MURDER AT BERTRAM'S BOWER

by Cynthia Peale

  He greeted them with a brusque word and declined Caroline’s offer of tea. Nor would he sit; he stood menacingly before them like a hanging judge.

  “Good evening, cousin,” Ames said cordially, just as if their last interview had not been an unpleasant one. “To what do we owe this—”

  “No time for chitchat, Addington. I’ve just come from a meeting with the mayor.”

  “Ah. And how is he?”

  “Not good. I don’t have to tell you why. This confounded notion that we have that Ripper fellow here in our midst has given him a bad turn. He’s been literally a prisoner in his own office ever since that story came out today. Sheer speculation, I said, no need to panic, but every ward heeler in the city has been hounding him to take action. So he’s putting the screws on the police pretty tightly, I can tell you.”

  Wainwright’s small eyes flicked from one to another of his listeners as if he might find the answer to his dilemma from one of them. As indeed he might, Caroline thought. Still, she was glad he hadn’t heard their discussion of a moment earlier; they were no farther along than Crippen.

  “Crippen tells me he has his suspect,” Wainwright went on, “but if he’s wrong, there will be what-all to pay. The Irish in this city have no love for the police as it is, and if Crippen railroads an Irishman to the gallows and then it comes out that he was mistaken—”

  “Crippen will not railroad anyone, cousin,” Ames interrupted.

  “Let’s hope not. Have you seen him?”

  “Not since this morning.”

  “Hmmm. Well, I saw him not an hour ago. He is determined to make an arrest before the week is out, mistaken or not. He’s a good man, Crippen, but sometimes a trifle—shall we say—overenthusiastic.”

  “When it comes to the Irish,” Ames said.

  “When it comes to the Irish, yes. I don’t mind telling you, Addington, we have a delicate situation here.”

  “To say the least,” Ames murmured.

  “And tomorrow morning Crippen has scheduled a lineup. I’d appreciate it if you could come.”

  “Really, cousin? But I thought you wanted me to stay out of it.”

  Wainwright glared at him. “So I did. But that was before this English scribbler stirred everything up with his foolish speculations. I can’t understand the fellow, throwing a bomb into our midst like that. A Red revolutionist couldn’t have done worse.”

  Bomb-throwing revolutionaries were an ever-present threat, but mostly they operated in Europe.

  “So you’ll come to it?” Wainwright added. “Tomorrow at ten in the Tombs.”

  “Certainly. If you wish it.”

  “I do. We can’t put an end to this matter too soon, and perhaps, in the lineup—well, we will see. D’you know, on my way here I took note of people passing, particularly the women. They were afraid—terrified, even—and the men looked ready to riot at the drop of a hat. That’s what one irresponsible journalist—”

  “And newspaper,” Caroline put in.

  “And newspaper, yes—what one irresponsible journalist and newspaper together can do. They can put an entire city into panic. Destroy the public’s confidence in the police. Give rise to vigilante justice, men being snatched up off the street and beaten—lynched, even. And we can’t have it. Not while I sit on the board of commissioners.”

  He drew himself up to his full height and stared at them as if they were personally responsible for the city’s fearful state. And perhaps I am, Caroline thought guiltily. After all, I entertained Nigel Chadwick in this very house, not twenty-four hours ago. Did Cousin Wainwright know that? She hoped not. And if I had not held that dinner, perhaps Chadwick would not have felt emboldened to write his sinister little screed.…

  Cousin Wainwright was saying good-bye. “… find out what you can, Addington. I was wrong when I warned you off the other day, and now I’m asking for your help.”

  And with that he was gone, leaving the astonished little trio in his wake. As Caroline met her brother’s eyes, she thought: Cousin Wainwright doesn’t seem to consider that someone aside from Addington—herself, for instance—might also be of help in this case.

  There were seven men in Crippen’s lineup. Three looked harmless; two looked like the tramps they were; two looked thuggish, murderous, capable of any misdeed.

  “ ’Morning, Mr. Ames.” Crippen was even more puffed up than usual, strutting around the little room with its window looking onto the lineup. Present also were Agatha Montgomery, Matron Pratt, and three Bower girls.

  “Good morning, Inspector. You have a couple of prize specimens today, I see.”

  Crippen winked. “Just a couple, Mr. Ames. Gives it a little interest, like.”

  “Of course.”

  Ames stepped to the back, to stand beside MacKenzie. Agatha Montgomery and the others from the Bower moved to the front, where they had the best view. The men in the lineup were sitting. Now Crippen gave the order, and more lights went up so the men’s faces were brightly illuminated.

  “Look front!” called a police functionary.

  The men did, and then, as ordered, to the left and right.

  “Stand!”

  They stood. One of the thuggish ones was muttering to himself, but he broke off on a short command from the functionary.

  Crippen turned to Miss Montgomery. “Well, miss?” he said. “D’you see anyone likely?”

  She was peering intently at the lineup. “No,” she murmured after a moment. “I don’t recognize—” Her face was contorted as she scrutinized the seven men. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen any of them, Inspector.”

  Crippen grunted. “You, miss?” he said to Matron Pratt.

  She did not deign to look at him, but after a moment she said, “Third one from the left. I’ve seen him once or twice.”

  Crippen nodded and turned to the girls. “Well?”

  They were cowed, obviously intimidated. All their young lives they had tried to avoid the police, and now here they were, in a basement room next to the infamous Tombs, and the police were questioning them.

  It was too much for one of them. She began to cry, bowing her head on the shoulder of one of her companions, who comforted her. “There, Meg! Don’t take on! You ain’t done nothin’, they won’t hurt you.”

  She meant, Ames understood, the police rather than the seven men in the room beyond.

  “Come on, girls,” Crippen barked. “We don’t have all day.”

  But they were useless. They stared, transfixed, at the lineup, but they were unable to say if they had ever seen any of these men lurking near the Bower or anywhere else.

  After a moment Crippen gave up. He ordered his men to detain the man Matron Pratt had singled out, and to release the others.

  “Now, Matron, can you tell us more? You’ve seen this man near the Bower?”

  “I—yes.”

  “When?”

  “I’m not sure. Sometime in the last few weeks.”

  “Lurking? Or walking past?”

  “I—I think I saw him when I went to my Sunday evening meetings. Twice. Yes, I’m sure of it.”

  “All right.” Crippen motioned to an officer. “Let’s have him upstairs. See what he has to say for himself. You’re free to go, ladies. I’ll be in touch if this fellow looks promising at all.”

  As Miss Montgomery and Matron Pratt shepherded the three girls out of the room, Crippen turned to Ames.

  “Wait here if you want,” he said. “I won’t be a moment.” In less than five minutes he was back.

  “Nothing,” he said. But he didn’t look as disappointed as he might have, Ames thought.

  “You mean, he denies being near the Bower?”

  “I mean, he was pulled off the street this morning to fill up the places. He’s a clerk at Goodwin and Hoar. He lives in Cambridge. Says he’s never been near the Bower, and I believe him. Says he had nothing to do with the murders, he can account for his time both Sunday and Monday evenings. So there you are. We’ve released him.�
�

  “Well, Inspector, I am sorry this little exercise turned out to be a waste of your valuable time.”

  Crippen gave him a sly look. “Not a waste, Mr. Ames. It was just a formality in any case. Some little sop to throw to my superiors—and the newspapers, who are on me now like a pack of jackals. Had to toss one of their men out of my office this morning, if you can believe it.”

  “How do you mean, just a formality?” Ames asked.

  “Why, I mean I’m getting closer to the man responsible in this case—closer every day—and I put on this little show simply because my superiors told me to. I knew before we began that it was all for nothing, but there it is. You have to know how to play the political game in this business, Mr. Ames.”

  “You mean you not only have to do your job, you also have to give the appearance of doing it.”

  Crippen allowed himself a small smile. “That’s it. We have to look as though we’re right on top of the matter. And we are, Mr. Ames. We are.”

  “How so, if I may ask?”

  “I am not at liberty to say.”

  “I see. But—” Ames leaned in to speak close to the little inspector’s ear. “I couldn’t help but notice that you did not have a certain young Irish lad in that lineup.”

  “Aha. Indeed I did not.” Crippen’s eyes grew cold. “Didn’t need to, did I? I mean, they all know him at the Bower. Don’t need to see him in a lineup to identify him, do they?”

  Ames thought of Caroline’s discovery that Garrett could not read. “I wonder if we could impose upon you, Inspector, to have another look at that coded note? I’d like to see the original again.”

  “I told you, Mr. Ames, that note has nothing to do with this case.”

  “Nevertheless. Are you returning to your office now? We would take only a moment of your time, I promise.” The Tombs had recently been moved to the basement of the new courthouse in Pemberton Square, not far from police headquarters in City Hall.

  Crippen shrugged. “If you like, yes, come along. I just need to speak to my sergeant and then I’ll catch you up.”

  Outside in the rain, MacKenzie said, “Inspector Crippen stacks his deck, don’t you think?”

  “What?” Ames replied. “Stacks his deck? Worse than that, I’d say. That lineup was no better than a charade. I will speak to Cousin Wainwright about it when we are done with all this. I shouldn’t be surprised if they get a complaint or two, hauling men off the streets in that fashion.”

  An omnibus lumbered by, and then another. Then came a break, and they made their way across. The air was damp and chill, heavy with the odor of horse dung and burning coal, and the muck underfoot had congealed into an icy mess that made walking treacherous. MacKenzie trod cautiously, careful of his newly healed knee.

  “And another thing,” Ames went on as they proceeded down School Street toward City Hall. “I can think of someone else—another familiar face if you will—who wasn’t present for that lineup.”

  “Who?”

  “The Reverend Montgomery.”

  MacKenzie was taken aback. “Surely you do not mean to imply—”

  “I mean to imply nothing. I am merely saying that the more I think about that man, the more I suspect him—of what, I am not sure. But he is a trifle too smooth for my taste—remember what Caroline told us about him—and he had both the opportunity and the means to kill both Mary and Bridget.”

  “And his motive?” MacKenzie asked.

  But to this Ames did not reply.

  At City Hall, the door to Crippen’s room was closed. In the outer office, the harried-looking secretary blinked nervously and ran his hand through his hair as he explained to them that the inspector was not in at the moment, but if they cared to wait—

  He glanced apprehensively at the corridor, from where they could hear footsteps and a man’s voice—not Crippen’s—raised in anger. Ames could make out a few words: “… city in fear … panic in the streets … your responsibility …”

  “It sounds as though our friend is in some kind of trouble,” he murmured to MacKenzie.

  Suddenly a rather shaken-looking Crippen appeared in the doorway. Behind him they glimpsed a tall, white-haired man who did not come in but went on down the corridor.

  “Perhaps we should come back later?” Ames said to the little police inspector.

  “What? Oh—no. Come in, come in.” Crippen was pale, his voice unsteady. Without looking at his clerk, he hurried into his office and Ames and MacKenzie followed.

  “Trouble?” Ames asked solicitously.

  “That was my chief.”

  “I know. I recognized him.”

  “He—”

  “Wants results.” Ames nodded. “I imagine he is feeling pressure not only from the mayor, but from certain of the commercial establishments. Eben Jordan and his like, yes? No one will come into the city to shop or do business if the public panic keeps up.”

  “That’s it in a nutshell, Mr. Ames. Public panic. They lean on him, and he leans on me. He has threatened to take the case away from me if I cannot make an arrest.”

  “But you believe that you will—”

  “Oh, yes.” Crippen’s ugly little face was grim, his mouth set in a hard line. “Just as soon as I—well, never mind about that. You wanted to see that note again, did you?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind, yes.”

  “I have it here.” Crippen turned to the tall oak filing cabinets behind his desk. In a moment he produced the note and handed it to Ames, who studied it briefly before handing it back.

  “Yes. Thank you, Inspector. I just wanted to refresh my memory.”

  “But I told you, Mr. Ames, that note doesn’t signify. It doesn’t have anything to do with the case.”

  “All the same, I—”

  “And if you’re going to go after that typewriter salesman, you can think again. He isn’t in the city.”

  Ames hesitated, mindful of Crippen’s touchy vanity. “Have you considered a night watch, Inspector? If people assume that the killer will strike again, I would think that public confidence would be bolstered by a show of force. A massive police presence in the South End, an operation for the next two or three nights, letting it be seen that you have put every available man on the job—”

  Crippen shook his head. “Every available man, Mr. Ames? But we are close to moving in on the Copp’s Hill gang. I need every warm body I have for that, so where am I going to get the men for a display of force in the South End?”

  He was sweating, MacKenzie saw. Disgusting.

  “Well, now, that is a question,” Ames replied. “You are being squeezed both ends against the middle. But I have every confidence that you will find a way. Come, Doctor.”

  Outside once more, they made their way up School Street to Tremont. Across the way, at the Parker House, newsboys were crying their wares. “Ripper in Boston! Police hunt killer! Public warned!”

  “Damnation,” muttered Ames. He plunged across and, throwing down his coins, snatched up a Herald and a Post. As he turned away, his foot slipped on something.

  He looked down. It was a printed paper, muddied and wet. Still, for the most part, it was legible. He picked it up.

  That morning, while Ames and MacKenzie viewed Crippen’s lineup, Caroline went to see her friend, Dr. Hannah Bigelow. She would be an inconvenient visitor, she knew, for mornings were Dr. Hannah’s time to see scheduled patients. Nevertheless, Caroline told herself, this was not a casual call but something much more important. Since Dr. Hannah treated the Bower’s girls, it was possible she’d heard something that might be helpful. Probable, even, Caroline told herself, remembering what she’d heard about the Reverend Montgomery from Katy and Liza.

  Shortly after ten she set off from Louisburg Square, walked briskly through the rain down the hill, and took the Green Trolley to Dartmouth Street, where she disembarked. Coming into Copley Square, she passed shouting newsboys, and she stopped.

  Jack the Ripper. They were caterwauling about
Jack the Ripper.

  Feeling as though she was about to do something very daring, she approached a boy selling the Post and bought one. Her eyes scanned the page. She could hardly believe what she read. They were stating flat out that Jack the Ripper was in Boston. The morning Globe had carried an article about the Bower killings on an inside page, but nothing like this.

  She stood as if rooted to the ground, hardly noticing when people jostled her to get a newspaper for themselves.

  The Ripper. But surely Nigel Chadwick’s article had been only speculation. Why had the Post—and the Herald too—taken up his poisonous fantasy?

  She looked around. People were snatching up papers, reading avidly. She started to walk again, past the foundation of the building that would be the new Boston Public Library. It would be a Renaissance palace, as fine as any building in Europe. Boston deserved such a palace of learning, a kind of temple to the arts. But what good would a grand new Renaissance palace do for a city forever stained by its association with the notorious, the black, evil Jack the Ripper?

  But the Bower killer wasn’t the Ripper. He couldn’t be.

  She passed the S. S. Pierce castle and came into the South End. Here she saw poor-looking women hurrying by, heads bowed; three or four men clustered at a corner. They eyed her, but at least none of them spoke to her or made rude noises the way men sometimes did.

  By the time she came to Columbus Avenue, where Dr. Hannah’s clinic was, her sides were hurting from her lacings, and she longed to take a deep breath. Perhaps the women of the Sensible Dress League had a point, she thought. The next time one of them offered her a pamphlet, she’d take it.

  The clinic was housed in a tall brownstone that like all the others hereabouts had seen better days. The waiting room was full, as it generally was; the woman at the reception desk was someone Caroline did not know. She received Caroline’s request to see Dr. Hannah with a cold stare. She would see, she said.

  Caroline took a seat on one of the hard wooden benches along the wall. The room was warm, smelling of garlic and unwashed bodies. A few babes in arms wailed listlessly; one small girl of about five stood at her mother’s knee and stared fixedly at the newcomer.