“Of course you are, Mr. Ames! And you can tell your cousin who sits on the board of commissioners that we are doing our job right and proper.”
“Good hunting, Inspector.” Ames nodded to him and set off once again, aware that they still watched him. Well, that was their job, and he couldn’t fault them for performing it.
His lips twitched as he thought of Caroline coming down to the Tombs to vouch for him in the morning. What with her eagerness for him to involve himself in this case, there were aspects to the business that she probably hadn’t anticipated. She’d not let him into the house, he thought, if he’d spent a night in the city jail.
He rounded a corner and saw, across the street, the grim stone building that was the Reverend Montgomery’s rectory. A single light shone from a downstairs window.
He crossed, opened the wrought-iron gate, and went up the path to the door. As he lifted his hand to grasp the knocker, he paused. His repugnance for this man was so great that he wondered if he could speak to him and remain civil.
But then he reminded himself that it was imperative to speak to him; this was no time to allow his feelings, no matter how strong, to keep him from doing what he must.
He lifted the knocker and brought it down sharply, twice.
No sound came from within. Perhaps the light was a ruse to ward off burglars.
He tried again, three raps this time.
Suddenly the door opened, startling him; he’d heard no footsteps approaching.
The Reverend Randolph Montgomery stood before him.
“Yes?”
“Good evening, Reverend.”
“Who—?” Montgomery peered out at him.
“Addington Ames.”
“Ah! Mr. Ames! I could not make out who you were. What brings you to our humble neighborhood on such a night?”
“I wanted a word with you.”
“I see. Well, I—Yes, all right. Come in.” He stepped back to allow Ames to cross over the threshold; then he led the way into the parlor, which, as before, was drab and dingy, messy, none too clean. Whatever else the reverend did with all the money he collected, Ames thought, it was not used on this house. He put his hat and gloves on a chair by the parlor door, removed his cloak, and hung it over the back.
“Now,” said the reverend, rubbing his hands as if to warm them. There was a tiny fire in the grate, not nearly enough to make the room comfortable. “What can I give you? Brandy?”
“Nothing, thanks.”
Ames would in fact have liked a drink, but he did not want to accept Montgomery’s hospitality.
“You don’t mind if I do?” the reverend asked, moving toward a monumental Jacobean sideboard that took up much of one wall.
“Not at all.”
“Take a chair, then, and I’ll be with you in a moment.”
On the large round table in the center of the room lay sheets of writing, illuminated by the dim light of a gas chandelier overhead. As Ames pulled out a chair, he glanced at the scattered pages.
“Sorry about these,” the reverend said, returning. He put down his brandy glass and scooped them up, putting them in a pile upside down at the far edge of the table. “Hard to sort out my thoughts sometimes, you know. But people come to services expecting a good, rousing talk, and I have to give it to them.”
Ames nodded. “I imagine you find a way.”
“Oh, yes. I do. And they are so appreciative, don’t you know.”
The reverend took his seat and sipped his brandy. In the gaslight, his face looked smooth and bland, and his well-manicured hands—large, strong-looking hands—were steady as he held his glass.
“And what will your text be this Sunday?” Ames asked.
“This Sunday? Oh, I won’t preach this Sunday. I have a substitute coming in. That sermon”—he nodded toward the pile of manuscript—“is for the week after.”
“You will be out of the city?”
“Over in Cambridge, yes. For the annual meeting of the Congregational ministry. Members come from all over the Northeast, and we get together and say a prayer and have a good confab.”
“All day Sunday?”
“Tomorrow and Sunday, actually. We used to begin on Fridays, but some members found the lodging charge too expensive, so we’ve cut it to just the two days.”
“I see.”
The reverend took another sip of his brandy, and now in his pale eyes Ames could see the question: Why have you come here?
“That was a fascinating time, the other night at your place,” the reverend said. “Please tell your sister again for me how much I enjoyed myself.”
Ames inclined his head. “It was good of you—and Miss Montgomery—to come on such short notice.”
The reverend smiled unctuously. “We are not proud, Mr. Ames. And for Agatha, particularly, I felt that the change of atmosphere, even just for an evening, would do her good.”
“Yes.”
An easy introduction of the subject of Bertram’s Bower, then, without any awkwardness.
“How does she do, your sister?” Ames asked.
The reverend looked grave. “Well enough, I suppose. No—that is not true. I do not suppose that. I suppose—I know—that she is very nearly overcome with grief, with guilt, call it what you will. She feels very strongly that she has somehow betrayed those two poor, unfortunate girls—that she has betrayed her own mission by not keeping them safe. She has always been her own harshest critic, and in this instance it is no different.”
Ames nodded. “It is a most distressing case. I must say, the police are doing heroic duty. Coming over here just now, I was stopped and very nearly arrested.”
“You? Arrested?” The reverend appeared sincerely shocked. “For what?”
“For being abroad in the nighttime, I imagine. They have put out a watch in the district tonight, in response to the public’s panic.”
“Well! Good for them. I only hope they have some success. Have they spoken to that typewriter salesman?”
“I don’t know. But I did myself this afternoon.”
“Did you indeed? And?”
“He left for Worcester on Saturday, just after he’d had the argument with Mary. He returned this morning.”
“I see. Well, then, that would seem to eliminate him, would it not?”
“It would, yes.”
“Which leaves—who? The Irish boy, I’d say.”
“Or one of the neighborhood riffraff.”
“Yes. Well. Not likely that one of them would kill both girls, is it? One, perhaps, but not two.”
“Even less likely that one of them would have put Mary into the family way.”
“Yes. There is that to consider.” The reverend frowned, seemingly considering it.
You fraud, thought Ames. You knew Mary’s condition; probably you caused it. His revulsion toward this man was so great that he found it difficult to keep his anger in check. You may fool the world, Reverend, he thought, but you no longer fool me.
“But if we are dealing with something more than riffraff,” Montgomery went on, “if, as your guest proposed the other night, we are dealing with Jack the Ripper, either the man himself or some demented creature who seeks to imitate him—”
“It was most unfortunate that Mr. Chadwick chose to unburden himself of his theories, Reverend. And even more unfortunate that he chose to publish them. I do not believe for a moment that we have Jack the Ripper in our midst.”
Instead of replying, Montgomery rose to refill his glass. “You’re sure about that drink?” he said.
“Quite sure.”
Ames waited until he had returned. Then: “I wonder if you could tell me, Reverend—”
“Yes?” Suddenly Montgomery was wary, sensing danger.
“Where you were last Sunday evening.” Even as Ames spoke the words, he understood how they would sound to Montgomery. They would sound impertinent—unforgivably intrusive, ill bred, rude, and altogether intolerable.
The reverend could not
quite hide his shock—his anger at Ames’s blunt question. He swallowed a large gulp of brandy and with great care and precision set his glass on the table.
“You told me that you were—ah—assisting the police in their investigations, Mr. Ames.” The reverend’s eyes were cold now, and his voice, ordinarily so rich and mellifluous, had gone very soft.
“Yes.”
“So must I assume that your question has some kind of—ah—official sanction? Did the police tell you to come here to interrogate me—”
“I would hardly call it an interrogation,” Ames broke in.
“I repeat, to interrogate me. Or did you take it upon yourself to do so?”
“I am merely doing what I can.”
“I understand that your sister, too, is poking her nose into this regrettable affair. I was told that she spent some time, yesterday, questioning people at the Bower.”
“Yes.”
Montgomery lifted his chin and stared down his fleshy nose at Ames. “I will tell you quite frankly, Mr. Ames, I think you are seriously out of line. This is a matter for the police. Leave them to deal with it. I cannot imagine why you have concerned yourself about it in the first place. Surely a man who lives on Louisburg Square does not need to come slumming over here in the South End to keep himself amused?”
Ames smarted under this calculated insult, but he clenched his teeth and forbore to respond in kind. Of course Montgomery resented him. Probably he resented everyone who had not suffered, as the reverend’s family had suffered, the humiliations of bankruptcy and consequent loss of standing in the small, circumscribed world of Boston Society into which they, like the Ameses, had been born.
“No,” he replied quietly.
“Then why do you trouble yourself, man? Two girls you never knew, never would have known, girls who came from the lowest, the humblest rung of society, who could have had no importance to you? Their deaths were admittedly horrendous crimes, but still, why do you care about them?”
Montgomery leaned forward, his eyes searching Ames’s face as if he truly wanted to know the answer to his question. And perhaps, Ames thought, he did.
But I cannot tell you, Reverend. I can tell you part of the truth but not the whole of it, not the most important part of it, which is that a woman who has begun to haunt my thoughts—my dreams—asked me to involve myself in this case, and the reason she did so has partly to do with you.
And with this reflection, all his anger and disgust with the man sitting before him returned to sicken him once more, and he was forced to look away lest he betray himself.
“My sister pleaded with me—” he began.
“Ah, but my sister did not, did she? I cannot imagine that Agatha has welcomed your—I must say it—your meddling in this affair.”
“No,” Ames admitted. “She has not.”
“Well, then. Why persist, when the one person who has been most affected by these deaths gives you to understand that she does not wish you to do so? Great heaven, man, leave it to the police, and go and find something else to occupy your time!”
With that, he shoved back his chair and stood up. He was a tall man, nearly as tall as Ames, and much heavier. But I could best you in a fight, Ames thought as he stood also. You may be strong enough to overpower some poor frail girl, Reverend, but you are not in condition. You could not, if it came to that, overpower me.
“You will not tell me?” he said quietly, referring to the question that had so aroused the reverend’s ire.
“Tell you what? That I can account for my time when poor Mary was being set upon and killed in the most horrible way?” The reverend’s mouth was set in a hard line, and his budding jowls quivered ever so slightly. “Very well, Mr. Ames. If you insist—yes, I can account for it.”
Ames waited.
The reverend sniffed. “I was at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence Norton. Three-something Beacon Street, I forget the exact address. They were kind enough to hold a reception for me, with the understanding that the guests who came would be people happy to contribute to the Bower.”
“And you arrived at the Nortons’ when?”
“About four o’clock.”
“And you spent the rest of the afternoon there?”
“Yes, and part of the evening as well.”
“Until?”
The reverend’s nostrils flared slightly, and he sniffed again. “Until nearly ten.”
“I see.”
“You had better see. How on earth, man—how can you come here, into my own home, and insult me by demanding that I account for my time? Which, mind you, I have already done for the police. I am under no obligation whatsoever to answer to you—none!”
The voice—that rolling, basso-profundo preacher’s voice—was in full flower again as Montgomery excoriated him.
“No,” Ames replied quietly. “You are not. But—”
“And now I suppose you will want to know where I was on the following night, when the second girl was killed.”
Ames waited.
“I was here, Mr. Ames. It is none of your business, but—Yes. I was right here in this room.”
“Alone?”
“Of course alone! I live very simply, and I never entertain.”
Wrong, thought Ames. You entertained Mary Flaherty on more than one occasion.
The Reverend Montgomery stared at him belligerently, as if he could read his thoughts. “Now, you listen to me, Ames. You come here unannounced, you make the most monstrous accusations—”
“I have accused you of nothing, Reverend.”
“Not directly, no. But it is obvious that you believe me to be implicated in this dreadful affair. And I warn you, I will—”
“You knew Mary Flaherty fairly well, did you not?”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, from what I have heard, she seemed to look upon you as a special friend.”
The reverend frowned, drew down his mouth. “I am not sure I understand you.”
“It is simple enough. Were you particularly friendly with Mary Flaherty?”
“No.”
“She seemed to think otherwise.”
The reverend shrugged. “I can hardly be held accountable for what she thought.”
“Ah, but it was more than what she thought. She told Fred Brice, for one, that she hoped to marry you.”
Montgomery started back as if he’d been slapped. “Marry me? But that is preposterous.”
“That is what Mr. Brice thought. But Mary, apparently, had some reason to believe it. I would remind you that she was three months gone with child.”
“Now, wait a moment.” Montgomery stood and put his hands flat on the table as he leaned toward Ames in a menacing way. “Are you trying to implicate me in that as well?” His face, which had been pale, had turned pink, and his eyes, which had been cold, suddenly blazed with anger.
“I am not—”
“Get out!” Montgomery roared. Straightening, he advanced a step, and quickly Ames stood and stepped back.
“Reverend, if you will just—”
“Out!” As Montgomery suddenly raised his fist, Ames put up his own to defend himself.
“And stay out!” Montgomery came at him and struck a blow that Ames easily deflected. Montgomery stopped. He was breathing heavily, and a little trickle of saliva showed at the corner of his mouth.
There seemed nothing more to be said, and so, in the next moment, with a curt farewell, Ames took his leave. He had done himself no good, he thought, and probably a great deal of harm. The reverend was on guard now—more than he had been before—and would not only refuse to help him, but would also do what he could to impede him.
So be it, Ames thought grimly as he strode down the walk and let himself out at the gate. The night was colder than before, the freezing mist turning to ice underfoot. The street was quiet, not even a passing cab to break the silence. Next to the rectory, the reverend’s church stood massive and dark.
Ames crossed the street
and stopped at the first doorway. From here he could see the rectory clearly, the single light still showing from the front room where he had had his unpleasant interview with the Reverend Montgomery.
It was a sizable house, built no doubt for a minister who had a large family. Double windows on either side of the front door with its small porch; a row of smaller windows on the second floor.
And above those, a third story with three gables protruding.
Ames took a few steps and then turned to look at the rectory again.
Martin Sweeney of the Green Harp Saloon would know of a man who could do the job—a sharp-witted cracksman who was not only skilled with locks, but tight-mouthed as well.
I will have you yet, Reverend, he thought as he strode rapidly away into the night.
At No. 16½, the fire burned low in the grate and the grandmother clock in the hall struck the hour: ten o’clock.
Locked into fierce combat with her opponent, Caroline lifted her eyes to his and smiled. She was winning, but only just, and not, she thought, because he was allowing her to do so.
“You have put yourself into a difficult position, Doctor,” she said. But still, she was smiling; he heard no censure in her words.
He cleared his throat. She was right: He was going to lose. Somehow, he didn’t mind.
“I seem to have done, yes,” he replied, staring at the pieces on the board.
While he considered his situation, she listened for the sound of Addington’s return. What had he learned, if anything, from the Reverend Montgomery? And if a homicidal lunatic stalked the streets of the South End, looking for another victim, had Addington encountered him? What if that same lunatic decided to use his knife on a man instead of a woman? Addington was strong, and well trained in the martial arts from his years at Crabbe’s, but still. An encounter with an assailant who had a weapon was hardly a fair fight. Dr. MacKenzie owned a gun. She should have insisted that he accompany Addington. Perhaps—and it was a weapon of her own that she had employed only a few times in her adult life—she should have begun to cry. Addington would have had to listen to her then.
Dr. MacKenzie was staring at her. He seemed to have forgotten about their game.
She felt a little quiver in the region of her well-protected heart. Once, long ago, she’d felt something of the kind for a young man who, in the end, had gone away. Her heart had been broken, and she’d promised herself she would not allow that to happen to her ever again. But now, in the company of this quiet, kindly man who had come so unexpectedly into their lives, Addington’s and hers, she felt her heart tremble once more as she met his eyes, and she did not want to subdue it.
MURDER AT BERTRAM'S BOWER Page 21
