Murder on Black Friday

by P. B. Ryan

  “So, Becky and Miriam will get the insurance money, but if their father had died just a few months later...”

  Will raised his hands, palms up.

  “Do they get it all,” she asked, “or will some of it have to go to the Tenth National Bank to pay off Bassett’s fifty thousand dollar loan?”

  “I asked Bill that, too. He said there’s some other law that makes the proceeds exempt from the claims of creditors.”

  “How fortunate for Becky and Miriam. Do you suppose they’ve known about this windfall that’s awaiting them?”

  “More to the point, have they known they wouldn’t get a cent if Papa survived into next year? That might be worth finding out, I think. I also wouldn’t mind getting my hands on a copy of the Canterbury Tales and figuring out this business about Dame Prudence’s proverb.”

  “Dame Prudence from the Tale of Melibee?” Max Thurston emerged through the back door with a rosy Martinez cocktail in a brandy snifter. He cut a striking figure, despite his advanced years, with his neatly trimmed goatee and dapper attire. Like the rest of Boston’s elite classes, he affected a high-toned British accent, although his was perhaps more pronounced than most.

  “Are you familiar with the Tale of Melibee?” Will rose from the bench, gesturing for Max to sit there.

  “God help me,” Max said as he limped into the garden with the aid of his antler-handled cane, “I had to memorize the blasted thing back at Andover—or parts of it. Loathed Chaucer for years after that.” Lowering himself stiffly onto the bench, he said, “I got over it.”

  Will said, “Do you recall anything about a prov—“

  “‘The goodnesse that thou mayst do this day, do it, and abide nat ne delaye it nat til tomorwe,’” Max raised his glass as if for a toast, and took a sip.

  “Of course,” Nell said as it came back to her. “I should have remembered that. What it amounts to is, never put off till tomorrow what you can do today.”

  Will said, “So the gist of the telegram was something like, ‘The best laid schemes often go awry. Don’t put off till tomorrow what you can do today. Forewarned is forearmed.’”

  “Or, even more simply put,” Nell said, “‘Our plan is collapsing. Don’t wait until tomorrow...’”

  “‘Sell the gold immediately’,” Will finished. “Munro was forewarned, all right.”

  “He was in cahoots with the Gold Ring conspiracy,” Nell said.

  “Phil Munro?” Max said. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

  Will said, “He received a telegram warning him that Grant was about to sell federal gold in order to lower the price.”

  “Whereupon,” Nell said, “he was able to sell his own gold—at a huge profit, of course—before it lost its value.”

  “That telegram had to be from someone very high up,” Will said, “someone who knew every step the president was taking before he took it.”

  “Phil Munro had no lack of friends in high places,” Max said as he raised his glass to his lips.

  “Did you know him?” Nell asked.

  Max sighed; the spark winked out in his eyes. “Virginia did.” He meant his dear friend and confidante Virginia Kimball, who was found shot to death in her Beacon Hill townhouse this past spring. A retired actress with a “reputation,” Mrs. Kimball was notorious for her liaisons with wealthy and powerful men.

  “Munro was one of her...gentleman friends?” Nell asked.

  “For a few weeks last year. He treated her like a two-dollar...” Max glanced at Nell, then away, scowling. “For a while there, he even had her feeling like that about herself, the knave. I must admit, when I read in the paper that he’d killed himself, I thought, ‘Well done, old chap.’ My only regret was that he hadn’t done it before he took up with Virginia.”

  “It wasn’t suicide,” Will said. “I’m fairly well convinced, after performing the post-mortem and examining the location of his death, that he was murdered.”

  “How very unsurprising.” Max raised his glass again. “Here’s hoping it was painful.”

  “He was a rotter, no doubt about it,” Will said. “He’d bought gold for a number of men, which he dumped along with his own when he got the warning to sell—except for one fellow, whom he appears to have set out to ruin.”

  “That sounds like Phil Munro, all right.” Max shook his head in evident disgust. “As for who might have sent the warning, he used to brag ad nauseam to Virginia about his contacts in Washington and New York—politicians, railroad men, financiers... She wrote down the names in her Red Book, which I have, of course. I re-read it at night when I can’t sleep. Jay Gould was one of Munro’s cronies. And Commodore Vanderbilt. There was a senator, some congressmen, some judges... I don’t recall all the names. I can look them up if you’d like. Oh, there was that speculator who married President Grant’s sister a couple of months ago...”

  “Abel Corbin?” Will said. “He was in the Gold Ring, but the initials on the telegram were G.B.”

  “G.B....” Max swirled the ruby liquid in his glass, watching the cherry spin round and round. Suddenly he stopped. “George Boutwell.” He looked at Will, then at Nell. “George Boutwell, the Sec—“

  “Secretary of the Treasury,” said Nell, who’d read his name in the paper just that morning. “That’s pretty high up.”

  “And right in the eye of the storm,” Will said. “When Grant decided to sell those four millions in gold, it was Boutwell who made it happen.”

  “After warning Munro?” Nell said. “Is that possible?”

  “I’d say it’s probable,” Will said. “According to the Daily Advertiser, Grant gave Boutwell the order to sell that gold at eleven o’clock, but it was past noon by the time the assistant treasurer in New York received his telegram to that effect. In the meantime, Boutwell had time to warn not just Munro, but possibly others. It would have all been arranged in advance. Remember what Munro’s sister said about his always having an escape plan? I think Secretary Boutwell was his escape plan.”

  Max said, “Boutwell was just a congressman last year, when Munro was boasting about him to Virginia, but he was managing Johnson’s impeachment, so that made him a fairly big bug. Munro told Virginia that Boutwell had been a sort of mentor to him when he was growing up in Brookline. He and Munro’s father both taught public school there, before Boutwell entered politics. He took Munro under his wing, got him a scholarship to Harvard, and helped him out in business afterward.”

  “It would seem he’s still helping him out,” Nell said.

  An aria of canine squeaks drew their attention to the back door, through which raced Gracie’s new poodle pup, a reddish-brown fluff-ball dwarfed by the half-undone blue bow around his neck. He spied them and attempted a detour toward the carriage house, but Will leaned down and scooped him up in one large hand.

  “Making a break for it, are you?” he asked as he raised the puppy to his face. “Too many young ladies trying to hold and pet you? A handsome young lad such as yourself must get used to such attentions.”

  “Clancy!” called Gracie as she ran out of the house. “Uncle Will, have you seen...” She yelped with delight when Will held the puppy out to her. “Clancy, you naughty boy,” she scolded as she took him, rubbing his softly crimped fur against her cheek. “You oughtn’t to run away.”

  “Giving you a bit of trouble, is he?” Max asked the child. “I’ll be more than happy to take him back if you—“

  “No!” Gracie spun away, cradling the animal to her chest. “I love him. And Nana says I can take him on the twain and the ship tomowwow.” It was clearly the journey, not the destination, that had captured the child’s fancy. To Will, she said, “I get to take the dolls, too—the whole twunk. But I have to be careful not to lose any of the little parts.”

  “Rubbish,” Will said as he tweaked one of her curls. “Being careful negates the whole purpose of play. If you lose anything, I’ll order a replacement.”

  Gracie leaned against him, saying, “I wish you could
come with me. And Miseeney, and Mr. Thurston. All of you.”

  Nell said, “I wish I could come, too, buttercup. I’ll miss you.” She would, too, having never been separated from Gracie once in the five years she’d been caring for her.

  Gracie came over to Nell and placed Clancy on her lap, where he sank happily into her pillowing silk skirts. Laying her own head next to the puppy, the child said, “Miseeney, when you and Uncle Will get mawwied, can I come live with you?”

  Nell and Will looked at each other. Neither of them had ever mentioned their bogus courtship to her, nor, of course, had Viola, but servants tended to chatter rather freely in the presence of children. Max was regarding them curiously over the rim of his glass, as if they were actors in a play he’d come to watch.

  Nell found her tongue first. “Don’t you like living with Nana?” she asked as she stroked both Gracie’s hair and Clancy’s downy fur.

  “I won’t if you’re not here. Nurse Pawwish sleeps all the time, and she doesn’t play with me, and she smells like old, wotten woses.” Nell couldn’t argue with that, Edna Parrish having always been rather excessively fond of rosewater.

  “Sometimes I pwetend you and Uncle Will are my mama and papa,” Gracie said.

  Nell didn’t look up to meet Will’s gaze, although she saw him looking at her. In a way, the three of them were like a little family. Gracie was Will’s daughter, after all, and Nell was rearing her. They could never be a family for real, of course, but how could one explain the reasons for that to a child of five? You see, Gracie, I’m secretly married to a convicted felon, although Nana doesn’t know it, and I can’t divorce and remarry, or my church will kick me out. So Uncle Will and I aren’t really engaged, but we’re making believe so people won’t think I’m his mistress...

  “Excuse me.” Mrs. Mott, the Hewitts’ housekeeper, had materialized in the door to the house. “Mrs. Hewitt requires the child in the parlor.”

  Gracie looked up at Nell with an eloquently baleful expression. There was no love lost between her and the frostily severe Mrs. Mott.

  “Go on, now.” Nell patted the child’s cheek. “Mustn’t keep Nana waiting.”

  Leaning over the curled-up puppy, Gracie whispered, “I think he’s asleep.”

  Nell said, “You can leave him with me for now. Run along.”

  Will reached into his coat as he watched his daughter disappear into the house. His hand remained there for a moment, on his tin of Bull Durhams, no doubt, before he withdrew it, empty.

  “You should tell her the truth,” Max said.

  Nell and Will both turned to look at him.

  “Do you think I’m blind?” Max asked with a knowing little smile. “She’s got your eyes,” he told Will, “your hair, your height... And why else would a lady like your delightful mother, who’s already done her bit by raising four sons to adulthood, have adopted a chambermaid’s baby? If I can sort it out, doddering old dowager that I am, others will do so soon enough. Eventually, Gracie herself will find out—probably through some vicious playground taunt. Wouldn’t it be better to tell her now, yourself, when it will bring her joy rather than anguish?”

  “It’s...not that simple,” Will said.

  “It couldn’t be simpler,” Max countered. “She already looks to you as a father figure. Once you marry Nell, you can bring her up as your own, and all will be right with the world.”

  Max’s certitude seemed to fade as he watched Nell and Will exchange a look.

  “You are still engaged, aren’t you?” he asked. “I mean, I know it’s never been official, but everyone knows.”

  Will glanced at Max, then back at Nell, lifting his shoulders, as if to say, Why not tell him?

  He was right. Max was a good friend, and one they could trust with a confidence. Turning to Max, she said, “People know what we’ve let them think.”

  Max looked at her, then at Will. He swallowed down his Martinez, set the empty glass on the bench beside him, and sat back with his arms folded, awaiting the explanation.

  Nell said, “Rumors were starting. It was either concoct a sham courtship or stop spending time together entirely—which, among other things, would make it very difficult for Will to see Gracie.”

  “What a marvelous premise for a comedic farce,” Max said. “I must remember to write it down when I get home.”

  He didn’t know the half of it, but he’d been enlightened quite enough for one day, Nell thought. Her past, should it become known, had the potential to destroy her.

  “As for telling Gracie the truth about me,” Will said, “it would only confuse and distress her. Other children have fathers who live with them, who conduct normal family lives, who are always there. I’m a professional gambler, Max, and a nomadic one.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “I’m just teaching as a favor to Isaac. When this term is over...” Will glanced at Nell, then away. “I’m not the kind of steady, reliable fellow Gracie deserves to have as a father.”

  “Yes, well, you’re the only one she’s got,” Max said, “and she absolutely adores you.”

  Grimly Will said, “She feels that way now, because she’s too young to see me for what I truly am. When she’s older and more perceptive, even if she comes to suspect the truth, she’ll be grateful that I never openly acknowledged her.”

  Bracing both hands on the cane, Max hauled himself to his feet with a disgusted grunt and hobbled up to Will. “Bollocks.” Turning toward Nell, he executed an arthritically dignified bow. “A thousand apologies, my dear, but it had to be said.”

  “I quite understand.”

  Max went back into the house, shaking his head.

  Will started reaching into his coat, made a fist, and rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze on the brick garden walk. “Do you think I should tell her?” he asked without looking up.

  Nell thought about it for a moment as she ran her fingers through the sleeping puppy’s fur. “I think you should discuss it with your mother, and if she thinks—“

  “What do you think?” he demanded, pinning her with that darkly intent gaze.

  Forcing herself to meet his eyes unwaveringly, she said, “I’ve told you before, Will, you’re a better man than you think. Gracie knows it. That’s why she loves you. Yes, you should tell her.”

  “What am I to say when she asks if she can live with us after we’re married?”

  That one was tougher. “Perhaps...that it’s to be a long engagement, several years. Then, when she’s older and can understand, you can tell her the truth.”

  “What truth? Which parts of it?”

  “Well, not about Duncan, of course, but that...that we’re not really...that we can’t...that it’s not like that between us.” Holding his gaze, she said, quietly, “That it can’t be that way between us.”

  He looked away, his jaw tight. The puppy made an odd little cooing sound, yawned, and settled back into his silken nest with a somnolent little grunt.

  Will said, “I’m going to Shanghai when the term is over.”

  She gaped at him. Shanghai. It had been one of his old haunts, notorious as a hotbed not just of gambling, but of every other sin imaginable.

  Finally, she said, “Why?”

  He stuck his hands in his trouser pockets and shrugged with a nonchalance that looked forced. “It’s what I do.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  Frowning at the ground, he said, “It’s hard to say. The trip itself is much shorter than it was before the railroads merged. I’ll take the train to San Francisco and a steamer from there.”

  “But how long...how long do you think you’ll be in Shanghai?”

  He shrugged. “I might travel down the coast to Hong Kong. If I do, I’ll probably spend a while in Hangchow—I have friends there. And I’d like to take another stab at getting into Tibet. Of course, that’s a fairly grueling overland journey.”

  “Six months?” she asked. “A year?”

  He just shook his head, still not l
ooking at her.

  Are you ever coming back? Not wanting to ask it, because she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer, Nell looked down and stroked the puppy, just to have an excuse not to look at him. Whether he was gone half a year, a year, or, God forbid, forever, she knew she would never stop missing him... wondering what kind of trouble he was getting into, if he was slipping back into his old ways...

  He liked teaching, loved the research; he’d all but told her as much. Isaac Foster said he was brilliant at it, that it seemed like a perfect fit for him.

  He came to sit beside her. For a while, neither of them spoke.

  “You seem displeased,” he said.

  She drew in a calming breath, let it out. “I want what’s best for you, Will, and I don’t think it’s best for you to go halfway ‘round the world to play cards and...” She shook her head.

  He said, “It’s been a year since I’ve tasted opium.”

  “I know that. I’m not really worried about that.”

  “Not at all?”

  “Not much. I just don’t see the point to going so far away. There are gaming hells aplenty right here in Boston, if that’s what you want. And you’d still have...” Me. “Gracie. And, and the medical school...Isaac, Max...”

  He smiled. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little torn about the trip myself. Traveling like that...it’s a wretched life, really.”

  “Then why do it?”

  “Because being here...” He glanced at her, sighed. “In some ways, it’s even more wretched.”

  As she was trying to compose a response to that, he said, “If you really think it would be best for me to stay, I could probably be persuaded.”

  “How?” she asked. “Reason doesn’t seem to work.”

  “A kiss might.”

  She stared at him. The afternoon sun ignited his eyes, giving them a strangely golden radiance.

  “Just one.” He said softly. “I won’t ask for a second. Ever. I promise. And I’ll remain in Boston, and we can go on as before.”