just a few blocks north of here.”
“I suppose, if I were practicing surgery, that might be a consideration.” Will pulled a tin of Bull Durhams out of his coat pocket and offered one to Foster.
“God, no,” Foster said. “Those things will kill you.”
“Come now,” Will said as he lit up. “They’re not as bad as all that.”
“You read my piece on pulmonary obstruction. I discussed the effects of tobacco on the lungs.”
Nell said, “There was an article about smoking in Harper’s Weekly a couple of years ago, but I didn’t know how much to believe.”
“No, it’s all true, about the cancer and heart disease,” Foster said. “I consulted on that article.”
“I’m afraid I’m still a bit skeptical,” Will said.
“That’s because you’re a nicotine addict, and addicts believe what they want to believe.”
Will didn’t like hearing that; Nell could tell by his expression. After having conquered his dependence on opium and morphine, it had to sting to still be characterized as an addict.
With an amused glance at Nell, Foster said, “If you won’t quit for the good of your health, you might consider it for the sake of your future marital happiness. No lady likes to be kissed by a man whose mouth tastes like an unswept hearth. Am I right, Miss Sweeney?”
When she hesitated, he said, “Forgive me. That was presumptuous.”
“No, actually, you’re quite right,” she said. “Or so I’ve heard.”
Foster slapped Will on the back. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll quit before the wedding.”
“I’ll take it under advisement,” Will said with a sardonic little look in Nell’s direction.
“So, Hewitt, if it’s not too forward of me to inquire...” Foster began. “You’d mentioned being a nomad last night, yet here you are looking at houses and” –he darted a glance toward Nell— “thinking about settling down. Yet you have no plans to resume your medical career?”
Will took a thoughtful draw on his cigarette. “The war pretty much sapped my interest in surgery, if you must know. There are just so many limbs a man can hack off before he never wants to see another bonesaw.”
“Yet you performed an autopsy just last Autumn,” Foster said.
“Ah, yes—Bridie Sullivan,” Will said. “That was an unusual circumstance. My mother had asked Miss Sweeney to look into the disappearance of a young lady, who, as it turned out, had been murdered. Determining the cause of death was a bit thorny, but I rather enjoyed the challenge. The forensic applications of medicine have fascinated me since Edinburgh.”
“There’s a renowned expert on that subject who teaches there,” Foster said. “Gavin Cuthbert. His articles in the journals are riveting. You didn’t, by any chance, study under him?”
“Extensively. In fact, I assisted him in his research on determining time of death, and he helped me to get an article on medical jurisprudence published in The Lancet.”
“I read that article,” Foster said. “Well done, old man. Quite engrossing, really. Were you planning to teach or practice medicine, or both?”
“Both, but it was the teaching I was most interested in, because affiliation with a medical school would have afforded me more opportunities for research. Of course, my plans got sidetracked when the war broke out. I couldn’t shake the research habit, though. I took hundreds of pages of notes on the conditions of battlefield casualties. I was going to send the notebook to Dr. Cuthbert, but it was confiscated when the Rebs took me prisoner.”
“Where were you held?”
“Andersonville.”
Foster grimaced. Everyone knew about Andersonville; they’d all seen the shocking photographs of malnourished prisoners with their hollow eyes and skeletal bodies, and the appalling outdoor pen in which they’d been crammed.
“Is it true that General Grant called you the finest battle surgeon in the Union Army?” Foster asked.
Will blew out a stream of smoke. “Where did you hear that?”
“Your mother told me last night.”
“It’s true,” Nell said.
“Seems a pity for such talent to go to waste,” Foster said.
“I’m sure there are more than enough promising young men in your clinical medicine classes so that I won’t be missed.”
“There are a few with real promise,” Foster conceded, “but unfortunately, even Harvard has its limitations in terms of curriculum. For instance, we don’t offer a single course in your particular area of expertise.”
“Medical jurisprudence?”
Foster smiled. “Did I happen to mention I’m being considered for the position of assistant dean of the medical school?”
Will squinted at Foster through a haze of smoke as he held his cigarette to his lips.
“If I were to be granted that position,” Foster said, “and
if I were to happen upon a qualified candidate to teach such a course, I would make him a very attractive offer. He’d start out as just an adjunct professor, of course, same as I did, but it goes without saying he’d have access to research facilities, assistants...”
“I wish you luck in finding someone,” Will said.
“Hewitt...” Foster began. “Will...”
“Say, didn’t Virginia Kimball live around here?” Will asked. In fact, he and Nell already knew exactly where Mrs. Kimball had lived in relation to Dr. Foster.
Foster paused for a moment, as if thrown not just by the change in subject, but by the question itself. “Why, yes, as a matter of fact. Her house is on Mount Vernon, but it backs up to Acorn.”
“You mean, one of those garden walls on the other side of the street is hers?” Nell asked. “Which one?”
“The, uh, the one directly across from me, actually.”
“With the red door?” The brick wall in question had an unmarked, crimson-painted door in it.
“Yes, that’s right. That’s...that’s actually how I knew it was her house, because she’d leave it open occasionally when she was working in her garden.”
Will stared up at the house as he smoked. “Darling,” he said to Nell, “do you think you ought to take another look at that big third floor bedroom? I was thinking it might make a good nursery, but you’d be the best judge of that.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course,” Nell said as she retreated back inside the house. On the way here, Will had suggested that Isaac Foster might be more candid about his relationship, if any, with Virginia Kimball out of earshot of Nell.
Instead of heading upstairs, Nell ducked into a pleasantly masculine little library at the rear of the house with windows that looked out onto the garden. Hugging the bookcase-lined wall to avoid being seen from outside, the wide-open windows being curtained only with hanging plants, Nell positioned herself so that she could hear every word the two men said to each other.
Will was explaining to Foster why he’d broached the subject of Mrs. Kimball. “...It was years ago. I was young and...easily incited to passion. And Mrs. Kimball...”
“You needn’t tell me, old man.”
The two men let out chuckly little groans that communicated better than words the extent of Virginia Kimball’s sexual magnetism.
“I fancied myself in love with her,” Will said. “I would have given anything if she’d favored me—anything. But there was this Italian count...”
“He was still alive? It must have been a long time ago.”
“Thirteen years ago. I made a fool of myself, as men that age are wont to do. For some time afterward, I wished I’d never met her. But then I came to realize that she really wasn’t such a bad sort, just looking after her own interests. In a way, I grew to admire her for it.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Foster said. “She had her faults, but she was self-reliant, fearless—not qualities one normally associates with feminine allure, yet I must admit they only added to her...” He paused as if foraging for words. “She was...”
Will knew enough not to fill the silence with words.
“Virginia and I...” Foster trailed off. Nell wished she could see him.
“So I gathered,” Will said.
“She used to tie a ribbon around the knob on her garden door when she wanted me to come calling,” Foster said. “I knew there were other men she...entertained. I would see them at night, sometimes, going into her garden, or coming out. It never really troubled me. I mean...one uses a French letter, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I didn’t love her,” Foster said, “I just loved...well...”
“Yes,” Will said knowingly, “I think I—”
“No, it wasn’t just because she was free with her favors. It was the way in which she was free. She was...utterly abandoned in that respect. Her appetites were as consuming as any man’s, and she gave full rein to them. It was never boring, being with her.”
“No, I don’t imagine it was.”
Nell felt an absurd stab of jealousy, knowing what was transpiring in Will’s mind.
“And she expected nothing from you?” Will asked. “No declarations of love, no promise of marriage?”
“She expected gifts,” Foster said. “That was understood. She preferred jewelry. At some point, I noticed she never wore any of the things I’d given her. I assumed she was pawning them.”
“Really?” Will was wise to keep his responses brief, Nell thought. Foster obviously felt a rapport with him, and was in a mood to unburden himself. It was best just to listen.
“I suspected she was in embarrassed circumstances, but too proud to let on. After I broke it off—”
“It was you who broke it off,” Will asked, “not she?”
“I had started calling on a young lady,” Foster said, “It began to feel sordid, continuing that sort of relationship with Virginia while I was seeing Louise. I told Virginia the truth, that things seemed to be getting serious with Louise, and that was why I couldn’t see her anymore. About a month later, I found a note slid under my door. It was from Virginia, demanding five-hundred dollars, or she’d show the Red Book to Louise and the dean of the medical school.”
“The Red Book?”
At last, Nell thought.
“It’s this thick journal bound in red snakeskin. She uses it—used it—to write about her encounters with men. And believe me, she spared no detail. She used to like to read to me from it—omitting the real names of the men, of course. It’s the most ribald stuff I’ve ever encountered. I could only imagine what she’d written about me. We’d done things... Let’s just say she brought out a certain side of me.”
Mrs. Kimball’s former lovers would be ruined, Nell realized, socially and professionally, should the Red Book come to light. Perhaps one of them had come to her home looking for the book—either to protect himself or to use the information in it to his advantage—only to have the situation get out of hand. Or perhaps he’d come there intending to kill Mrs. Kimball, thereby ensuring that she could never expose their affair—or because he was enraged over the blackmail, or jealous of her other lovers. There were, it seemed to Nell, far too many reasons for Mrs. Kimball’s gentlemen friends to have wanted her dead.
“Funny thing was,” Foster continued, “Louise and I had parted ways just a few days before I got Virginia’s note. Of course, Virginia had no way of knowing that. As for the dean, he and I were actually close friends, had been for years. I was privy to every detail of his own liaisons, so I had no fear that my little dalliance with Virginia would come back to haunt me. At least I was a bachelor, which was more than he could say.”
“So you didn’t pay the five-hundred?” Will asked.
“No, I did.”
There came a pause. “I don’t understand,” Will said. “If she had nothing to hold over your head...”
“Virginia was a proud lady. Her situation must have been terribly dire for her to stoop to blackmail. I had the money. I didn’t begrudge it.”
Nell stood there in Isaac Foster’s library with her mouth hanging open. From Will’s silence, she gathered he was as astounded as she by Foster’s largesse.
Finally Will said, “Why didn’t you just give her the money outright?”
“Oh, she would have been mortified. She never would have taken it. You see, the blackmail was her way of squeezing money out of her former conquests—I can’t have been the only one she tapped—without giving away the true extent of her hardship. If you’d read her notes, you’d understand. She’d make it seem as if it were all a game to her, as if she were doing it as a perverse form of amusement rather than out of actual need.”
“‘Notes?’” Will asked. “Did you receive more than one?”
“Oh, yes, she’d come tapping on my piggy bank every few months.”
Will fell silent for a moment, and then he said, “You felt something for her, obviously. Her murder must have shocked you.”
After a long pause, Foster said, “I was walking home from the medical school that afternoon after delivering a three-hour lecture on clinical surgery. At the corner of Mt. Vernon, I noticed a crowd gathering around Virginia’s house, so I went down there and asked a boy what had transpired. He said an actress had been shot.”
“Had it just happened,” Will asked, “or...”
“About an hour before, I suppose. The lecture had ended at a quarter to five, and the paper said she was killed around four.”
That was a good question on Will’s part. Assuming Foster really had been lecturing on clinical surgery when Mrs. Kimball and Fiona were shot, there was no way he could have done it.
“There were constables milling around,” Foster said, “just about every constable in the city, it looked like. I told one of them I was a physician, and asked if I be of any help, but he said it was too late, that the lady who lived there was dead, and her maid, too. They brought out two bodies on stretchers. I pulled back the sheets. The first one was the maid, but I could only tell that because her hair was reddish brown, not black. Her face...well... As for Virginia, her eyes were wide open, but so...blank. She’d always had this...spark in her eyes, you know, this crackle.”
“Yes,” Will said. “Yes, I know what you mean.”
“Max Thurston was there—the playwright? He and Virginia were very close. He lived just across Mount Vernon from her, in one of those Louisburg Square townhouses that look exactly alike, except that his has bright blue window shutters and a lime green front door. Every afternoon at exactly four o’clock, he walked over to Virginia’s for cocktails and gossip.”
“Cocktails? I thought it was tea.”
“So Max has been claiming, but I happen to know it was Martinez cocktails, and plenty of them. It was an entirely platonic relationship of long standing. He’s quite the Lizzie. Not a bad sort, though, quite likable in his own way. You may not credit it, given his...inclinations, but—”
“Believe me,” Will said in an amused tone, “after eighteen years in British boarding schools and universities, where one can go a very long time without glimpsing a female, I’ve long since learned not to make assumptions about a fellow based on what he does with whom when the lights are out.”
