The DEATH OF COLONEL MANN

by Cynthia Peale

Then, hesitantly, with great delicacy, Caroline said, “Val, you know I don't want to pry, but—”

  Val waited, eyes downcast.

  “But—where did you meet him?”

  Val looked up. She knew who “him” was: not George Putnam but that other. The one who had so briefly enchanted her and who had, in the end, caused her such grief. “At the Christmas Revels, two years ago.”

  This enormous production was held annually in Sanders Theater over at Harvard, a gala celebration of the season, the profits donated to charity. The participants were amateurs drawn from Boston and Cambridge Society; for weeks they rehearsed diligently, learned songs and dance steps, learned lines. Caroline had participated once, some years earlier before Isabel Dane took it over, but she hadn't enjoyed it—too raucous, too exhausting—and she had never done so again. But she knew that because of the great number of people involved—two or three hundred—the Christmas Revels were known as a place where more than one match had been made.

  “And… you became… friends?”

  “More than that. We met secretly all through the spring. He—said he loved me. I wrote those letters to him—those awful letters. He was at Newport that summer—”

  “Summer before last.”

  “Yes. I was staying with the Danes, as I always did. And over the course of the summer, he—found that he didn't love me, after all. So he gave the letters back.”

  “And you are sure that he never told anyone about them?”

  “I can't be sure, of course. But I doubt he did.” Val's face suddenly twisted with pain.

  “I'm just trying to think about who—”

  “Yes, Caro. All I can tell you is I don't think he told anyone. And after all, he was decent enough to return them. After… it was over.”

  But it wasn't over, thought Caroline. It went on and on, shadowing their lives, threatening disaster.

  She wanted very badly to ask the young man's name, but she didn't quite dare.

  THE HOTEL BRUNSWICK, AT MIDMORNING, SEEMED A BUSY place, well run. No one, this morning, would have guessed that only two days before, a scandalous crime had been committed on its premises.

  “No need to disturb the manager,” Ames murmured as he and MacKenzie crossed the lobby. “We'll just have a look upstairs on our own.”

  They avoided the elevator and went up the stairs. Mac—Kenzie's knee began to throb before they reached the third floor, and Ames waited with him while he rested; then they went on. The fourth-floor corridor was quiet and empty, the door to Colonel Mann's suite closed. But the next door was slightly ajar. Ames pushed it open.

  Inside was a chambermaid making the bed. When she saw Ames, she gave a frightened little cry.

  “Excuse me,” Ames said pleasantly. He stepped into the room, motioning MacKenzie to follow. “Do not alarm yourself. Could you tell me whose room this is?”

  The maid stood stock-still, staring at him. No doubt, he thought, the police had given her a rough going-over.

  “Yes?” he said, smiling at her. He took out his worn leather coin purse. “Could you?” He fished out a one-dollar coin.

  The maid's eyes fastened on it. Then she looked up to meet his dark, intent gaze.

  “No harm will come to you,” he said. He stepped toward her, holding out the coin. “And you may have this in return.”

  The maid had a little struggle with herself; then she held out her small, chapped hand and Ames put the coin into it.

  “Mr. Longworth, sir,” she said softly. She was looking at the coin.

  “Ah. Would that be Richard Longworth?”

  The maid nodded.

  Ames pressed his lips together, his mind racing. It was a name he knew—a name that bore out Delahanty's statement that the Colonel had had legal advice.

  Richard Longworth—a fellow member of the St. Botolph, although Ames did not know him well—was the scion of one of the city's first families. He was also a man with a shadowed reputation—for gambling, for loose living, for running through his wife's fortune. And, Ames thought, he was a member of the Bar.

  He fished another dollar coin from his purse. The maid watched him, seemingly fascinated.

  “I am going to ask something else of you,” he said. “Could you leave us for five minutes? Here is another dollar. You need not worry. We are not the police, nor will we tell the police that we have been here. Can you do that? Leave us for five minutes?”

  The maid looked very frightened—to be caught out in this would certainly mean her job, MacKenzie thought—but she held out her hand and Ames put the second coin into it. Then, quickly, she darted out, closing the door behind her.

  Ames looked around. In contrast to the Colonel's suite adjoining, this was an untidy place. He saw clothing draped over furniture, books piled on the floor, papers scattered over the small desk by the window. On a table were two empty wine bottles and a half-empty bottle of brandy. A breakfast tray lay on another—half-empty coffee cup, half-eaten pieces of toast. He crossed to the door that led to the Colonel's suite and tried it. Locked. No bolt on this side.

  He turned to the high chiffonier, on which stood a photograph in a silver frame. It was of a man in his late thirties or early forties, formally dressed. His high-browed face had a clever look to it, and he was smiling a small, wry smile. He had a neatly trimmed mustache; his top hair was slightly thinning. Below the photograph were two dates: 1843–1890.

  After studying it for a moment, Ames turned away. On the night table was a single withered rose that had once been pink; beside it lay a program from the Park Theater for its current production, Lady Musgrove's Secret.

  He went to the desk. It held a jumble of papers—bills, invitations, racing forms. He slid open the wide top drawer. It held a single sheet of paper, an unfinished letter written in a large, bold hand:

  My Darling:

  I write this with a heavy heart. I cannot believe that you would abandon me. Say you will not, and I will do anything you desire. But I cannot live without you—I cannot! I beg you, do not condemn me to that hell. Please, please tell me that you

  Ames left the letter where it was and slid shut the drawer. He had only a moment more. What was here to help him?

  He stepped to the half-made bed and slipped his hand under the mattress. He felt something hard; he pulled it out. It was a morocco jewelry case. He opened it.

  “Look at this,” he said softly to MacKenzie, who stepped near to see.

  On a bed of pale velvet lay a diamond bracelet. MacKen—zie gave a low whistle.

  “He trusts the help,” he said.

  “Either that, or he drinks to the point where he cannot remember where he's put his valuables.”

  The bracelet, Ames thought, was undoubtedly intended for the recipient of the half-finished letter. He doubted that Longworth's wife was that woman.

  He closed the case and slipped it back under the mattress. The chambermaid could live for the rest of her life on what that bracelet would bring, but she seemed too timid to take it, even if she knew of its existence.

  He straightened and looked around. This room held a sense of the man who occupied it, far more so than had the Colonel's. The man who lived here—when he did not live with his wife—was a man of impulsive acts, a careless man, a man who apparently lived two lives, at least.

  But the room told Ames nothing about his own urgent business.

  Just then they heard voices in the corridor. They tensed; the voices faded.

  “All right, Doctor,” Ames said. “We must go. Richard Longworth is the scapegrace son of a man my father held in high esteem. And now, knowing his connection to Colonel Mann, I would very much like to talk to him.”

  He went to the door and cautiously opened it. The corridor was deserted. They let themselves out, closing the door softly behind them. As they walked toward the stairs, they passed an open door. Ames looked in and saw the maid at work. “Thank you,” he said softly. She had no reaction; she simply stared at him as if she'd never seen him befo
re.

  When they stood outside on Boylston Street once more, Ames looked unseeing at the busy thoroughfare.

  Richard Longworth! A man who lived high—higher than his income. A man who had something about him that was not quite—in the Boston phrase—“steady.” The exact type of man who would have been an adviser to the Colonel.

  It was not quite noon. “Come on, Doctor,” he said. “I am reluctant to give you lunch at the St. Botolph twice in one week, but if Longworth is there, I would very much like to talk to him.”

  But at the club they were told that Longworth was not in. So they went home to take their lunch at Louisburg Square.

  “DISAPPEARED?” AMES EXCLAIMED. HE HAD JUST BEGUN to spoon up his soup, which was split pea, thick and spicy, far better than the fare at the St. Botolph Club. Now he paused, his dark eyes intent on his sister. “And Val has no idea where she might have gone?”

  “No. But she does know—in hindsight—that the girl was upset about something. She was all thumbs last night, Val said, doing Val's hair for the Cotillion.”

  “Was she there when Val got home afterward?”

  “Yes.”

  “But not this morning?”

  “No. Addington—think about it—it may have been she who took Val's letters.”

  Ames stared at her, but she could tell he did not see her. Then: “Could she have done this on her own? Or did someone put her up to it?”

  “Oh, the latter, I'm sure.”

  “And that same someone gave—or sold—the letters to the Colonel.”

  “It would seem so.” How horribly depressing, Caroline thought. The servants with whom we live, betraying us, selling our secrets.

  “And when the maid learned that the Colonel had been murdered—” MacKenzie began.

  Ames nodded. “She panicked and fled.”

  “So either she feared for her own life…” Caroline hesitated.

  “Or someone killed her, as well,” Ames supplied.

  Caroline put down her spoon. Suddenly she was no longer hungry. “Did you see Mr. Hemenway, Adding-ton?”

  “Yes.” And he told her about that sad interview, and then about his visit to the Hotel Brunswick.

  “Richard Longworth?” said Caroline. “But—how could he possibly have been the Colonel's lawyer? His wife is the dearest person in the world!”

  “I don't follow you. What does the character of Long-worth's wife have to do with anything?”

  “Why—because—” She turned to MacKenzie. “Lydia Longworth—she was a Saltonstall, and a Cabot on her mother's side—came out just a year ahead of me. Even then we all knew that she had a penchant for him. It took him long enough, but in the end they did marry. No children, I believe. I haven't seen her in ages. They say she's not been well. And if her husband is—was—connected to the Colonel, I can understand why. Such a connection would make even the strongest woman ill, and Lydia was always rather delicate.”

  She spoke freely because she believed that the doctor was as interested in the minutiae of Boston lore as she was. And, indeed, he seemed to be: he listened intently, gazing at her from across the table, a slight smile visible under his mustache.

  “Did you know her well?” he asked. He did not care a whit about Richard Longworth's wife, of course, but he did want Caroline to keep talking to him.

  “Not very. She was not easy to know. But a lovely girl—a lovely woman now. They have had their troubles, I must say. I heard that Longworth was seriously in debt, and that Lydia's father refused to help him.”

  “And what about his own father?” MacKenzie asked.

  “I never knew him, but I believe—” She turned to Ames. “Was he not a friend of Papa's, Addington?”

  “Yes.” Ames had finished his soup and was wiping his mouth with his napkin.

  “Where are you going?” Caroline asked as he rose.

  “To see Longworth Senior,” he replied. “I have no idea if he even knows that his son had such an unsavory connection. It may be my unpleasant task to enlighten him. Doctor? Will you come?”

  MacKenzie, who was only halfway through his meal, was torn. He would have preferred a quiet afternoon by the fire with Caroline; on the other hand, busy as she was, he doubted she would stay at home in any case. So he put down his spoon and, with a smile and a nod to her, accompanied his landlord through the door.

  THE ELDER LONGWORTH WAS A MAN OF SOME SEVENTY years, tall and spare, gray-haired, gimlet-eyed, with an abrupt manner that bordered on arrogance.

  “Yes, Mr. Ames?” he said. He held out his hand; Ames took it and then introduced MacKenzie.

  They were in the front parlor of Longworth's house on Beacon Street just beyond Clarendon. Although Longworth Senior had been acquainted with his own father, Ames had never met him. Now he contemplated this intimidating old man—intimidating even to him—and wondered how to begin.

  “This is a most delicate matter, sir,” he said. “And I can assure you that Dr. MacKenzie here will keep whatever we say in the strictest confidence.”

  Longworth's eyes flicked over MacKenzie's solid form and came back to Ames. “Well?” he said. “And what is it that will need such strict confidence?”

  Does he really not know? Ames thought. Perhaps not.

  “It is about—your son, sir,” he said.

  Longworth's face settled into even harsher lines; his mouth drew down, and his left eye twitched a little. “Yes?”

  “And about his connection to Colonel Mann.”

  “You found the Colonel's body,” Longworth said.

  “Yes.”

  “Had you business with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “What has my son to do with it?”

  “I am given to understand that he was an associate of the Colonel's.” Ames was bluffing, but only a little.

  “I have no idea with whom my son associates.”

  “Sir, in all honesty, I do not care about your son's associates. I am merely trying to put my hands on a certain packet of letters that were in the Colonel's possession shortly before he was killed. That is why I went to his suite on Monday evening—to get them—but I arrived too late. Someone—I believe it may have been the man who killed the Colonel—had already made off with what I was looking for.”

  “You accuse my son of murder?”

  “Not at all. But since he was an associate of the Colonel's, I thought perhaps he could tell me who might have gone to the Colonel that evening. Or, failing that, perhaps he could tell me who supplied the letters to the Colonel in the first place. My only interest is in retrieving them. A young lady's future depends upon it.”

  Most men, at that, might have softened a bit, but not Longworth. Although MacKenzie had never met his son, he began to feel a twinge of sympathy for him.

  “I can tell you nothing,” Longworth said.

  “Not even—”

  “Nothing. It may not surprise you to learn that my son and I are—estranged. We have not spoken in more than a year.”

  “I see.”

  “And if we were to speak,” Longworth went on as if he had not heard, “it would be only to indulge in mutual recrimination.”

  Despite his forbidding demeanor, MacKenzie thought, he apparently wants to unburden himself.

  “I beg your pardon,” Ames said softly. “I wanted only to—”

  “You are not married, Mr. Ames,” Longworth said. It was not a question.

  “No.”

  “A pity. Your father was an excellent man. Excellent. If you were to marry and have a son, you would pass along your heredity. We need heredity like yours these days. Instead of—”

  MacKenzie could not be sure, but he thought he heard the old man's voice crack a little. Amazing.

  “My wife's family—my late wife—had weakness in it. I blame that weakness for my son's behavior. Her older brother failed in business, after which he drank himself to death, and her younger brother succumbed to gambling. Not here, thank heaven. In Europe. But there was bad char
acter there, you see—not that I knew of it when I married her, or I never would have done so.”

  Cold and colder, thought MacKenzie. He could not repress a shiver, although he had not taken off his coat.

  “My son,” said Longworth, his voice dripping scorn, “took after his mother's side of the family. By the time he managed to finish law school, I had nearly despaired of him. I sent him away—to Argentina—to see if there, he could make his fortune.”

  “And did he?” Ames asked. He had given up any hope that this implacable man would be of help to him in his quest for Val's letters, but in spite of himself he felt a morbid interest in what Longworth had to say.

  “No.”

  “He came back—?”

  “Yes. After five years of failure, he came back. And here in Boston, he did the next best thing to making a fortune on his own. He married one. A small one, to be sure, but a fortune all the same. From what I understand, he has managed to run through all his wife's money and alienate his father-in-law into the bargain. They have bailed him out more than once, but I doubt they'll do so again.”

  He broke off abruptly and turned away. They heard him clear his throat as if his unshed, bitter tears threatened to choke him. Not so cold, after all, thought MacKenzie; brokenhearted, in fact.

  For a moment, Ames hardly knew what to say. Then, feeling that he had to say something: “I am very sorry, sir. I did not intend to call up unhappy memories.”

  Longworth shook his head. “You did not call them up, Mr. Ames. They are with me every day. So you see, I confess to you that my son is a wastrel, he is a gambler—certainly he is a failure at the law, and why the Bar admitted him I could never understand—but I do not think even he would stoop so low as to work for Colonel Mann. And certainly he is no murderer.”

  “Does he have any practice at all in his law office?”

  “He did. But after his partner left him, it fell off.”

  “I see. Is his partner still in Boston?”

  “His partner is dead, Mr. Ames.”

  “Of—?”

  “I have no idea.”

  The interview was over. Outside, starting down Beacon Street, Ames was silent for a time, and then he said, “A sad case, wouldn't you say, Doctor?”