Murder on Black Friday

by P. B. Ryan

  Will must have noticed her looking at the chaise, because he said, with a grin, “That would be for Mr. Munro’s more...corporeal transactions, wouldn’t you say?”

  Countering the friendly taunt with a smirk, Nell turned and opened the cabinet doors above the fireplace, revealing a built-in cast iron safe.

  Will said, “Rather convenient, what—gold crashing just in time to provide our killer with a motive for this trumped-up suicide?”

  “Gold crashed before the murder,” Nell reminded him as she twisted the key in the lock. “Perhaps the killer even came here planning to exploit it. Perhaps he’d loathed Munro for some time. This was his opportunity to do him in and get away with it.”

  “So,” Will said as he stroked a hand over the water-stained desk, “he rolls up his sleeves, heads over to the corner sink, and dampens a wash rag—his handkerchief, perhaps.”

  “He’d be in a hurry.” Nell hauled open the door to the safe, the shelves of which were stuffed with files and papers. “Munro had a good many visitors yesterday afternoon, probably because of what was happening to gold in New York. Someone might have walked in at any moment.”

  “He washes up hastily, discarding or burning the bloodied papers...”

  “If he burned them, it wasn’t in this.” She pointed a toe toward the fireplace, clean-swept behind a needlepoint summer screen that had probably been there for months, then set about emptying the contents of the safe onto the chaise, where she could inspect and categorize it.

  “He takes the papers with him, then—and the wash rags and any other incriminating items, and hastily tidies up the desk. He drags Munro’s body to the window,” Will said, miming this as he backed up to the bay, “makes sure no one’s looking, and chucks it out.”

  “In the course of which, some blood drips onto the carpet, requiring another frantic minute or two of housecleaning before he can slip back down the service stairs and out the back door.”

  Will said, “If he dragged Munro’s body to the window and heaved him out, there would have to have been blood on his clothing—possibly quite a bit, especially on the arms and torso area. It wouldn’t have shown up on a black frock coat, not at a casual glance, but what about his shirt, above the waistcoat? How did he get away without being noticed—or did he?”

  Arranging the papers from the safe into methodical stacks on the chaise, Nell said, “Munro’s body was discovered at three-forty, and it couldn’t have been out there on the steps for very long before his attorney spotted it, a few minutes at the most. It’s safe to assume that the killer fled down the service stairs sometime before four o’clock.”

  “And we know Mrs. Gell was out marketing till five,” Will said, “so she wouldn’t have seen him leave.”

  “And assuming the body had already been found at that point, there would have been a great deal of commotion at the front of the house, so he wouldn’t have been noticed going out the back. He could have had a buggy waiting in the alley that leads to the kitchen yards, and made it all the way home without anyone... Hmm...” Nell had opened a folder filled with small sheets of paper, all headed The Western Union Telegraph Company, with messages inked on the bottom half.

  “Telegrams?” Will said.

  Nell nodded. “All from New York City, and all dated...” She finished leafing through the stack “Yes, every one dated September twenty-fourth. Yesterday.”

  “How many?” Will asked.

  “Thirty, exactly,” Nell said as she finished counting them. “They’ve been stacked in the order in which they were received. The bottom one came in at eleven oh-nine in the morning, the top one...eleven thirty-nine.”

  “Thirty telegrams in as many minutes,” Will said. “That is curious.”

  “Most of them are like this one.” Reading from a telegram in the middle of the stack, she said, “‘To Mr. Philip Munro, eleven nineteen a.m. Confirm twelve-hundred ounces sold at one-sixty per at eleven fifteen today. Yield one hundred ninety-two thousand.’ It’s from William Heath and Company.”

  “That’s a brokerage house.”

  “I’m surprised you know that,” Nell said.

  With a grin, he said, “You don’t think I keep all my money stuffed into that raggedy old doctor’s bag.”

  “Of course not.” She had, actually. Flipping through the telegrams, she said, “It would appear that Mr. Munro sold millions of dollars worth of gold yesterday—six or seven million, maybe more—through a number of different brokers, all before noon...”

  “When its value would have plummeted.” Dryly Will added, “How very fortuitous.”

  “He also sold quite a bit on behalf of other investors. I recognize most of the names. Davis Cavanaugh, Horace Bacon, Phineas Ladd, Leo Thorpe, Orville Pratt... All men who move in your parents’ social circle.”

  “Not surprising,” Will said. “Any mention of—“

  “Noah Bassett? None. Perhaps he hadn’t invested in gold. Ah,” she said as she skimmed the telegram at the very bottom of the stack, which was recorded in Boston at 11:09 a.m. “This is the first one he received yesterday morning. It was sent from Washington, D.C., not from New York. ‘To Mr. Philip Munro. Been reading classic verse and thought of you. To wit—Burns’ “To a Mouse,” seventh stanza, and Dame Prudence’s proverb in Chaucer’s “Melibee.” Praemonitus, praemunitus, my friend. G.B.’” Looking up, she said, “My Latin’s not what it could be.”

  “Praemonitus, praemunitus,” Will said. “Forewarned is forearmed.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Quite.” He came over and took the telegram from her. “The first reference is to a Robert Burns poem—‘To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough.’ I had it committed to memory when I was around fourteen, along with about a hundred other poems.”

  “Good heavens,” Nell said as she continued sorting the contents of the safe.

  “They’re dreadfully keen on that sort of thing at English boarding schools. Burns was always a tough nut to memorize, because he wrote in Scottish dialect. God, how I detested him at the time. Years later, when I was at Edinburgh, I actually grew quite fond of his work, perhaps because I’d picked up a bit of the culture and vernacular, and had a better understanding of what he was really saying.”

  “Do you remember any of this Mouse poem?” she asked.

  Folding his arms, Will settled his long body into that distinctive hip-shot stance of his and looked toward the window, as if gazing at something in the far, far distance. In a deeply soft, undulating Scottish burr, he said, “‘Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie, O, what panic’s in thy breastie...’”

  Nell smiled, not just at Burns’ image of a cowering little mouse, but at Will’s unexpectedly earnest recitation.

  “‘Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi’ bickering brattle. I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee, Wi’ murd’ring pattle.’” Will paused, as if concentrating. “Then comes an apology for man’s dominion, and, let’s see, something about the mouse being an earth-born companion and fellow mortal...”

  “Sounds lovely.”

  “It is, actually. I can’t remember the middle bits, just the beginning and end. There were eight stanzas, as I recall, so the seventh would have begun...” He frowned at the carpet, rubbing his chin. “‘But Mousie, thou are no thy-lane, In proving foresight may be vain. The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men, Gang aft agley, An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain, For promis’d joy.’”

  “The best laid schemes,” she said. “That’s from this poem?”

  He nodded. “In the Queen’s English, it would be, ‘The best laid schemes of mice and men oft go awry, and leave us nothing but grief and pain for promised joy.’”

  “The best laid schemes oft go awry...” Nell murmured.

  “Forwarned,” Will said, “Forearmed...”

  “...My friend.”

  “Whereupon he promptly sold millions of dollars of his own gold, plus whatever he’d purchased on behalf of his... I suppose on
e would call them clients. He did take a commission.” Lifting the telegram, Will read the name at the bottom. “D.B. Ring any bells? You’re more in tune with Munro’s social circle than I.”

  Nell shook her head as she pulled a stack of leather folios from the safe. “There’s no one I can think of with those initials, and anyway, I only know the people here in Boston. That telegram was sent from Washington.”

  “Forewarned,” Will said, “that something has gone awry?”

  “Some ‘best laid scheme’,” Nell said as she skimmed the contents of the folios, each of which contained documents related to a different gentleman’s investments. “So it would seem.”

  “If this telegram is, indeed, a veiled message, then it would appear we’ve deciphered part of it. I’d give my right arm to be able to quote Dame Prudence’s proverb from the Tale of Melibee, just to see you gazing up at me with astonished admiration, but I’m afraid that particular piece wasn’t on the memorization list at Eton. It’s one of the Canterbury Tales.”

  “I know,” Nell said. “I’ve read them, but I can’t recall anything about a proverb. Ah-hah,” she said as she withdrew from a fat green folio a sheaf of correspondence held together with a straight pin.

  “Pay dirt?”

  “Letters from Mr. Bassett to Philip Munro, beginning—” she checked the date of the bottom letter “—May twenty-first of this year. Do you want to take a look at these while I see what else is in here?”

  Will took the letters from her and sat at the foot of the chaise to peruse them.

  Nell flipped through a stack of documentation relating to Noah Bassett’s business dealings until she came to a promissory note, which she unfolded and read. “Mr. Bassett took a loan of fifty thousand dollars from the Tenth National Bank on the seventeenth of June, using his house as collateral.”

  “It was apparently at Munro’s urging,” said Will as he thumbed through the correspondence. “This is from Bassett’s second letter to him. ‘I beseech you, Philip, do consider to whom you are dispensing this counsel. If I’d the wherewithal to invest as you’ve advised, I should never have found myself in a state of such abject pecuniary embarrassment.’ Then, a couple of weeks later...let’s see, here it is. ‘If, as you insist, it is the only way to regain my financial footing, I shall borrow against the house so as to invest as you see fit. It need hardly be said that I do so with a great many misgivings, which I shall set aside in deference to your savoir faire in matters of a fiscal nature. With humble gratitude for your assistance, and trust in your good judgment, I remain yours respectfully, Noah Bassett.’”

  “Listen to this,” Nell said as she read from a handwritten document, signed, witnessed, and notarized. “‘To all persons, be it known that I, Noah Zachariah Bassett of Mount Vernon Avenue, Boston, Massachusetts, have made and appointed, and by these presents do make and appoint, Philip James Munro of Marlborough Street, Boston, Massachusetts, my true and lawful Attorney-in-Fact. I hereby grant said attorney full power and authority to do and perform all and every act and thing whatsoever necessary to be done in order to carry on any business transaction of any kind of which I am now or hereinafter may become interested, including opening, changing, or closing accounts, making deposits and withdrawals, signing receipts, and entering into any transaction relating to any investments with or through banks, insurance companies, stock brokers, or other like institutions, and to execute such instruments in writing of whatever kind and nature as may be necessary and proper in the exercise of the rights and powers herein granted. In witness whereof, I have hereunto set my hand and seal this seventeenth day of June, eighteen sixty-nine.’” Looking up, Nell said, “The same date that he borrowed that fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Quite a sweeping letter of attorney,” Will said. “It gave Munro the legal right to do just about anything he wanted with Bassett’s fifty grand—on Bassett’s behalf, of course, but without his needing to sign anything or even be aware of the business being transacted in his name. Munro probably insisted on it.”

  “Poor Mr. Bassett.” His signature, Nell saw, had been painstakingly penned, but it still had a quivery, rheumatic look to it. Setting it aside, she withdrew the last item in the folio, a pack of five heavy envelopes, each a slightly different color, tied together with string. She untied them and slid a tri-folded document out of the top one.

  “What have you got there?” Will asked.

  “A certificate of some sort. No, an insurance policy, life insurance from—” she checked the flowery lettering on the face of the policy “—the New England Mutual Life Insurance Company. Mr. Bassett took it out on himself in...let’s see...November of eighteen forty-nine. Almost twenty years ago.”

  “In what amount?” Will rose from the chaise to peer over her shoulder.

  “Twenty-thousand dollars.”

  “That’s generally the limit on such policies,” Will said.

  The other four envelopes housed polices on Mr. Bassett in the same amount, issued in November and December of 1849 by Mutual Life of New York, Connecticut Mutual Life, Empire Mutual Life, and the Equitable Life Assurance Society of the United States. Lucy Bassett was named as the beneficiary on all of them.

  “That’s a hundred thousand dollars in life insurance,” Will said, “payable, I would assume, to Miriam and Becky Bassett now that Mrs. Bassett and the son are dead.”

  Nell finished emptying the safe, but found only one more item of interest: another sheaf of telegrams in a folder labeled Gold, which documented Munro’s purchases on behalf of himself and the gentlemen he represented, all of which took place over the past two months. One of those gentlemen was Noah Bassett, who on the 22nd of June—just a few days after signing that note and letter of attorney—bought 350 ounces of gold at $142 an ounce, for a total purchase price of $49,700.

  “Munro invested Bassett’s entire loan proceeds in gold,” Nell said.

  “And left him holding it at noon yesterday, despite having evidently been warned that its value was about to plummet.”

  While Nell returned the papers to the safe, Will gathered together the correspondence, insurance policies, and other documentation relating to Noah Bassett, and stuffed it back in the green folio. “I’ll take a closer look at these this evening,” he said, “and then we can give them back to his daughters.”

  “You’d best take the telegrams, too,” Nell said. “Both sets.”

  “You do realize that would be stealing,” Will said.

  “As a former expert on the subject, I can assure you a thing’s not stolen, per se, so long as you give it back. Eventually.”

  “Munro, you lazy wanker!” It was a man’s voice, a familiar one, rising from the stairwell to the accompaniment of fast-pounding footsteps.

  Nell looked toward Will, who grimaced, having recognized his brother’s voice.

  “I’ve been waiting on my front stoop for half an hour,” bellowed Harry Hewitt as he bounded into the room, cricket bat in hand. “Where the hell have you...”

  Harry’s careless grin faded as his gaze shifted from Nell to Will, and back again. With a look of disgust, he greeted her with his customary, “Shit.”

  Chapter 7

  Will responded to his brother’s vulgarity as he always did, with a low, menacing, “There’s a lady present, old man.”

  Harry sneered at Nell, but said nothing. A handsome devil, more so than ever with his skin and hair newly gilded by the sun, he sported but two physical imperfections: a small scar that made his left eyelid sag ever so slightly, and a bulge just below the bridge of his nose. The former was dealt to him by Nell, the latter by Will on her behalf; every time the narcissistic Harry Hewitt looked in the mirror, he would be reminded anew how much he loathed his mother’s upstart Irish governess and the elder brother who was presumably courting her. He’d grown a small moustache since she’d last seen him, much like that of Philip Munro in the little portrait Catherine wore around her neck.

  A born dandy, the “Beau Brummel of B
oston” was as stylishly attired for his cricket match as for any other social engagement. His flannel trousers, shin pads, and shirt were as spotlessly white as if they’d never been worn. In lieu of a belt, he wore a scarf emblazoned with the same blue and yellow stripes as his necktie, jacket, and cap. It was an odd cap, brimless, like a Chinaman’s, and ringed with those gaudy stripes. He undoubtedly thought it quite sporty and dashing, never mind that Nell couldn’t even look at him for fear of laughing in his face.

  She was saved from such an outburst by Will, who snatched the cap off Harry’s head and thrust it in his brother’s free hand. “You’ve got the manners of a ditch-digger, Harry.”

  Actually, he didn’t, when it suited him. From all accounts, Harry could act the perfect gentleman if he wanted to dazzle some naïve mill girl or smooth-talk the proprietor of a gaming hell into taking his I.O.U.

  “What are you two doing here?” Harry asked as he swept his gaze around the room. “Where’s Phil? They’ll be waiting for us up at the Peabody Club.”

  Despite the sneer, despite the hat, and most of all despite what he’d done to her—or tried to do—last year, Nell couldn’t suppress a pinch of pity as she watched Harry look around like a puppy searching for his beloved master.He would have barged in through the back door and up the service stairs without so much as a glance in the direction of Mrs. Gell, who might have told her about Munro if he’d bothered to tip that ridiculous hat in her direction.

  Will glanced at Nell as if for moral support, then started to say something, only to sigh and rub his neck. “Harry... Curse it, man. Don’t you read the papers?”

  “I only just woke up an hour ago, and when I looked at the clock, it was all I could do to get myself dressed and presentable before Phil came to collect me for our match. Every Saturday afternoon, we play against...” He trailed off, looking back and forth between Nell and Will. If she appeared half as somber as he did, Harry had to know something was seriously amiss.