by P. B. Ryan
Gesturing for Nell and Will to lean toward her, Pru said in a thick-tongued, gin-fumed whisper, “Finn tol’ me Johnny was savin’ his dough to open his own place right down the street, a concert saloon like this, but bigger and fancier. Said he was gonna give Mother a run for her money, steal away her customers and put the ol’ bloater out of business. Can you ‘magine?” she snickered.
“I don’t guess that would have made Mother very happy,” Nell said.
“How was she s’posed to find out,” Pru asked in a tone that suggested Nell might be a little slow, “if Finn or Johnny didn’t tell her? They’re the only ones that know. Knew. You know what I mean.”
“You know,” Nell pointed out, wondering why she had to.
“Yeah, well, Finn was soused when he tol’ us, or he never woulda said nothin’, ‘cause—”
“Us?” Nell said.
“Me and Ivy and Fanny. Finn had us over to the chicken house one night after hours for a lil’ party.”
“A party?” Nell said. “Three women and one...?” She got it as soon as the words were out of her mouth.
Now it was Will looking at her as if she were slow. With a smile that made her want to punch him, he said, “I’ll explain the mathematics later.”
“Finn was drunker than I ever seen him that night,” Pru said. “Thas’ why he tol’ us, but he said it was s’posed to be a big secret. He made us promise to keep our mouths shut, said if we din’t, he’d shut ‘em for us permanent.” She grinned and shook her head, as if to say, Men.
“But you’re telling us,” Will said.
Who knew how many people those three whores had already spilled the beans to, Nell wondered, and how many people those people had told. Divulged secrets tended to spread like a spider web.
Pru stared at Will for a long, hard moment, as if trying to get a bead on his face. Her look of dismay at having revealed such a dangerous secret evaporated fairly swiftly. With a dismissive wave of her hand, she said, “Finn won’t mind. Johnny’s dead. No reason to keep the secret anymore.” She raised her glass, found it empty, and held it toward Will, waving it back and forth with an imploring pout.
Will held up two fingers to a passing waiter girl. His ersatz drinks, meanwhile, remained untouched.
“You’re a prince, Tommy,” Pru said. “Say, listen. The two of you ain’t...you know...together, are you?”
“Um, no,” Nell said.
Leaning toward Will, Pru said, in a throaty voice, “Then how’s about you let me take you downstairs and thank you for all them lovely drinks?”
With an apologetic smile, Will lifted her hand, kissed her knuckles, and shook his head. He said, “I’m sorry, that won’t be possible.”
“You a gal-boy?” Pru asked.
“Yes, Pru, I am a gal-boy,” he said with quiet gravity. “Were I not, how could I possibly resist the allure of one such as yourself?”
“Gimme a chance,” she inveigled. “One night with me, and you’ll look at women in a whole new light.”
“I’m all too sure that’s true.”
* * *
“It doesn’t look good for Cook,” Will said as they left Nabby’s, arm in arm. It was around one in the morning, and there was, thank the fates, a cool breeze blowing off the harbor. North Street was, if not deserted, at least less populated than it had been earlier, and therefore a good deal less less noisy and strident.
“It could be worse,” Nell said.
“He was seen standing over a gunshot victim with his own revolver in his hand.”
Nell said, “You, of all people, should know that being caught ‘red-handed’ doesn’t automatically translate into guilt.”
“But it does translate into the perception of guilt—as does his relationship with Mary Molloy. If Cook ever stands trial for this shooting, chances are he’ll be found guilty.”
“What about Shute?” she asked.
“What about him?”
“He lied to us, at least by omission. Not only did he return to Nabby’s for a second visit, he was bodily thrown out by none other than the man who turned up dead the next night—a man whom he threatened in front of God knows how many witnesses.”
“Perhaps,” Will said, “he didn’t tell us about the incident because he was simply embarrassed. It’s humiliating enough to experience something like that. Perhaps he just wanted to put it behind him.”
“Why do you suppose Johnny threw him out?” she asked. “He seems like such a civilized sort—refined, personable...”
“So do I, most of the time,” Will said, slanting a smile in her direction. “So you see, my dear Cornelia, appearances can be deceiving.”
“Do you think we’re being deceived by Denny?” she asked.
“You mean, do I think he’s a little pervert who’s going to grow up to rape and pillage and plunder? No, I do not.”
Will raised his hand and whistled, which was when Nell noticed a pair of carriage lamps down the street. The hack pulled up to the curb.
“Evenin’ ma’am,” said the driver with a little tip of his hat. “Sir. Where can I take you folks tonight?”
“One forty-eight Tremont,” Will said as he handed Nell up into the rather shabby black carriage.
“Denny Delaney is a good kid with a normal curiosity about the fairer sex,” Will said as he settled in beside Nell on the cracked leather seat. “Did he employ poor judgment in watching Mary unawares? Unarguably. But boys at that age are hardly known for their astute decisions, especially about matters having to do with women. I daresay, I committed far more egregious offenses at his age. If you knew the half of it, you’d have nothing to do with me, even now.”
“I doubt that.” She turned to smile at him. Will returned the smile as the light from a passing streetlamp fluttered across his face, dancing over the finely sculpted bones, the shadowed eyes. He had the kind of face that would age not just gracefully, but magnificently. Nell couldn’t help wondering, in light of his unsettled existence and their strange, unresolved relationship, whether she would still know him when his temples were silvered, his eyes bracketed by creases.
The thought that she might not made her feel desperately empty inside.
“One thing I do know,” Will said. “No adolescent boy deserves to be savaged by a bully like Finn Cassidy for an offense of that nature. And it’s clear they sought no medical care at all for him afterward. The broken nose, well, that’s not so bad. Imparts a certain hint of ruggedness that may end up serving him well with the ladies, given that he’s so bookish. But that hand of his will never be fully functional. He’ll have to live with that for the rest of his life.”
“Well, where are we?” Nell asked. “What do we need to do next?”
“I’d say a little chat with Brian O’Donagh might be in order. We should pay a visit tomorrow to that pub where he keeps his office. The Blue...?”
“Fiddle,” Nell said. “The Blue Fiddle. Richmond Street near Salem.”
“Other than that, what we need to do is what we’ve needed to do all along, prove that Colin Cook didn’t kill Johnny Cassidy. It won’t be easy, what with three witnesses to swear that he did. The fact that two of them were drunk on opium at the time should cast their testimony into doubt, but if they’re upper-crust types, and it seems as if they may be, they’ll be believed regardless of their condition at the time. I wish to God we had their names so that we could find out what they told Skinner, and how badly it may hurt Cook.”
“I have their names,” Nell said with a smug little smile.
Will turned and stared at her, a gratifying look of incredulity in his eyes. “And you have them because...”
“After you went out front to pay Riley the rent...and sweet-talk the enchanting Pru...Mother Nabby needed the necessary, so I took her there. By the way, if you ever notice me gaining an extra few hundred pounds, do snatch the fork out of my hand with all due haste.”
“I think the warning sign will be when you stop bothering with the fork.”
>
“While I was walking her to the water closet,” Nell said, “I pinched that little ledger she keeps in her pocket, the one where she keeps track of the nobs who pay on credit.”
“Once a finger-smith, always a finger-smith,” Will said laughingly. Drawing her toward him, he kissed her forehead. “I love you, Nell.”
Everything stopped for about a second—all sound and sensation, even Nell’s heartbeat. Scrambling for recovery, she said, “Um, while she was in the W.C., I looked through the book for entries dated July fifth, the night of the murder. One page had the names of two men, and a list of the things they owed her for—the opium and use of the all the paraphernalia, the smoking pistols, lamps, spindles, even the pillows.”
“She charges for the pillows?”
“She charges for the pillows.”
“Avaricious witch.”
“It came to fourteen dollars apiece,” Nell said.
“Pure thievery.”
“The men we need to talk to are Lawrence Pinch and Ezra Chapman.”
Frowning, Will said, “Why do I know those names?”
“They’re friends of your brother’s,” Nell said.
“Harry,” Will said glumly. He ducked his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose, breathing something Nell knew he didn’t mean her to hear. “Harry’s friends. Yes. Well. Harry’s friends have always been much like Harry. Unfortunately.”
“We should speak to Pinch and Chapman,” Nell said. “Any idea how we might go about locating them?”
“Harry’s chums have traditionally taken their lunch at the Somerset Club.”
“Which is only open to members.”
“I’m a Hewitt,” Will drawled. “There’s no door in Boston that is closed to us. I’ll go to the Somerset tomorrow during the luncheon hour and pray that Pinch and Chapman aren’t still abed, sleeping off their daily morning heads.”
“I realize the Somerset is gentlemen only,” Nell said. “I don’t suppose they’d ever make an exception for—”
“Queen Victoria herself couldn’t set foot in that place,” he said. “Sorry, Nell. I’ll do the best I can all on my own—although I shall miss your diverting company more than I can say.”
Chapter 12
“Will it even be open this early?” asked Nell the next morning as Will knocked on the front door of the pub on Richmond Street in which Brian O’Donagh was said to hold court. With a glance at her pendant watch, she said, “It’s barely ten o’clock.”
It was the kind of place one might pass by without noticing, so small and undistinguished was its exterior, just a solid oak door with two heavily curtained windows to either side. The only clue that it was the place they sought was a very small sign in the shape of a fiddle, painted blue with gold trim, hanging to the side of the door.
“This is the North End, and taverns tend to be open at all hours here,” Will said. “But if it’s not, we’ll just find a coffee shop and come back...” He tilted his head, listening. “Someone’s coming.”
There came the soft metallic click of a key turning in a lock, and then the door swung open about a foot, courtesy of a young red-headed man in shirtsleeves and a bib apron, holding a bottle brush. “Sorry, we ain’t open yet,” he said in a fresh-off-the-boat brogue. “You might come back at noon.”
“We’re here to see Mr. O’Donagh.” Will handed him his card. “Miss Cornelia Sweeney and Dr. William Hewitt.”
The young man, a bartender from the looks of him, surveyed them swiftly, taking in Will’s black frock coat and top hat, Nell’s dove-gray walking dress of fine silk twill—their normal attire, which Nell was relieved to return to. “Does Mr. O’Donagh expect you, then?”
“No,” Will said, “but it’s a matter of some importance.”
“Sorry,” said the bartender as he stepped back to shut the door. “He’s busy.”
Pressing a hand to the door to keep it from closing, Nell said, “Tell him it has to do with an old friend of his, Colin Cook. Please. I think he’ll want to speak to us if he knows that.”
The bartender hesitated a moment, then shut and relocked the door. From inside came the sound of his retreating footsteps, then silence. Nell and Will waited. An ice cart rumbled past, and another cart bearing kegs bound for one of the many local saloons. From the next street over came the competing cries of a newsboy and a woman hawking fresh fish.
Just when Will was fixing to pound on the door again, it opened. “This way,” said the bartender as he ushered them inside. They followed him toward the rear of the pub, which was long and narrow, a clubby little haven lit by a row of pendant lamps over the bar. Nell breathed in the aromas of tobacco, bacon, and linseed oil.
The rear of the bar opened into a hallway, at the end of which, near a closed door, sat a strapping blond fellow reading a newspaper, a cup of coffee on a little table next to him. A Viking in the big city, Nell thought. He stood as they approached, his head nearly touching the ceiling, and appraised Nell and Will with the frankness of a cop—or a bodyguard. On his coat collar was a small gold and enamel badge featuring a shamrock overlaid with crossed swords and a little banner reading F.O.S.E. Fraternal Order of the Sons of Erie. Beneath his wool coat, Nell saw a bulge that could only have been a holstered pistol.
“This is them, Cormac,” the bartender said, and left.
“Off with your coat, then,” Cormac told Will. His accent was even denser than the bartender’s.
The command stunned Nell, but Will took it in stride, almost as if he’d expected it. He set his hat on the table, after displaying its interior to show it was empty, shucked his coat, and handed it over for inspection. Without being asked, he turned to show that there were no weapons hidden behind him, then propped each foot on the chair to raise his trouser legs. Cormac patted him down, returned the coat, and turned to Nell.
“He’ll want to see your reticule,” Will told her, “and the contents of your pockets, if you have any.” To the guard, he said, in a tone that brooked no argument, “And that’s all you get to see.”
Cormac searched Will’s eyes for about a second, sizing him up the way a man does when he’s trying to determine how much fight there might be in a potential adversay. Will met his gaze unflinchingly, with that predatory thrust to his jaw, his arms—much longer than Cormac’s despite the guard’s height and bulk—held in soldier-like readiness at his sides.
The guard nodded once and reached for Nell’s little needlepoint reticule, in which he poked around for a bit before handing it back. Nell had one hidden pocket in her voluminous skirt; she turned it inside out to show that it was empty.
“This door stays open,” Cormac said as he gave it a soft rap. “Your callers, sir.”
“Show them in, then,” came a deep-chested command that bore a subtle Irish lilt.
The guard ushered them into a darkly masculine enclave furnished in leather and mahogany that reminded Nell of August Hewitt’s private upstairs library, right down to the globe and the books. A polished banker’s desk stood near the back wall before a damask-draped window, but its chair was empty. The man they came to see, handsomely attired but for a napkin tucked under his chin, was seated instead at a marble-topped table laid out with the remains of a morning repast of eggs, bacon, scones, strawberries, jam, and tea. He had a massive head, not unlike Detective Cook’s, with neatly pomaded salt and pepper hair.
O’Donagh stood as his gaze lit on Nell, pulling away the napkin and ducking his head with a genial smile she wouldn’t have expected, given what they’d had to go through to gain entrance to his private sanctum. She was immediately struck by the sheer, squared-off bulk of the man—not that he was heavyset, although he must have carried half again as much weight as Will. He was broad and thick-boned, with colossal shoulders housed in an exquisitely tailored coat, the lapel of which sported a little green and gold F.O.S.E. badge like that of his bodyguard.
“Miss Sweeney, is it?” O’Donagh said, wiping his hands on the napkin as he gestured for Nell a
nd Will to join him at the table. “Any relation to Terence Sweeney from Oliver Street?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” Nell said as she lowered herself into the chair Will pulled out for her. “I’m from Cape Cod originally.”
“But you weren’t born there,” he said as he retook his seat, smoothing down his coat.
She shook her head. “I was born in Falcarragh in County Donegal. But I only lived there for a year before—”
“Aha!” He slapped the table, rattling the dishes and silverware. “I knew it. I can always tell a blossom that sprouted in the old country. There’s that intoxicating sparkle in the eyes, that blush of dawn upon the cheeks. Where on Cape Cod?”
“Oh. Um, Falmouth, mostly.”
“Falmouth. Falmouth... There’s a fella called...” He squinted across the room, drumming his giant fingers on the table. “Duncan. Duncan Sweeney. An associate of mine met him up at Charlestown State Prison a while back. He hails from Falmouth. You wouldn’t be kin to him, by any chance?”
Nell stared at O’Donagh, astounded that he’d so swiftly made the connection to her estranged husband—her very secret estranged husband—and at a loss as to how to respond.
Will came to her rescue. “Miss Sweeney was quite young when she left Falmouth.”
O’Donagh turned to Will, regarding him with a cool, assessing smile. “Doctor...” He slid a pair of spectacles onto his nose, lifted Will’s card from the table, and slid the spectacles off. “Hewitt. Of the Hewitts, I take it.”
“That is correct.”
The big man sat back to appraise them, the smile frozen in place, speculating, no doubt, on the relationship between the Irish-born Miss Sweeney and the scion of one of Boston’s most venerable old families.
“I serve as governess to the Hewitts,” Nell said. “Dr. Hewitt and I are looking into a situation involving a man whom we’re told is an old acquaintance of yours—Detective Colin Cook of the State Constabulary.”
“Cormac!” O’Donagh called.
The door swung open. “Yes, sir.”
