“Brandl!” Copeland was standing over him.
“Sir?”
“Don’t be a toad. Pay attention.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come to Hollis 15 after class, Mr. Brandl.”
Thomas snickered. “German rat.”
Wils cast a cold stare back.
When the Yard’s bell tolled the hour, Professor Copeland closed his book and looked up at the class. “Before you go—I know some of you may leave this very day to fight in Europe or to work with the Red Cross. Give me one last word.”
His face, stern for the past hour of lecturing, softened. He cleared his throat. “As we have heard before and will hear again, there is loss in this world, and we shall feel it, if not today, then tomorrow, or the week after that. That is the way of things. But there is also something equal to loss that you must not forget. There is an irrepressible renewal of life that we can no more stop than blot out the sun. This is a good and encouraging thought.
“Write me if you go to war and tell me what you see. That’s all for today.” And with that the class was dismissed.
* * *
Wils opened the heavy green door of Hollis Hall and dutifully walked up four flights of steps to Professor Copeland’s suite. He knocked on a door that still bore the arms of King George III. Copeland, his necktie loosened at the collar, opened the door.
“Brandl. Glad I saw you in class. We need to talk.”
“Yes, Professor. And I need your advice on something as well.”
“Most students do.” The professor ushered Wils inside.
The smell of stale ash permeated the room. The clouds cast shadows into the sitting area around the fireplace. Rings on the ceiling above the glass oil lamps testified to Copeland’s refusal of electricity for his apartment. The furniture—a worn sofa and chairs—bore the marks of years of students’ visits. A pitcher of water and a scotch decanter stood on a low table, an empty glass beside them.
Across the room by the corner windows, Copeland had placed a large desk and two wooden chairs. Copeland walked behind the desk, piled high with news articles, books, and folders, and pointed Wils to a particularly weathered chair in front of him, in which rested a stack of yellowing papers, weighted by a human skull of all things. Copeland had walked by it as if it were a used coffee cup.
“One of ours?” asked Brandl, as he moved the skull and papers respectfully to the desk.
The severe exterior of Copeland’s face cracked into a smile. “No. I’m researching Puritans. They kept skulls around. Reminded them to get on with it. Not dawdle. Fleeting life and all.”
“Oh yes. ‘Why grin, you hollow skull—’”
“Please keep your Faust to yourself, Wils. But I do need to speak to you on that subject.”
“Faust?”
“No, death,” said Copeland. His lips tightened as he seemed to be weighing his words carefully. His face lacked any color or warmth now. “Well, more about life before death.”
“Mine?” asked Wils.
“No. Maximilian von Steiger’s life before his death.”
“What the devil? Max…he, he just left for the war. He’s dead?”
Copeland leaned toward him across the desk. “Yes, Maximilian von Steiger is dead. And no, he didn’t leave. Not in the corporeal sense. All ocean liners bound for Germany have been temporarily held, pending the end of the conflict in Europe.”
Wils’s eyes met Copeland’s. “What do you mean?”
“Steiger was found dead in his room.”
“Fever?”
“Noose.”
Wils’s eyes stung. His lips parted, but no sound came out. “You are sure?”
As Copeland nodded, Wils suddenly felt nauseous, his collar too tight. He had known Max nearly all his life. They lived near each other back in Prussia; they attended the same church and went to the same schools. Their mothers were even good friends. Wils loosened his tie.
“May I have some water, please, Professor?” Wils finally asked in a raspy voice. As Copeland turned his back to him, Wils took a deep breath, pulled out a linen handkerchief, and cleaned the fog from his spectacles.
The professor walked over to a nearby table and poured a glass of water. “How well did you know Max?” he asked, handing the glass to Wils.
He took the tumbler and held it tight, trying to still his shaking hand. “We met at church in Prussia when we were in the nursery. I’ve known him forever.”
“Did you know anything about any gaming debts that he’d incurred?”
Debts? “No.”
“Do you think that gaming debts were the cause of his beating last week?” asked Copeland, sitting back in his desk chair.
Wils moved to the edge of his seat. The prügel? Last Wednesday’s fight flashed into his mind. There had been a heated argument between Max and a very drunk Arnold Archer after dinner at the Spee dining club. Max had called him a coward for supporting the British but not being willing to fight for them. It wasn’t the most sensible thing to do given Archer ran with brawny, patriotic friends. On Thursday at the boathouse Max had received the worst of a fight with Archer’s gang.
“It was a schoolboys’ fight. They were drunk. Max was beaten because Arnold Archer was mad about the Germans beating the British in Belgium. Archer couldn’t fight because America’s neutral, so he hit a German who wouldn’t renounce his country. These fights break out all the time over politics when too much brandy gets in the way. People get over their arguments.”
“Didn’t Max make some nationalistic speech at the Spee Club?”
Wils’s back stiffened in indignation. “If Max had been British it would have gone unnoticed. But because he was German, Archer beat him.” He paused. “Max was going to tell the truth as he knew it, and thugs like Archer weren’t going to stop him.”
Copeland tapped a pencil against his knee. “How well do you think his strategy worked?”
Wils’s eyes widened. “Being beaten wasn’t Max’s fault, Professor. It was the fault of the person who used his fists.”
“Wils, Arnold Archer’s father is coming to see me this evening to discuss the case. His son is under suspicion for Max’s death.”
“I hope Arnold goes to jail.”
“Arnold may not have been involved.”
Wils set the glass down on the wooden desk and stood up. “He’s a pig.”
“Wils, according to Arnold, Max tried to send sensitive information about the Charlestown Navy Yard to Germany.” A faint tinge of pink briefly colored the professor’s cheeks. “Arnold said he knew about this and was going to go to the police. Max may have thought that he would go to jail for endangering the lives of Americans and British citizens. And if what Arnold said was right, then Max may have faced some very serious consequences.”
“America’s not at war.”
The professor didn’t respond.
“Why would Max do such a thing then?” asked Wils curtly.
“Arnold says he was blackmailed because of his gaming debts.”
“What could Max possibly have found? He’s incapable of remembering to brush his hair on most days.”
Copeland threw up his hands, nearly tipping over a stack of books on the desk. “I have no idea. Maybe America’s building ships for England. Maybe we’ve captured a German ship. Apparently he found something. Sometime later, Max was found by his maid, hung with a noose fashioned from his own necktie. His room was a wreck.” Copeland looked at him intently. “And now the police don’t know if it was suicide or murder. Arnold might have wanted to take matters into his own hands—as he did the other night after the Spee Club incident.”
Wils ran his hands through his hair. “Arnold a murderer? It just doesn’t make sense. It was a schoolboys’ fight. And Arnold’s a fool, but much more of a village idiot than a schemer.”
“Don’t underestimate him, Wils. He’s not an idiot. He’s the son of a very powerful local politician who wants to run for higher office. His father holds City Hall in his pocket.”
“Are you speaking of Boston City Hall?”
“Yes.”
“I could care less about some martinet from Boston. I’m related to half the monarchs in Europe.” Wils sneered.
“City Hall has more power over you right now than some king in a faraway land,” said Copeland. “Arresting another German, maybe stopping a German spy ring—that would be exactly the thing that could get a man like Charles Archer elected to Congress. I’d recommend you cooperate with City Hall on any investigation into Max’s death. If you have information, you will need to share it.”
“If Arnold killed Max—” He stopped, barely able to breathe. Max dead by Arnold’s hand? Unthinkable. “Was there a note?”
“No, nothing. That’s why the Boston police may arrest Archer even if his father does run City Hall. Either it was a suicide and it won’t happen again, or perhaps we need to warn our German students about…a problem.” Copeland’s fingers brushed the edge of his desk. “That was the point of my summoning you here now. It could’ve been suicide. Therefore, the police want to talk with you before innocent people are accused, and I’d recommend you do it.”
But Wils had already taken the bait. “Innocent people? Arnold Archer? Is this a joke?” asked Wils.
“He may not be guilty.”
Wils paused. “I’m not sure how much money his father’s giving Harvard, but it had better be a lot.”
“That’s most uncharitable!”
“And so is the possible murder of a decent human! Where’s Professor Francke? I’d like to speak with him. He is a great German leader here on campus whom everyone respects. He’ll know how to advise me.”
“You are right. Professor Francke is a moderate, respected voice of reason. But he’s German and the police questioned him this morning. He is cooperating. His ties to the kaiser have naturally brought him under suspicion. City Hall thinks he could be a ringleader of a band of German spies. The dean of students asked me to speak with you and a few others prior to your discussions with the police. They should contact you shortly regarding this unpleasantness.”
“If that is all—” Wils bowed his head to leave, anger rising in his throat from the injustice of what he’d heard. First murder and now harassment were being committed against his countrymen, and somehow they were to blame for it? Not possible. Professor Francke was one of the most generous and beloved professors at Harvard. Max was a harmless soul.
“Wils, you had said you wished to ask me about something.”
Wils thought back to his mother’s telegram. Perhaps she’d been right to demand his return after all. He looked up at Copeland, sitting under an image of an old Spanish peasant. He seemed to have shrunk in his large desk chair.
“No, Professor. Nothing at all. Good day.”
Copeland didn’t rise as Wils turned to enter the dimly lit hallway. As his eyes adjusted, a famous poem Copeland had taught him in class—Matthew Arnold’s “Dover Beach”—came to him. Wils turned back to his teacher and said:
“For the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain—”
Copeland brightened. “‘Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, where ignorant armies clash by night,’” they finished together. Wils nodded, unable to speak further.
“Matthew Arnold has his moments. Do take care, Wils. Stay alert. I am concerned about you and want you to be safe. The world is becoming darker just now. Your intellectual light is one worth preserving. Now please close the door from the outside.” Copeland looked down again, and the interview was over.
* * *
The rain had driven the students inside their dormitories and flooded the walkways in Harvard Yard. As Wils left Hollis Hall, he removed his tie and pushed it into his pocket. The damned Americans talk brotherhood, he thought, but if you’re from the wrong side of Europe you’re no brother to them.
Max dead. Arnold Archer under suspicion. And what was all of that ridiculous nonsense about the Charlestown Navy Yard, he wondered, deep in thought, nearly walking into a large blue mailbox. He crossed the busy street and walked toward his room in Beck Hall.
In his mind, he saw Max trading barbs at the dinner table and laughing at the jests of Wils’s roommate, Riley, an inveterate prankster. And how happy Max had been when Felicity, his girlfriend from Radcliffe College, had agreed to go with him to a dance. But he’d been utterly heartbroken when she deserted him last year for a senior. This past summer Wils and Max had walked along the banks of the Baltic, when they were back in Europe for summer vacation. He said he would never get over her and he never really had. So what had happened to him?
Anger at the injustice of Max’s death welled up inside Wils as he opened the arched door of Beck Hall and walked quickly past Mr. Burton’s desk. The housemaster didn’t look up from his reading. Wils shut the door to his room behind him. His breath was short. His hands hadn’t stopped trembling. He had to find Riley and discuss what to do about Arnold.
What was happening to his world? His beautiful, carefully built world was cracking. Germany and Britain at war? Max dead? Professor Francke hauled in and questioned?
Wils felt a strange fury welling up inside of him. He wanted something to hurt as badly as he did. He picked up a porcelain vase and hurled it against the brick fireplace. It crashed and shattered, the blue-and-white shards scattering over the crimson rug.
Chapter Two
Bertram Hall
Concord, Massachusetts
Saturday, August 29, 1914
Colonel William Buttrick Darlington, Harvard class of 1863, was a tall, thin man in his early seventies. He had a shock of gray hair brushed across his forehead and a fine nose—one that Cleopatra herself would have envied. He had never been known to voice a single immoderate sentiment in his entire life. In fact, since he married the talkative Mrs. Darlington, he’d not managed to be heard on many subjects at all.
But his money spoke for him. He owned the largest private estate on the banks of the Concord River, which stretched for more than five acres on either side of the water and encompassed a large wood, a greenhouse, a gazebo, a park, a garage filled with elegant cars, a boathouse, and a large redbrick mansion.
The manse, Bertram Hall, was a three-story affair built in a late Georgian style. It defied the Concord standard set by none other than Ralph Waldo Emerson, whose own manse was a modest two-floor, foursquare home. If that humble house design had been good enough for the founder of the transcendentalist movement, it was good enough for everyone else, or so thought Concordians.
To make matters worse, the Darlingtons topped their mansion with a white cupola and a bright polished weather vane shaped like a clipper ship. The design was practically stolen from the church in the town’s square. The tip of the weather vane was rumored to stand six inches higher than the church’s thin white spire.
Concord was well aware that the Darlington family had built its fortune in shipping during the Napoleonic wars, and neither that nor their ostentatious residence endeared them to the town. One hundred years later, they remained one of the richest families of New England society, the trust having survived a century of bankers, teachers, preachers, gadabouts, spendthrifts, and Harvard graduates.
New England, however, had not reached its final verdict on the Darlingtons. Rumors of Tory sympathies from their English roots lingered, even over a century after the Revolution. The Darlingtons countered by marrying a lost branch of Concord’s famed Buttrick family, whose forefathers’ kn
own contempt for the likes of the Darlingtons had shone true on April 19, 1775. Major John Buttrick had stood at the forefront of battle at the Old North Bridge and helped turn the Redcoats, and those who sympathized with their tyrannical plans, back to Boston to run them out of the countryside. Bostonians felt no marriage could change history.
The family then placed a bronze statue of George Washington on their front lawn back in 1850. Neighbors felt the Darlingtons, in their desire to be accepted, were incapable of understanding the very basic tenets of New England society. One could and should have substantial wealth in the bank, but never in sight of one’s neighbors. The practice of Yankee Thrift was practically a religion in these parts. Garish statues of people from Virginia, even one of the founding fathers, only made things worse, especially after the Civil War. These were the best days of the American Republic after all, not the last days of Rome.
The colonel had served with some distinction in the Union army, unlike many of his neighbors who hired men to go in their place. These acts did little to mollify the neighbors. The Puritans had been able to pick out a Tory in their midst several generations before the upstart Darlingtons had even landed.
Thus, when the ladies of the Equal Suffrage Society asked the Darlingtons to support the 1914 women’s voting rights movement with a dance at the estate, the family accepted with alacrity. It was widely believed that they were in no position to refuse, especially after their disgraceful conduct during the War of 1812 when it was rumored they had shipped goods for the dreadful British again.
As a result, on the last Saturday in August, Colonel Darlington and his wife opened their home to raise money for women’s suffrage at the last dance of the summer. The banks were bursting with money, real estate values had risen with the outbreak of war in Europe, and farmers predicted a bountiful harvest. The burghers of Boston were rich, and the ladies of the Equal Suffrage Society knew it. It was time to fleece the flock.
The End of Innocence Page 2
