by P. B. Ryan
Will met Nell’s gaze. She just shook her head.
“Cunningham told Jamie where to find the spare key,” continued Quinn, who, unrestrained by his now apathetic lawyer, was industriously “yakking a blue streak.” “He said to bring a wagon and a partner, and to do it on the nineteenth, when he’d be in New York and the missus on Martha’s Vineyard.”
“Only he wasn’t counting on the ferry being canceled because of that storm over the Sound,” Bryce said.
“That’s ‘cause he’s an amateur,” Quinn offered helpfully. “He wasn’t thinkin’ about what-all could go wrong. He was just thinkin’ about the money.”
Bryce said, “For what it’s worth, he seemed pretty broken up when he got off that train.”
“Guilt will have that effect,” Will said. “His wife never would have died if he hadn’t conspired to have that collection stolen.”
“He was grief-stricken,” Nell said, “but he was scared, too. He knew that if Jamie and Quinn were caught, they’d most likely spill the beans about his little scheme, and then he’d end up behind bars, too.”
“So he tried to silence them before they could be arrested,” Bryce said.
“He may have even succeeded, at least as regards my brother,” Nell said. “If Jamie really did die from a knife wound, I’ll wager the killer is five thousand dollars richer.”
“So looks like Cunningham’s guilty of... let’s see.” Counting off on his fingers, Bryce said, “Conspiracy to commit murder, attempted insurance fraud, obstruction of justice... And who knows what the D.A. will charge him with for trying to steal and fence his own property.”
“It’s the conspiracy to commit murder that I’m interested in,” Nell said. “I want to know how and why my brother died.”
“Quinn’s arrest is Cunningham’s worst nightmare,” Will said. “Does he know about it?”
“Sure,” Bryce said. “I sent one of the boys over to his place yesterday evening to tell him. Now I’m gonna have to head over there myself and arrest the sorry gump.”
“Assuming he hasn’t flown the coop one step ahead of you,” Will said.
“If he hasn’t,” Quinn said as he lit another cigarette, “he’s not just an amateur, he’s a horse’s ass.”
* * *
Chief Bryce, flanked by two of his men, pounded on the front door of Frederick Cunningham’s Falmouth Heights “cottage”—a palatial white mansion right on the Sound—while Nell and Will waited on the badly overgrown front lawn.
Bryce had objected when Nell asked to come along so as to question Cunningham about Jamie’s death, saying it was highly irregular to bring a civilian along when making an arrest, especially a female civilian. He’d relented when Will had asked him if he thought the Barnstable Patriot might be interested in running a story on the governess who’d gotten to the root of the Cunningham case by out-detecting Falmouth’s Chief Constable.
Bryce tried the door; no luck. They circled the house, but the back door was locked, as well. It was a glass door, so Nell could see into the vast, sumptuously appointed library and through its column-flanked doorway to a hall lined with marble statues. There was an odd stillness to the house, right down to the dust hovering in shafts of sunlight from the windows on the west wall. On the east wall, next to a fireplace with an ornately carved overmantel, was an empty space with four tamped-down marks on the Aubusson carpet where heavy cabinet legs had stood.
They checked the carriage house, whose three bays held an elegant landau, a park phaeton, and a utilitarian wagon. The upstairs servants’ quarters were unoccupied—beds stripped, dressers empty.
“I say, may we help you?” a man called out as they were heading toward the nearby stable. They turned to find an aristocratically handsome middle-aged couple in bathing attire and sunglasses walking toward them from the adjacent backyard.
Bryce introduced himself to the neighbors, who identified themselves as Alice and Walter Wyndham, and asked them if they knew of Frederick Cunningham’s whereabouts.
“I haven’t seen him since last night,” Mr. Wyndham said. “He came over to give me his boat.”
“His sailboat?” Nell asked incredulously.
He nodded. “The ‘Oh, Susannah.’ I know, it was his prized possession. I was dumbfounded. He said he knew I’d always admired it, and he wouldn’t be able to use it anymore, so he signed the title over to me. Didn’t want a cent for it. I confess I was at a complete loss.”
Will said, “Did he explain why he wouldn’t be able to use it?”
“I asked him, but he didn’t answer, simply ignored the question altogether. Most peculiar.”
“We think perhaps it just reminded him too much of her,” said his wife. “Ghastly business. Poor Freddie hasn’t been the same since. He’s been living there all alone, you know, fending for himself—sent the staff back to Boston weeks ago. He’s been paying the Livingstons’ stableman to care for his horses.”
“What time did he come over to give you the boat?” Nell asked Mr. Wyndham.
“Well, let’s see... It was while the sun was setting. I remember, it was a particularly exquisite sunset, and I remarked on it, but Cunningham ignored that, as well.”
“The sun’s been setting around seven o’clock,” Will said.
“When did your man come by to tell Cunningham about Quinn’s arrest?” Will asked Bryce.
“It was at the end of his shift, so a little after five.”
“And you didn’t see Mr. Cunningham at all after he signed over the boat?” Nell asked the couple.
“Well, I saw him,” said Mrs. Wyndham. “Just from a distance, but—”
“When was that?” Bryce asked.
“I believe it was around nine o’clock, perhaps a little later. Night had fallen, but there was still that lovely violet glow to the sky. I’d been embroidering a pillowcase upstairs in my sitting room, but it started to feel stuffy, so I went out onto the verandah.” Pointing to her house, she said, “It faces the Sound, as you can see. After a few minutes, I saw Freddie come out of his house and walk down to the beach. It was dark, of course, so I couldn’t make him out very well, but I did see him swim out into the Sound.”
“He went swimming?” her husband said.
“Is that surprising?” Bryce asked.
“He doesn’t care for it,” Mr. Wyndham explained. “Susannah loved it, but Freddie says he prefers to have a boat between himself and the water at all times. He admitted to me once, after a few whiskeys, that he’s terrified of being in water too deep to stand in, because he’s such a poor swimmer. He’s always afraid he’ll end up too far from shore and not have the strength to get back.”
“Did you see him return from his swim last night?” Will asked Mrs. Wyndham.
“No, I’d gone inside to work on the pillowcase.”
Silence fell over the group. Nell turned to gaze out over the Sound, as did the others. It looked like one of those postcards promoting Cape Cod, an idealized summer seascape executed in translucent washes of azure and aquamarine, with a scattering of puffball clouds overhead.
Chief Bryce said, “I’ll send a boat out, but they won’t find anything, not yet.” With a ponderous sigh, he added, “It usually take a while.”
Chapter 10
Nell, sitting in the gloomy, brocade-swagged front parlor of Packer’s Mortuary the next afternoon, heard footsteps on the stairs from the basement “Cold Room” where Jamie’s disinterred body had been delivered about two hours before. She looked up from The Innocents Abroad, which she’d been halfheartedly reading, to see Will enter the room from the hallway, straightening his coat.
“You’re done?” she asked as he came to sit next to her on the green velvet couch.
He nodded. “Sorry to make you wait so long, but we wanted to be thorough. Greaves will be up in a few minutes. He’s sewing up the incisions and dressing your brother for reburial tomorrow.”
He took her hand, and she was gratified to find his own hand, if not entirely s
teady, at least less palsied than it had been yesterday. His color was better, and he didn’t seem quite as strained, which she hoped was an indication that his pain was lessening, along with the symptoms of morphine withdrawal. He swore he been following Cyril’s Epsom and silver nitrate protocol religiously, and that the wound was already looking better.
“Did you find the nick on the left fourth rib?” Nell asked.
“We did. It was almost certainly made by a very sharp blade. Also, the third rib opposite the nick is cracked, which is consistent with a large knife being plunged into the chest with great force. The nick looked fresh to me, and in fact when we removed the chest plate, we discovered a deep laceration through the pericardial sac into the heart. And there wasn’t the slightest trace of soot in the bronchi, so we know for sure he wasn’t breathing when the fire started.”
Sitting upright, Nell said, “Then he did die from a knife wound.”
“He did, indeed—but not on July thirty-first, when the cranberry shed burned down. He was killed about three days earlier.”
“Three days? How can you know that?”
Will hesitated a moment before saying, “We found charred larvae on the body. Do you recall me describing the life cycle of blowflies?”
She did. It had been two years ago, as they’d stood in a field over the grisly, maggot-infested remains of Bridie Sullivan. A sudden wave of nausea seized Nell as she visualized her brother’s mouth and eyes and nose crawling with those loathsome things. She took a deep breath, but it didn’t help. Yanking her hand from Will’s, she sprinted to the washroom.
Will called her name. She locked the door, dropped to her knees before the W.C., and retched violently.
“Nell!” Will banged on the door, twisted the knob. “What’s wrong? Let me in.”
To see me like this? She grabbed the sink and hauled herself to her feet. Not bloody likely, Dr. Hewitt.
“I’m fine. I’ll be right out.” She rinsed her face and mouth, adjusted her shirred bonnet, and rejoined him.
Will apologized for having brought up the subject of the larvae as he escorted her back to the parlor, an arm curled protectively around her. “You’d never shown a weak stomach before, so I thought... But that was foolish. It’s different when it’s your own brother. I should have realized—”
“You should have been frank with me, as you were,” she said as they sat back down on the velvet couch. “You couldn’t have known I’d have that kind of reaction. I, er, I assume the larval stage indicated that they’d hatched about three days before the fire.”
“That’s my best guess, given typical summer temperatures in this area and the protected conditions inside the shed.”
“If he’d been dead for three days, how did the fire start?” Nell asked. “We’ve been assuming that pink lamp exploded, but if Jamie wasn’t alive to have lit it... I mean, a camphene lamp, even a full one, couldn’t have burned for three days straight.”
“No, it would have to have been lit some time after Jamie’s death.” Will sighed. “The more we learn, the more questions arise.”
“The most important question on my mind right now is, where was Claire Gilmartin when my brother was lying there dead in that shed. She told us she went to see him every day.”
He said, “We can pay the Gilmartins a visit on our way home, if you’d like.”
“I would.”
Will looked down, nodding. “I, er...” He pulled a folded handkerchief out of his coat pocket and handed it to her. “I thought perhaps you might like to have this.”
Nell looked at it, bewildered. It was just a handkerchief, far too light in weight to be wrapped around something, yet he said, “Open it.”
She set it on her lap, the white linen a stark contrast to her black silk skirt, and unfolded it. Lying in the center of it was a tuft of gold thread tied with string. She lifted it carefully and held it in the light of the gas sconce on the wall above.
It wasn’t thread.
Her heart clenched, sucking a gasp from her.
Oh, God. She stroked the silken blond strands with a fingertip, remembering the way her comb used to slide right through them, Jamie rolling his eyes impatiently at first, then smiling that drowsy little-boy smile, saying, “Don’t stop, Nelly.”
The memory melted behind a trembling sheen of tears as Nell closed her fist around the lock of hair. Grief punched her in the stomach, squeezing the air from her lungs. She curled up with a hand over her mouth, her back shaking in silent agony.
“Nell. “Will wrapped her in his arms, tucking her snugly into his embrace. “Oh, Nell, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
She sucked in a breath to tell him he’d done nothing wrong, quite the contrary, only to erupt in helpless, wrenching sobs. Will untied her bonnet and pulled it away. He cupped her head in his big hand, pressing her tear-dampened face to his chest. Nell wept convulsively, as if her body were straining to expel not just the pain of Jamie’s final, desperate days, but the entire dark and bitter past to which he’d been her last remaining link.
Will kissed her head, saying, “I’m an imbecile. Don’t cry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to upset you. I love you.”
Nell grew very still, her breath coming in sharp little hitches as she strove to get herself in hand. I love you.
He rubbed his cheek against her hair, saying, “I didn’t mean to say that. You’re not free to hear it, and God knows your situation is difficult enough without me complicating things. But I’m selfish and I’m weak, and I love you so much, and it’s been so excruciating not being able to—” His voice snagged. “Forget I said it.”
A floorboard squeaked. Nell opened her eyes to see Cyril Greaves standing in the doorway. He turned and left. A moment later, there came the sound of the front door opening and closing.
* * *
Nell stepped out onto the front stoop of the mortuary after a detour to the washroom to splash cold water on her face, replace her bonnet, and pull on her gloves. She paused upon seeing Will and Cyril standing near Cyril’s coupé at the curb, deep in conversation.
It was Cyril who was talking, hat in hand, his expression so earnest and sober that she wished she could hear what he was saying. Will, his face shadowed by the brim of his hat, stood in that hip-shot way of his, arms folded, head down.
Cyril said something that made Will look up. Presently he lowered his head again, rubbing his jaw.
When Cyril’s gaze lit on Nell, he said something to Will, who glanced at her and then away. Cyril spoke for a moment longer, Will nodding in response.
The men shook hands. Cyril turned as he replaced his hat and gave Nell one of those quiet, enigmatic smiles of which she’d once been so fond. He raised his hand in a farewell gesture, climbed up into his vehicle, and drove away.
* * *
“Is your daughter at home?” Nell asked Hannah Gilmartin, standing at her kitchen table cutting up a slab of gristly beef with a cleaver.
“More questions?” Scowling as she hacked, Mrs. Gilmartin said, “You’ll pardon me fer sayin’ so, but sometimes you just gotta let the dead lie.”
“I just want to thank her again for trying to save my brother’s life,” Nell lied. “I keep thinking about the courage that took.”
“Foolishness, more like. She’s an addlepated nit if ever there was one.” Gathering up a handful of beef cubes in both gigantean hands, she dumped them into an iron pot next to the cutting board. “You just want to thank her? That’s all? ‘Cause she’s got the wash to boil. She drags her feet as it is. If she gets to jawin’ with you, she’ll never finish up.”
“We won’t take much of her time,” Nell said.
Slamming the cleaver into the cutting board, Mrs. Gilmartin turned toward the back door. “Come on, then.”
Stilling her with a hand on her arm, Will said, “Don’t trouble yourself, ma’am. You have things to do.”
Mrs. Gilmartin looked from Will to Nell and back again, shifting her bulldog jaw. She looked as if she wanted
to argue with him, but she finally just sighed and said, “She’s out back. Don’t keep her.”
They found Claire standing over the big copper kettle, stirring its contents—sheets, it looked like—with both fists wrapped around a long washing stick, her slender arms quivering with the effort. Her braids were limp; sweat dripped from her red-flushed face. This was brutal work for a warm afternoon.
“You all right, Miss Sweeney?” asked the girl as she wiped her face with her sleeve. “You look like you been cryin’.”
Will answer for Nell as he rested a hand on her back. “It’s painful, losing a brother.”
It was painful, yes, but a good deal less painful now than it had been before this afternoon. Being able to touch a part of Jamie—part of his actual, physical self—had made him, and consequently his death, much more real. Nell’s explosion of grief had been cathartic, leaving her drained—it was all she could do to sit up straight in the buggy—and yet at ease, as if all were finally right with the world. When one’s brother dies, one ought to be able to mourn him so as to move on afterward. Nell hadn’t been able to do that until Will had thought to snip that lock of hair.
She’d thanked him for that gift as they drove here from Falmouth, correcting his assumption that, because of her reaction, he’d somehow erred in giving it to her. She had not, however, mentioned what he’d said to her, his declaration of love. It didn’t seem like the kind of conversation one should have in a coal box buggy jostling over dirt roads. Nor had she asked about that little tête-à-tête between himself and Cyril, which was clearly meant to be private—but that didn’t mean she didn’t wonder about it, especially given how oddly pensive Will had been ever since. He hadn’t tried to make conversation during the drive, so neither had she.
Instead, Nell had closed her eyes and watched her thoughts coalesce into lazily shifting images, as often happened when she was drowsy. Sunlight flashing between the passing trees flickered red through her eyelids, casting those images into a luminous if leisurely kaleidoscope: glass bursting sharp and pink... the Sacred Heart of Jesus pouring blood as flames crackled all around it... headless chickens thrashing and screaming... Frederick Cunningham swimming into violet-stained oblivion... and Jamie grinning carelessly as he waved to her from the deck of a forty-foot sloop with Oh, Susannah painted across the bow. What do you think, Nelly? he called out as he sailed off toward the horizon. I traded my Sacred Heart for it. I didn’t need it no more, and Freddie don’t need the boat. She’d awakened with a start to Will stroking her cheek and telling her they’d arrived at the Gilmartins’.
