Val took a sip or two. Then: “I think Mrs. Dane saw the morning papers.”
Caroline understood at once: Addington, by discovering Colonel Mann's body, had become instantly notorious. And because Val was his cousin, so had she, even if people knew nothing about her own involvement with the Colonel.
“Mrs. Dane has always been so very careful with Alice,” Val added.
Yes. Isabel Dane had been a most tyrannical parent to her only child. Overprotective, Caroline had thought, even beyond the normal bounds of strict protection under which all girls of good family were brought up. And yet, she was pushy—never bothering to hide the intensity of her search for the right young man for Alice to marry.
“And if she saw the news about Cousin Addington finding Colonel Mann's body—and I believe she did, she always reads the morning papers—she probably feels that we have scandal attached to us, and she doesn't want Alice to associate with me any longer. Or not, at least, until it blows over.”
“But, Val, you and Alice have been best friends since you were barely out of walking strings!”
“I know.”
“I think it's just outrageous!” snapped Caroline. “Don't they have any loyalty? If anything, they should rally round in time of trouble. That's when you know who your real friends are, when trouble comes.”
“Oh, Caro, you mustn't blame Alice! It isn't her fault!”
Caroline heaved a sigh. What a mess! “I don't blame Alice, poor, weak little thing that she is,” she said. “I know she's your dear friend, Val, and I mean no offense. But I do blame her mother. Isabel is from New Hampshire, and because of that I've always tried to make allowances for her. But this is too cruel! I imagine Alice isn't any happier about it than you are.”
“No. But there is nothing she can do. Mrs. Dane is determined to make that marriage for her—”
“The warm young man she was so eager to tell me about,” Caroline interjected.
“Yes. And if she believes that Alice's reputation will be harmed by associating with me, why, then, she will not allow Alice to see me. It is as simple as that.”
“And as complicated,” murmured Caroline. “Because to tell you the truth, Val, even a woman as ambitious for her daughter as Isabel Dane cannot insult people too much. People will learn of this, and they will not approve of it.”
“Of course they will approve of it,” Val said despairingly. “No one will want to be associated with me now! And the Putnams—”
She set down her cup, and Caroline put her arms around her and held her for a long moment. Then she gave Val a little shake and released her.
“Listen to me, Val! We cannot let someone like Isabel Dane upset you like this. I am going to take you upstairs now, and you will wash your face and perhaps even dust on a little of my rice powder—yes, just a touch—and then I will take you to Sewing Circle.”
This was one of the many organizations that Caroline belonged to, and perhaps the most important: the Sewing Circle formed in her coming-out year, seventeen years before. Each year's crop of debutantes had one. They met once a week, and they would go on doing so until they died. The ostensible purpose of a Sewing Circle was to sew clothing for the poor, but its real purpose was to perpetuate those close bonds of family and friendship that united the Brahmin class. Two hours of sewing, followed by lunch, followed by another hour of sewing, all of it enlivened by genteel laughter and conversation, much of it gossip.
Caroline would have gone to this day's Sewing Circle if she'd had to be carried there on a stretcher; she could imagine the talk, this morning, about Addington's adventure with the Colonel. She must go, today of all days, to face her friends—and they were friends, for the most part—and let them see that although scandal had brushed the Ameses, it had not scarred them. Or not yet, at any rate.
And she would take Val with her—one guest per member per month was allowed. As yet, Val's only fault was that she was Addington's cousin; if worse came to worst, Caroline told herself, if Val's real connection to the Colonel came out, why, then, she would take Val again, as often as necessary to show that Val's family support was as strong as any. Val had her own Sewing Circle, of course, but it met on Thursdays. By then, who knew what she might have to face? Taking her along today would provide her with a kind of insurance.
A short time later, they marched down the steep slope of Pinckney Street, across Charles, and down to Brimmer Street, where today's gathering was to be held. The stiff wind off the river cut through Caroline's woolen jacket, and her stomach felt queasy, but she ignored it. Head high, bonnet ribbons fluttering, she walked briskly, as was her wont; straggling pedestrians, truant children, hustling delivery persons, did not deter her, for she swept past them, her skirts barely skimming the pavement, striding along in her stout new walking boots, a determined look on her face. She was, as MacKenzie had seen, the sweetest of women, the kindest and most generous; but she was a Boston woman, after all, and so when she had an urgent errand to perform, she strode swiftly and purposefully, and woe betide the man or beast who stood in her way. Val, trotting along beside her, struggled to keep up.
Caroline felt as though she were about to go into battle— as, in a way, she was. These friends whom she was about to confront were only human, after all, and so she knew they would delight in this small sensation in their rather constricted lives. She would have felt the same herself, she admitted, had scandal touched anyone else.
Mrs. Everett Crowninshield welcomed them, and a little silence fell as they appeared; then a genteel murmur of welcome flowed around the room. Caroline introduced Val to those two or three women who had not met her—there were fifteen women altogether—and settled herself with Val at her side. From her plush bag she took the shirt she was making for some unknown poor boy.
Val, having nothing to sew, sat with her hands clenched in her lap and responded politely to the few remarks addressed to her. Caroline, alert, knew that many surreptitious glances were being thrown their way; she knew that every woman in the room, although hesitant to bring up the subject directly, was acutely aware of Addington's adventure last night.
But then at last, Mrs. Eleazer Lodge—Emmie to her intimates—took advantage of a momentary lull in the conversation and said, “Caroline, dear, I saw your brother's name in the newspaper this morning.”
They all understood that this was the equivalent of throwing down the gauntlet—a challenge to a duel. For people like themselves—proper people, the very best people—it was not proper at all to have one's name in the newspaper save for three occasions: one's birth, one's marriage (should that happy event take place), and one's death. Otherwise, people like themselves kept their names out of the newspapers, away from the vulgar eyes of the increasingly vulgar populace.
Caroline tensed; she paused for a moment in her sewing. “Did you?” she said, smiling thinly.
“Indeed I did. So very tiresome, to be involved in a—”
“Emmie, will you have more tea?” Mrs. Crowninshield broke in. It was rude to interrupt, she knew, but far more so to allow Mrs. Lodge to continue.
A faint rustling traveled around the room as the tension broke and the ladies rearranged themselves. Although they were all eager to know the details of Addington's connection to Colonel Mann, they were none of them—except for the intrepid Mrs. Lodge—bold enough to put the question to Caroline directly.
Mrs. Lodge declined the tea, but she persevered with her questions.
“Caroline, why did Addington go to see the Colonel?”
Caroline met Mrs. Lodge's glance steadily. She had known Emmie Lodge since childhood; she had never particularly liked her.
“It was private business,” she replied, still with that thin smile.
Val clenched her hands in her lap. Dear Caroline—how brave she was, how splendid!
“Indeed?” Mrs. Lodge pursued. She was hot on the scent now and would not be put off. “I don't suppose you could tell us—”
“Emmie!” said Mrs. Crowninsh
ield sharply. As hostess, she felt an obligation—a moral duty—to keep matters on a civilized plane. Here it was, not yet eleven o'clock, and the day was threatening to dissolve into the thrust and parry of a verbal duel, no less deadly for the lack of tangible weapons. Words alone, Mrs. Crowninshield knew, could be lethal enough. However would they get through lunch?
Mrs. Lodge turned her stern gaze upon her hostess. “I am merely asking a question, Amalia,” she said.
“Perhaps your question is—”
“Too direct,” Julia Norton interjected. She threw a warning glance around the room. “Or too personal,” she added. “Really, Emmie, how can you—”
“Thank you, Julia,” Caroline said. “It is all right. I understand that many people have an interest in—the events of last night. Perhaps,” she added with gentle emphasis, “even many people in this room.”
Several women flushed, and one of them turned bright red. Mrs. Lodge, temporarily defeated, fell silent. Then Ida Curtis, who as everyone knew had no more sense than a flea, piped up: “I think we can all be glad that we are rid of him.” She meant, of course, not Addington Ames but Colonel Mann.
Several of the women glared at her, but that only prompted her to add: “Well, I am, at least! He was a dreadful man—dreadful! Blackmailing people—!”
“And how do you know about his blackmailing, Ida?” snapped Mrs. Lodge.
“I—I've heard tales.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes!” Mrs. Curtis had been whipped up to a high pitch of defiance now, and she would not be deterred. “That awful Bradshaw case—do you remember? I always thought Colonel Mann was behind that. Pansy Bradshaw was the niece of my dearest friend, and to see her disgraced in that way—”
There was a moment of silence as they thought about the unfortunate Miss Bradshaw, who had departed Boston three years before and was rumored now to be living in Monte Carlo.
“I never knew exactly what happened,” Mrs. Curtis went on, “but I am sure the Colonel had his hand in it. And if I ever find out who told him—” She looked defiantly around the room, a small, vengeful spirit in the midst of all that female propriety.
“There, there, Ida. Calm yourself,” said Mrs. Crownin—shield. She cleared her throat and spoke to the woman sitting next to her. “I wanted to ask you, Mary, if you would be kind enough to assist with the Thanksgiving baskets.”
Her neighbor, who had been reflecting on the Colonel and his nefarious deeds, started. “The baskets? Oh, dear, I'm afraid I can't. I committed only last week to the Christmas Revels. And you know how much time that takes— Isabel demands rehearsals nearly every day, right up till the performance.”
The Christmas Revels were a perfectly worthy cause, as they all understood: a charity performance, the proceeds of which went to a settlement house in the North End. Isabel Dane was in charge of them.
Mrs. Crowninshield did not mind being turned down; she had achieved her purpose, which was to turn the conversation away from the terrible Colonel and his misdeeds.
And that little success allowed her to keep on turning it, to the Cotillion tonight, and to the latest fashions—bustles were going out, sleeves were expanding at the shoulder— even, in the end, to that familiar and never-boring New England topic, the weather.
Caroline looked down at the shirt in her lap. The side seam was crooked; she'd have to rip it out and start over.
Three hours later, after a luncheon of oeufs en gelee and some kind of gussied-up scrod (Mrs. Crowninshield had recently acquired a French chef, much overrated, people agreed), Caroline and Val walked back up Beacon Hill to Louisburg Square. If Val was not entirely recovered from the pain of the affront she'd suffered that morning at Isabel Dane's, Caroline thought, she was at least well on the way.
They parted at the door of No. 161/2; Val and Aunt Eu-phemia lived over toward the Common, on Chestnut Street.
“Get a little rest if you can,” Caroline said, embracing her young cousin.
“Yes,” Val replied.
“And we will all have a wonderful time tonight! Did Addington tell you what time we'd be picking you up?”
“Around nine, I think he said.”
“Good. That will give you a chance to straighten your gown and make any little adjustments you need to make before the Grand March at ten.”
“Yes.”
“And you should eat a little something extra at tea. Supper won't be served until after midnight.”
“I will.”
Val turned away then and walked along the square to Mt. Vernon Street. Caroline gazed fondly after her. Never having had children of her own, she had always lavished affection on this orphaned cousin; she loved the girl as if Val were her own daughter, and she was determined not to let her be hurt any further by this dreadful business of the letters. Those Putnams would accept Val, she thought, scandal or no scandal.
With her face set in hard lines of determination that would have alarmed her brother, she mounted the little flight of granite steps to her door and went in.
ON NEWSPAPER ROW, ON WASHINGTON STREET AROUND the corner from City Hall, Ames led the way along the crowded sidewalk, searching, until he stopped before a doorway cluttered with a dozen small signs. “Here we are,” he said, starting up the narrow stairway. “Let's hope he's in.”
MacKenzie lumbered behind; fortunately they had to go up only one flight. Down a hallway they came to a door labeled “Boston Literary Journal.” Ames knocked, and without waiting for an answer, opened it. They entered a small office containing a desk and two tables, all piled high with stacks of paper that looked like manuscripts. Seated behind the desk was a man in his mid-thirties; he had the reddest hair MacKenzie had ever seen, worn long over his collar, and bright blue eyes in a thin, almost ascetic-looking face decorated with extravagant mustaches that reached down to his jawline. At once, he leaped to his feet.
“Ames!”
“Good morning, Desmond. Hard at work as usual, I see.”
They shook hands, and Ames said, “Doctor, this is my good friend Desmond Delahanty. He is the proprietor of this dubious enterprise, but you must not hold that against him.”
“Delighted to see you, Doctor,” said Delahanty. He spoke with a pronounced Irish accent. “I've heard all about you—oh, yes. Word gets around in a small place like Boston.”
“You had a good trip?” Ames asked him. And to Mac—Kenzie: “Desmond has just returned from his annual visit to Dublin to see his mother.”
“Very good, yes. A calm crossing, for once. And of course I came back to this—” He indicated the blizzard of paper that inundated his office.
“So many hopeful scribblers,” murmured Ames with a smile.
“Yes, but every now and again I find a gem. And what are you doing downtown at this hour, Addington? Consulting with the police?”
“You have seen the morning papers,” Ames replied.
“Of course.” Delahanty grinned. “Did you do the deed? If you did, I shall arrange a ceremony of appreciation for you.”
Ames shook his head. “Don't let your imagination run away with you, Desmond. I had personal business to discuss with the Colonel, and I was most grievously disappointed to discover that he was in no condition to talk to me.”
“Personal business? Surely not.”
They settled themselves into rather rickety chairs, and Ames gave a brief explanation. “I cannot tell you the young lady's name, you understand. But I would like to see the galley sheets.”
“To discover who visited him.”
“Yes. And then to discover which of those visitors took the letters.”
“You searched his rooms?” Delahanty asked, his eyes sparkling with mischievous interest.
“Briefly—and unsuccessfully.”
Delahanty tipped his chair back precariously. “But why would someone take your young lady's letters?”
“If I knew that, I might know who the person is. I doubt it was a random choice. I suspect that the person who took
them knew how to make good use of them. As I understand it, the Colonel always had a number of visitors on Monday evenings. I doubt the letters were taken while he was still alive; therefore, I must assume that the person who took them was either the person who killed him, or someone who came in afterward. For the moment, I thought that you might take us around to the Colonel's office to see what we can see.”
“You will see the Colonel's assistant, I suppose, but he is little more than an office boy. I doubt he would know much.”
“Still. He might be useful. But that brings me to another question, Desmond. The Colonel must have had a large network of—what shall we call them? Spies? And of course he constantly ran the risk of being sued for libel. How did he stay clear of the law?”
Delahanty nodded and smiled knowingly. “About the spies, I cannot tell you, but surely he must have had informants well placed everywhere. The man's knowledge was amazing! And as for the law—now, you won't find this documented anywhere, but it is known that the Colonel had a partner.”
“How do you mean? A fellow blackmailer?”
“No. Not quite. But there is a man who advised him. Vetted his information before it was published. And for that very reason—to avoid a libel suit.”
“A lawyer.”
“Yes. I don't know his name. But whoever he is, he has done his job well. There has never been, as far as I know, any attempt to stop the Colonel.”
“Until now,” said Ames dryly. “Now he is stopped for good and all.”
“We hope,” amended Delahanty.
In a moment more they were descending the stairs to the street where, fifty feet along, a man pulled up short when he saw them.
“Delahanty!” he exclaimed. “As I live and breathe.”
Delahanty, not offering his hand, gave him a wary look. “Babcock.”
“Right the first time.” Babcock grinned. He had a slovenly, disreputable look to him, hair mussed, overcoat unbuttoned, pockets bulging with bits of paper, cravat carelessly tied. “And your friends are—?” He gave Ames and Mac—Kenzie a careful look, as if sizing up their worth to him.
The DEATH OF COLONEL MANN Page 6
