Fallen Angels

by Alice Duncan

  Of course, this trip entailed another cab fare. I silently apologized to Great-Aunt Agatha. Then I reminded myself that Agatha had been a good old girl and would probably applaud my energies in attempting to prove an innocent man’s . . . well, innocence. Small wonder my parents had disapproved of her almost as much as they did me.

  * * * * *

  A black swag decorated—if that’s the right word—the front door of the Chalmers residence when the cabbie pulled up. I asked him to wait for me and told him I’d pay him for his time when he griped and claimed he’d be losing fares. But I wanted to interview all of the household’s inhabitants if I could, and that might take some time. So he agreed to wait. More of Great-Aunt Agatha’s money. But it was being spent for a good cause, darn it.

  I twisted the doorbell. The act itself brought back memories of the prior week, and they weren’t happy ones. I prayed like mad that someone would answer my ring this time, because I didn’t want to enter the place and find another dead body. Not, of course, that I would.

  Be that as it may, my knees almost buckled with relief when Susan, whose last name I never did learn, answered the door. I cursed myself for not thinking to bring flowers of sympathy or something, but it was too late by that time.

  “It’s you!” she cried.

  “May I come in for a moment?”

  Susan looked frantically behind and around her, although I don’t know why. Heck, I wasn’t Mrs. Chalmers’ killer.

  “I just need to ask a few questions,” I said in my most soothing tone.

  “Well . . . the mister isn’t in very good shape at the moment. He’s took the missus’s death mighty hard.”

  Nuts. I really had wanted to interview Mr. Chalmers. Still, if I could at least get into the house, I might be able to work my way up from the servants to the master. I said, “I’d like to speak with you and Mrs. Hanratty, actually. This is part of the ongoing investigation, you see.”

  “You’re working with the coppers?”

  “And my employer, Mr. Templeton. After all, he was working for Mrs. Chalmers and was injured at the same time she was killed.” Stretching points doesn’t count as lying. At least I don’t think it does.

  “Well . . .”

  She wavered just enough for me to slip past her. I headed toward the kitchen, where I figured Mrs. Hanratty would be, mainly because I could smell savory odors issuing therefrom and guessed she was preparing luncheon for the master of the house.

  “Well . . .” came again, weakly, from behind me.

  Susan trailed after me, unsure if this was a proper thing I was doing, but unable to stop me now that I’d gained entry.

  Gently, I pushed the kitchen door open. Sure enough, Mrs. Hanratty stood at the stove, stirring what looked like a pot of soup.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Hanratty.”

  The poor woman jumped and whirled around, dropping her wooden spoon into her pot. “Good heavens! You gave me such a start.”

  I went to her and took her arm, feeling contrite. “I’m awfully sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

  She shook her head. “Alarm me? What with the missus falling down the stairs and killing herself and the mister being that miserable and Mr. Simon here underfoot all day long, day after day, and that preacher woman visiting, I don’t know what the world’s coming to.”

  Aha. So Sister Emmanuel has visited Mr. Chalmers! Whatever did that mean? Probably nothing. But I didn’t have time to ponder the minister’s visit.

  “I don’t either.” Sympathetic was the tone I reached for, and I flatter myself that I achieved it. Because I wasn’t altogether sure about that, I said, “I’m so sorry to interrupt your work, Mrs. Hanratty, but I do need to ask a few more questions about poor Mrs. Chalmers and her death.”

  “I don’t know anything about her death,” the woman said stolidly.

  “I’m sure that’s true, but you see, in investigations of this sort, we need to discover everything we can about the person who was murdered. Only in that way can we discover the killer.”

  Mrs. Hanratty’s eyes thinned. “I thought it was that boss of yours who kilt her.”

  “It most certainly was not Mr. Templeton,” I declared. “After I discovered Mrs. Chalmers at the foot of the stairs, I discovered Mr. Templeton upstairs, bound and gagged. And drugged.”

  She sniffed. “Sez you.”

  “I do say it, because it’s the truth.”

  Mrs. Hanratty tried to hold on to her indignation, but finally let it out on a long sigh. “I suppose he didn’t do it. He never seemed the type to me. But if he didn’t kill her, who did?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m trying to discover.”

  Although she’d gone back to stirring her soup, she eyed me narrowly. “You? What can you do?”

  “I can ask questions. That’s what investigators do, you see.”

  She thought about my words for a while.

  As she did so, I looked around and discovered that Susan had lingered in the doorway, still looking as if she’d done the wrong thing by not blocking my way when I tried to get into the house. I smiled at her. “Perhaps you can join us, Susan. I’d like to speak with both of you, actually.”

  Pointing to her chest as if she wasn’t sure who she was, Susan said, “Me? Why me? I was with Mrs. Hanratty when some devil threw the missus down those stairs.”

  “I know. But you see, I need to learn more about the household and its visitors and things like that.”

  It was Mrs. Hanratty who responded. “Well, sit down . . . What’s your name, anyhow? I forgot it.”

  “Miss Allcutt,” said I.

  I’d been taking in the kitchen, and it looked pretty well stocked and up to date to me. Not that I knew a whole lot about kitchens, but I’d been in our kitchen in Boston—the cook, unlike our parents, had been friends with Chloe and me—and in Chloe’s kitchen. This one looked much like Chloe’s, with cheerful curtains at the windows, bright paint, what looked like a new stove and a large icebox. Come to think of it, as I examined it more closely from where I stood beside the kitchen table, it looked as if it might be one of those newfangled electric refrigerators. Chloe had one, and this one seemed remarkably similar to hers.

  “Well, sit yourself down, Miss Allcutt. And you, too, Susan. We have a little while before you have to serve the mister and Mr. Simon their lunches. And I just made a pot of tea.”

  “Oh, is Mr. Simon Chalmers here, too?” Better and better. Maybe I could speak with both gentlemen.

  “Yes. He’s been here a lot lately. Comforting his pa and all. Tomorrow’s going to be a dismal day, what with the funeral and all.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you’re right. I read about the arrangements in the paper.” I’d contemplated going to the funeral but had decided that would be too intrusive a thing to do, even for me.

  “Mr. Simon didn’t want that preacher lady praying over the dead missus, but the mister said that he wanted to do what the missus would have wanted, and she’d want that preacher lady.”

  “The preacher lady?”

  “Yeah. Mr. Simon, he kind of snorted, but he went along with the mister.”

  “You said that the . . . er, preacher lady visited Mr. Chalmers?” I probed gently.

  “Yes. She come Sunday afternoon.” Mrs. Hanratty’s face squinched up in thought. “Didn’t stay long. I think she and the mister prayed together or something.”

  I imagined Mrs. Hanratty was right, if the visitor was who I thought she was. “Did Mr. Chalmers seem to . . . resent her coming to visit?”

  “Resent her visit?” More wrinkles. More thinking. “Naw. He said afterward that he thought it was nice she paid a visit, since his wife was so fond of her. I don’t see it myself, but there’s no accounting for taste.”

  Wasn’t that the truth? “I see. What about Mr. Simon Chalmers? Did he visit his father and stepmother often before Mrs. Chalmers’ death?”

  Mrs. Hanratty thought about that for a moment as she continued to stir. “Someti
mes he did. He has his own place. I got the feeling he didn’t like the missus much.”

  “I got that same impression when I spoke to him last Thursday. It’s always a shame when families aren’t close,” I said, more or less repeating Mr. John Gilbert’s words to me. As if I’d know anything about close family relationships. Well, except for Chloe and me. We were very close.

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong,” said Mrs. Hanratty in a hurry. “Mr. Simon was always polite to the missus, and he and his pa have always got on great guns. I don’t think he liked it that the missus got herself involved in that new church.”

  “Ah, yes. The Angelica Gospel Hall. Where Mrs. Emmanuel preaches.”

  “That’s the one!” This, from Susan, who’d hesitated before daring to sit with me at the kitchen table. Class distinctions. Phooey on them, I say.

  “And it was Sister Emmanuel who visited yesterday afternoon?” I asked Mrs. Hanratty.

  “Yup. That’s the one, all right. She seemed kind of nice.” She spoke as though Sister Emmanuel’s niceness had come as a surprise to her.

  To encourage Susan’s participation in this conversation, I gave her another friendly smile. “Was Mrs. Chalmers good to work for, Susan? Was she a kind mistress?”

  “Oh, yes. She was very good, ma’am.”

  Boy, if there was one thing I wasn’t used to being called, it was ma’am. But I didn’t say anything to discourage Susan. “I’m glad to hear it. When I met her, she seemed a lovely lady.” Very well, I hadn’t liked her much. She had been lovely, though, and that was nothing but the truth.

  “Oh, yes, ma’am, that she was.” Susan’s face crinkled up a bit. “Though she did keep on about that new church with me and Mrs. Hanratty.”

  “Susan,” said Mrs. Hanratty in a reproving voice.

  Susan flinched slightly, but I rushed to reassure Susan. “But don’t you see? This is exactly the sort of information I need. You see, if Mrs. Chalmers annoyed you, perhaps she annoyed someone else, too. Someone with evil intentions.”

  After chewing this bit of news over for a second or two, Susan said, “Well, it’s not so much that she annoyed me or anything. Like I said, she was a very nice lady. But I’m a Roman Catholic, you know, being Irish and all, and I couldn’t go to her church. My family would never forgive me.”

  “I see.” I also understood.

  I heard Mrs. Hanratty give a deep sigh over her soup pot. “She asked me to go to that place with her, too,” she said. “I think she only did it to be kind, but I have my own church. Besides, I like to spend my days off away from my work.” She eyed me as if she wasn’t sure she could trust me. “If you know what I mean.”

  “Believe me, I understand you completely.” Then I asked, “Who else used to visit Mrs. Chalmers? Did she have special friends who came by regularly or whom she went to see regularly?”

  Mrs. Hanratty squinched her eyes up again, I presume to help her think. “Let me see . . .”

  “There was that Mrs. Pinkney,” Susan said.

  “Yes. Mrs. Pinkney was her best friend, I’d say.”

  “I’ve met Mrs. Pinkney,” said I. “She was very broken up to learn about Mrs. Chalmers.”

  “I imagine she was,” said Mrs. Hanratty with a sad expression. “The missus and her were good chums.”

  “Did anyone else from the church visit her?” I asked, trying to broaden my investigation.

  “Hmm. I don’t—”

  “Yes!” cried Susan, as if she’d just had a bright thought. This encouraged me a bit, since I’d begun to think of Susan as a rather dim bulb. “There was that other couple. What was their names . . . ?” Again her forehead crinkled.

  “Oh, yes. I forgot them. I think their last name started with an I. Or was it an E?” Mrs. Hanratty, too, appeared puzzled.

  But I thought I knew to whom the women were referring. “Could they have been Mr. and Mrs. Everett?”

  “That’s them!” said Susan, pleased.

  Mrs. Hanratty nodded. “Yes. That’s them, all right, although they called themselves Brother and Sister Everett, like as if they was born into the same family, when they was really married.” She shook her head as if she didn’t understand or appreciate Sister Emmanuel’s brothering and sistering ways. “Liked him. Didn’t like her.”

  Interesting. “Why not?” I asked.

  With a shrug, Mrs. Hanratty said, “Don’t know exactly.”

  “I know why I didn’t like her,” Susan said firmly. “She kept looking around as if she smelled something bad. And she had funny eyes.”

  “Funny eyes?” I said, hoping for elucidation.

  “Yeah. I don’t know how else to describe them.”

  Great. Funny eyes. I hadn’t noticed anything particularly funny about Mrs. Everett’s eyes, although I must admit I’d only seen her for a moment or two last Sunday. I decided I needed to visit that church again the following week.

  Before I could ask the two servants anything else, the kitchen door swung open and darned if Mr. Simon Chalmers didn’t stroll in!

  “Mrs. Hanratty, could you serve luncheon—” Then he spotted me. “Why, good day to you, Miss . . . um . . .”

  “Allcutt,” I said. “I’m only here to ask a few questions in pursuit of determining the identity of your stepmother’s murderer.” At that bold statement, I almost cringed myself, thinking of how Ernie would react if he knew I was here.

  “Miss Allcutt. Yes.” He walked over to me. “You’re an enterprising young woman. I didn’t realize you were an investigator, too.”

  Was he being cheeky? I couldn’t tell, so I decided to act as if the statement was a serious one. “Goodness, yes. Why, the police actually think my employer might have done the wicked deed, and I know he did not. Therefore, I’m doing everything I can to solve the mystery, since they seem determined to pin it on Mr. Templeton.”

  “I see.”

  “In fact,” I went on, greatly daring, “I’d like to speak with you . . . and your father, too, if he’s up to it, after you take your luncheon. If you wouldn’t mind.”

  Simon Chalmers blinked at me a couple of times, then said, “Well . . . I guess it’s all right. My father is pretty devastated, so I hope you won’t ask anything . . . well, you know.”

  “I know,” I assured him. “And I would be most grateful to you both.”

  “Then, sure. But you might as well come along now. I don’t believe Mrs. Hanratty will be serving lunch until around one. By the way,” he said, this time speaking to Mrs. Hanratty, “will you please serve lunch in my father’s library? He doesn’t feel up to moving around much.”

  “I’ll certainly do that, Mr. Simon,” said Mrs. Hanratty.

  I could tell by the smile she gave him that he was a favorite of hers, and I hoped I wouldn’t have to have him arrested for murder. I liked Mrs. Hanratty. I also noticed that Mr. Simon Chalmers only gave Susan a friendly nod. I presume he’d already pegged her as someone not worth conversing with, although whether that was because she was a maid or because she didn’t have much intelligent conversation in her, I didn’t know.

  “Why don’t you come with me,” he said to me.

  So I did.

  Chapter Ten

  Mr. Franchot Chalmers did appear to be suffering a great deal of emotional anguish when Mr. Simon Chalmers opened the door to his library and ushered me in. Slumped in a chair, and with red, swollen eyes, the senior Mr. Chalmers looked honestly heartbroken and bereft. He also looked as if he’d been perhaps taking too much brandy than was good for him, to judge by the almost-empty bottle on the table beside him.

  Prohibition? What Prohibition? But I’ve already covered that issue, I reckon.

  Mr. Franchot Chalmers—you know, I’m getting tired of writing out the full names of these two men. Will anyone become annoyed with me if I refer to them by their first names? Well, I don’t know who would, come to think of it. My mother will definitely never read this journal.

  At any rate, Mr. Franchot rose from his chair at once
when I entered the room. Polite and gentlemanly he definitely was, if a little fuzzy around the edges, probably due to his consumption of brandy.

  “Pa, this is Miss Allcutt, the one who found Persephone’s body and telephoned me at the club. I’m sure you remember her.”

  “Ah, yes. How do you do, Miss Allcutt?” He bowed politely, and I felt like a rat.

  “I’m so very sorry to disturb you, Mr. Chalmers. I understand how distressing this time must be for you.”

  “It was nice of you to call,” he said mechanically. Then he looked at his son as if asking him to clue him in to why I’d been allowed into his presence. I’m pretty sure other visitors were treated politely and dismissed by the house servants or Mr. Simon and were seldom allowed as far as Mr. Franchot’s personal library, where he seemed to be attempting to hide from the world.

  “Pa, Miss Allcutt needs to ask us a few questions. She’s helping the police in solving the crime.”

  That was nice of Mr. Simon to say and most unexpected, and I smiled to let him know it.

  “Ah.” Mr. Franchot hesitated, then said with a sigh, “Very well. Have a seat, Miss Allcutt. I hope somebody solves the murder soon. Murder,” he repeated with revulsion. “I can’t believe this has happened to Persephone. I can’t seem to take it in.” He buried his head in his hands.

  I felt awfully sorry for him. Still and all, I also didn’t want Ernie to be arrested for committing a murder he didn’t. Commit, I mean.

  “Go ahead, Miss Allcutt. The sooner you ask your questions, the sooner Pa can get back to . . .”

  Mr. Simon let his sentence sort of trail off. I wondered what word he’d have inserted if he’d chosen to finish it. Finishing his brooding? Finishing his mourning? Finishing his brandy?

  Well, I’d never know the answer to that one, so I started my inquiry. “I understand that Mrs. Chalmers had recently begun attending the Angelica Gospel Hall. Is that correct?” In order to add verisimilitude to this question—and also because I wanted to be sure I remembered what these two said—I’d taken out my secretarial pad and a sharpened pencil from my handbag. I hadn’t used these accoutrements in the kitchen, sensing their presence would have made the two servant ladies nervous.