The DEATH OF COLONEL MANN

by Cynthia Peale

  She was small and dark-haired, dressed in a fashionable dark blue “tailor-made” walking suit. Her violet eyes, lovely as they were, were shadowed by worry, and her face, under the brim of her flat, tip-tilted little hat, was pale and drawn, as if she had not slept well. Ames held a chair for her and she sat, waving away Caroline's offer of a cup of tea.

  “Well, Cousin?” she said to Ames. “Did you—what happened?”

  Ames had resumed his seat, but MacKenzie had not. Although Valentine had not seemed to notice that he was in the room, he must, he thought, take his leave, breakfast forfeited, since this was obviously to be a private family discussion. However, as he started to turn from the table, Caroline shook her head. “No, Doctor,” she said, “please stay. I am sure that Val does not object, do you, Valentine?”

  “What? Oh—no, not at all.” The young woman hardly glanced at him as he resumed his seat; all her attention was on Ames. He sat at the head of the table, his chair pushed back a little, his elbows resting on its arms and his hands pressed together under his chin as if he were praying. He said nothing for a moment, merely watching Valentine as if he were trying to judge her state of mind, her ability to deal with bad news.

  MacKenzie's porridge was growing cold; tentatively, hoping no one would mind, he began to spoon it up.

  “Valentine—” Ames began.

  “You didn't get them.” It was not a question; they heard her voice break as she spoke the words that, in her mind at least, foretold the ruin of her life.

  “No. We did not.”

  “We? Did you go with him, Caroline?”

  “Ah—no,” he said before his sister could answer. “Dr. MacKenzie was with me.”

  She threw the doctor a quick glance and returned to Ames.

  “Well? What did Colonel Mann say? Did he listen to you?”

  “Val, dear—” Caroline began. She had folded the newspaper onto her lap.

  “He did not say anything, I am afraid,” Ames interrupted.

  “But—”

  “He was dead,” Ames said, very gently.

  Valentine sat stunned, her mouth open, her eyes darkening with shock. At once Caroline got up and put her arms around her, but she did not respond. She continued to stare, speechless, at Ames.

  “And in fact it was worse than that, I am afraid,” Ames went on. “Someone had shot him.”

  “Oh!” For a moment they thought she might faint, but she did not.

  “Addington—go easy—” warned Caroline. “Doctor, could you pour her a cup of tea—no, coffee—”

  He did as she asked, even as he wondered if smelling salts might not be more appropriate.

  “But—how—” Valentine was struggling with Ames's news; what she said next astonished them. “He was certainly alive when I saw him at four o'clock,” she blurted.

  “When you saw him!” exclaimed Caroline. “You mean you went to him again?”

  Valentine had had an initial interview with the Colonel, they knew, during which he'd made his demand for money in return for her letters.

  “Yes. I thought—I thought— Oh, I don't know what I thought! I was so ashamed of having to ask Addington for help, and I thought perhaps, after all, I could get the letters back on my own. I knew you were going to see him later, but I thought—I wanted to be able to come around and tell you it wasn't necessary, you didn't have to go to him because I had gotten them back myself. Of course, I was mistaken,” she added with some bitterness.

  “He was not—agreeable to your request,” Ames said flatly.

  “No. He— Oh, he was horrid! He laughed at me. I thought I would die of shame, standing there and begging him for mercy—”

  “Don't say such things, Val,” Caroline said. “Drink some coffee—have you had breakfast? Give me your gloves— that's right. You mustn't upset yourself.”

  As Valentine allowed Caroline to take her gloves, Mac—Kenzie caught a glimpse of a large sapphire-and-diamond ring on the third finger of her left hand. A good marriage indeed, he thought.

  Caroline was still trying to comfort her young cousin. “Remember that the Cotillion is tonight, dearest,” she said, “and you want to be fresh and rested for it. Addington has his evening suit all laid out,” she added. “And I must say, he will look very handsome, escorting you down the stairs.”

  Valentine seemed not to hear.

  “What happened?” she said to Ames, her voice hardly more than a whisper. “Tell me—please.”

  Briefly, he did. “And I assure you that I searched thoroughly,” he added. “The letters were not there—or if they were, they were well hidden.”

  She was silent for a moment, absorbing it. Then: “But I saw them.”

  Ames made a small exclamation of surprise, but she did not seem to notice.

  “They were right there on top of his desk,” she went on. “He took them out of a drawer and put them there, as if to taunt me. I wanted to reach over and snatch them up—I would have, if I'd thought I could escape before he caught me. He was somewhat overweight, after all. I don't suppose he could have run very fast, do you?” She made a sound that was half sob, half laughter.

  “Did you see him put them away again?” Ames asked after a moment.

  “No.” Valentine shook her head, and in that one word they heard her despair.

  “So if he had the letters at—what time? Four o'clock? If he had them then, he probably still had them when—”

  “He was killed,” said Caroline. She met her brother's eyes; for the moment, she forgot the need to console their young cousin.

  “Exactly,” said Ames. He lifted an eyebrow at his sister, pushed back his chair, and stepped to the back window that gave onto their small walled garden. It was November-brown now, only a few evergreen shrubs showing any color; he stared out at it, unseeing. Then he turned to them once more.

  “How do you think the Colonel got those letters in the first place?” he asked Valentine.

  She had taken out a handkerchief to dab at her eyes. Now, very delicately, she blew her nose; then she thought for a moment.

  “I don't know,” she said. “I had them hidden in my room.”

  “Where?”

  “In a locked box at the back of my closet. Oh, why was I so stupid as to keep them?” she burst out. “I should have burned them!”

  To this, they all silently agreed.

  “Who knew about them?” Ames asked.

  “Why—no one. Except him,” Val added bitterly.

  They understood: she meant the man to whom she had written them. And who had, in the end, been gentleman enough to give them back to her.

  “And no one has access to your room except—?”

  “Well—Aunt Euphemia, of course. And the servants.?”

  “Have you asked your maid about them?”

  “No. I was afraid to—afraid that if I began to question her, Aunt Euphemia would find out about the whole affair, and she would—” Valentine took a deep breath. “I couldn't risk that.”

  Aunt Euphemia Ames—their late father's eldest sister— was a fierce, proud old woman whose ideas of proper conduct for young ladies like Valentine had been formed in an earlier, stricter age. And while she herself had behaved boldly, and sometimes even recklessly, in her own youth, it had been in the service of the Abolitionists and therefore permissible. An affair of the heart, such as Valentine's ill-fated adventure with the young man of the letters, was beyond Aunt Euphemia's ken. She had never married; as far as Caroline knew—and it was fairly far—she had never even had a suitor.

  “Friends?” Ames persisted. “Do your friends not sometimes visit with you, in your—ah—boudoir?”

  “Well—yes, of course, but how—no one knew—”

  “Someone did,” said Ames, his face grim. “And now, I am afraid, someone else does, as well.”

  It did not seem possible that she could grow any more pale, but she did, very visibly, as she said, “You mean, Colonel Mann gave them to someone? But why would he—” />
  “No. That is not what I mean.” Ames resumed his seat. “What I mean is that the person who killed him may well have taken them.”

  There was a long moment of silence as she absorbed it. Then: “Oh, dear heaven.”

  “Addington! For pity's sake!” Caroline said sharply. “Do you need to speak so?”

  He gave her a look. “If it is so important that those letters be retrieved, then we must look the facts in the face. We now have a murder investigation under way. At any moment, I myself may be arrested for the crime.”

  “You!” exclaimed Valentine. “But that is ridiculous!”

  “Of course it is ridiculous, but I discovered the body”— he threw a half-smile at the doctor—“with Dr. MacKenzie, it is true, but Crippen will see that he lacks a motive. I, however, had some delicate business with the Colonel, a fact that probably makes me a very good suspect indeed. Of course, Crippen will soon realize that he is mistaken, but in the interim— Well. Perhaps I can get to him before he gets to me, and that may work in my favor. Meanwhile, I think it is important, Valentine, that you try to behave as if you haven't a care in the world beyond seeing that your gown is ready for tonight. Is it, by the way?”

  With a visible effort, she wrenched her thoughts away from Colonel Mann and his threats and his blackmail.

  “Yes.”

  “And do you have something to occupy your time today?”

  “Yes. I am to spend the day with Alice—if she is well enough.”

  “Good,” said Ames. “Then I suggest that is what you should do. Go to Alice, try to pretend that you haven't a worry in the world.”

  “Is Alice not well?” Caroline asked.

  “She hasn't been. Not for weeks.” This was news to Caroline, but she let it pass. “Mrs. Dane has been worried about her, I know. Alice said she wanted to take her to Baden-Baden for the cure, but I think that Mr. Dane would never allow it.”

  “Why not? Surely he could bear to be parted from her for a month or two.”

  “Oh, I don't think it's that. It's the expense. He is very… close.”

  “Close!” Caroline exclaimed. “He could buy and sell us all! The only reason Alice had such a nice coming-out last year is that he shares Isabel's ambitions for her, and he wanted to make a good show.”

  MacKenzie was surprised at that; ordinarily Caroline Ames was the kindest of women, never speaking ill of anyone. Except, apparently, Mr. and Mrs. Dane.

  Momentarily, Valentine had been diverted by talk of her friend; now her worry and fear seemed to settle over her again. She sat immobile in her chair as if she did not have the strength to rise, her eyes fastened onto Ames as if he were her only hope. As, indeed, he was.

  “What do you think will happen, Cousin Addington?” she asked softly.

  “I don't know. The police will do their usual work—with some delicacy, one hopes, given the circumstances—and sooner or later we may expect someone to be arrested and charged with the crime.”

  “But my letters—”

  He shook his head. Although he was a proud, reserved man, he was not an unkind one; he did not want to hurt her, or alarm her, any more than necessary. On the other hand, he was not a man to deny unpleasant realities. “I am afraid that since it is now in the hands of the authorities, we can do nothing—”

  “Oh, please!” Her voice broke, and for a moment she pressed her hands to her face as if to forcibly hold back her sobs. “You must get them back! George would never want to marry me if those letters are found, and I couldn't bear it if he threw me over! I would be disgraced for life!”

  Casting a reproachful look at her brother, Caroline bent over the weeping girl and gently urged her to rise. “Come upstairs with me, Val. You can freshen up and calm yourself a bit. You don't want to go to Alice's like this.”

  As if Valentine were a little child instead of a grown young woman about to be married, Caroline urged her up and out of the room, leaving the men to their belated breakfast. They heard the whine and moan of the little elevator as it ascended to the second floor, where Caroline's room was.

  Ames said nothing, merely finished his meal and the newspaper both, by which time Caroline had rejoined them. She poured herself a fresh cup of coffee and sat at her place, pushing aside her uneaten porridge. “I don't suppose I dare hope that Euphemia will never learn about all this,” she said.

  “Undoubtedly she will, sooner or later,” remarked Ames. He offered the newspaper to her, but she refused it so he passed it to MacKenzie.

  “Is the young lady all right?” the doctor asked before he scanned it.

  “Yes. She's going to rest a bit before she goes to Alice's. Poor Val! The arrangements for the wedding are well under way”—it was to be in May, when Ames would be home from Egypt—“and she will look so exquisite in her wedding gown. What a shame to spoil it all because of some foolishness she was involved in summer before last.” At Newport, where ambitious women like Isabel Dane summered as they fought for social position. Val, because of her friendship with Alice, usually accompanied the Danes, but this past summer she'd chosen to go to Maine with the Wingates instead. Caroline hadn't known why until three days before, when she'd poured out her story of Colonel Mann's blackmail. “I just can't believe that people can behave so—so—” She searched for the right word.

  “Viciously,” MacKenzie offered.

  “Exactly,” she said. “Thank you, Doctor. Yes—so viciously.”

  She sipped her coffee; then: “Addington.”

  “Yes, Caro?”

  “You must find those letters.”

  He hesitated before he replied. “So you keep saying. But how?”

  “Oh, how should I know? But you must—you absolutely must! Think of it! Hasn't Val had enough trouble in her life, losing her parents like that—poor Aunt Rachel, I shall miss her till I die—and now this!”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Addington! Val is family!”

  “I know that, Caro, but—”

  “How can you refuse to help her? You cannot just let this scandal come out and ruin her life!”

  She was like a small, plump, fierce bird pecking away at his resistance. MacKenzie admired her tremendously.

  Ames took a deep breath. He looked, for a moment, like a man condemned.

  “Caroline, listen to me. No—do not interrupt. There has been a murder. The man who was killed had many enemies. One of those enemies may be, and probably is, the man who did the deed. And that man may—I repeat, may—have taken Val's letters. Now, how am I—how are we, if you will—to discover who that man is? The police—”

  “Oh, do not tell me again about the police!” She was really angry now; MacKenzie had never imagined she could be so passionate. He felt a little thrill even as he wondered at her temerity in speaking so to her brother.

  “You know what the police are!” she added.

  “Yes. I do. Our cousin, Standish Wainwright, sits on the Board of Police Commissioners, if you recall.”

  She brightened at that. “Of course! And he may be of help, do you not think?”

  “No. I do not think. He will be extremely put out if he discovers that I am meddling in what is none of my affair—”

  “But that is the point! This is your affair! It is our affair! Oh, how can you be so cruel? I thought better of you, Addington! Truly I did.”

  For a long moment he contemplated her. MacKenzie understood that a kind of silent battle, no less intense for its silence, was being waged between them, and he could sense Ames beginning to wither under the force of her will. Like many women, he thought, despite the fact that men spent their lives protecting them, sheltering them from the harsh realities of the world, keeping them safe in their domestic sphere, she was the stronger—and by far the more hard-headed.

  “All right, Caro,” Ames said at last.

  Instantly she brightened. “What are you going to do, Addington?”

  “I will go to see Inspector Crippen.”

  Just then the
grandmother clock in the hall began to strike the hour: nine o'clock.

  “This morning?”

  “I imagine he will be rather busy this morning.”

  “But you could at least inquire? You could at least see if he is there, if he could give you a few minutes of his time—”

  “I was going to go around to Crabbe's—”

  “Oh, Crabbe's! How can you think of boxing and fencing at a time like this? No—please go to see Inspector Crippen. And tell him—”

  “Yes?” He withered no more; he arched a skeptical eyebrow at her, as if he dared her to continue to order him about.

  Suddenly she smiled at him—a charming, almost coquettish smile, delightfully feminine. Even though it was not directed at MacKenzie, he was charmed by it; her next words, however, ruined the effect.

  “Tell him that I send him my best. Ask him to tea if you like—any afternoon. He especially liked Cook's Sally Lunn cake, if I recall correctly.”

  HALF AN HOUR LATER, AMES AND THE DOCTOR MADE THEIR way up along the steep brick sidewalk of Mt. Vernon Street to the top of Beacon Hill, where they turned down Joy Street toward Boston Common. A sharp west wind had blown away the previous evening's fog, and now the sun glowed on the redbrick town houses lining the way, each with its shining black shutters and gleaming brass door knocker. The sky was a deep blue that MacKenzie had never seen on the western plains, and carried on the sparkling air was an invigorating sea tang that he had never smelled before he came to Boston.

  He watched his footing carefully, aided by his cane. He wore a stout overcoat, a bowler, and a worn muffler that he'd had for years. He'd been a little embarrassed about that muffler at first, until he'd seen that the Ameses, Boston Brahmins though they were, sported articles of clothing that were even older and shabbier than it. This morning, however, Ames looked smart in his gray tweed Inverness cape and black trilby. He tipped his hat now to a woman passing, and paused at the corner of Beacon and Joy to allow a delivery wagon to turn up the hill.

  The Common lay before them, bare trees whipping in the chilly wind, a few hardy nursemaids pushing perambulators. Beyond, across the Common, they could see the white spire of the Park Street Church; nearer, up the hill to the left, stood the redbrick, white-columned State House with its glittering golden dome. A line of handsome brick and brownstone town houses stretched on one side down Beacon Street, and on the other, down the steeper slope of Park Street.