Murder in the North End

by P. B. Ryan

  “How long was his sentence, again?”

  “Eighteen months. I thought perhaps he would look me up after he was released, but he didn’t. I began to worry that perhaps he’d been killed by another prisoner, or caught some disease in there, so I wrote to the superintendent of the Plymouth House of Corrections—remember? You helped me to compose the letter.”

  “Oh yes, I remember.”

  “He wrote back saying that Jamie had been released in May of ‘sixty-one. I never heard from him again. He was fed up with me and my preaching about how he should live his life. Who could blame him, especially considering how I was living mine at the time. A classic case of the pot calling the kettle black.” Nell had often wondered, this past decade, what had become of the ne’er-do-well younger brother who was her last remaining sibling, the rest having succumbed before they’d made it to adolescence. Jamie’s most likely fate, she’d supposed, would have been another prison term. She’d thought that was the worst it would come to.

  “Nell?”

  Nell realized she’d been staring dully at the opposite shore. She should be crying, she should be consumed with grief, but she had the most curious sensation of being wrapped in cotton wool. The brick wall of respectability she’d built around herself since moving to Boston had served to insulate her from a past tainted by poverty and pestilence and vice, a past of which Jamie had been an integral part. In the interest of self-preservation, she’d cultivated an emotional distance from everything she’d been and done during the first eighteen years of her life, everyone she’d known—even her own brother. Now, it was as if someone were taking a sledgehammer to that protective wall, trying to bash a hole in it.

  Gripping the arms of her chair, she went to rise from it, forgetting that it was a rocking chair. It swayed, and she with it, the blood draining from her head so fast that she nearly keeled over. No doubt she would have, had Dr. Greaves not caught her up and eased her back down onto the chair.

  “Relax,” he said, pressing gently on her head to lower it. “That’s right. Take deep breaths.”

  “I’m all right,” she said, feeling starved for air. “I just... it’s just this blasted heat.”

  “And this awful news, I should imagine.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said.

  “We’ll stay here till you’ve got your bearings,” he said, “and then I’ll walk you back to the house.”

  * * *

  “Do you remember the first time you saw this house, that night we came here to deliver Gracie?” asked Dr. Greaves as he escorted Nell by the arm onto the back porch, one of four ringing the palatial house. She knew that the purpose of his patter, which he’d kept up during the walk from the beach to the house, was to keep her mind off Jamie. It was the same trick he used, and had taught her to use, to keep patients calm. “You called it a castle. You couldn’t believe the Hewitts only spent six weeks a year here.”

  “You told me it had over twenty rooms,” said Nell, trying to shake off the numb shock that gripped her. “There are actually forty, if you count the servants’ rooms and nurseries on the third floor.”

  “Nell?” came a woman’s British inflected voice. “Is that you?”

  They entered the vast and opulent great hall to find Viola Hewitt sitting in her wheelchair, silhouetted by the sunlight streaming in through the two-story bay window on the back wall.

  “Mrs. Hewitt,” Nell said, “do you remember Dr. Greaves?”

  “How could I forget?” Viola wheeled toward them, guiding the chair around a pair of leather-upholstered settees flanking the monumental fireplace. Between them was a sheepskin rug on which Gracie’s little red poodle, Clancy, lay curled up asleep. “Our Gracie might not have survived that night without you. How very lovely to see you again, Dr. Greaves,” she said as she extended her hand.

  “The pleasure is all mine. I must say, Mrs. Hewitt, you’ve changed very little these past six years. You are quite as handsome a lady now as you were then.”

  Idle flattery it may have been, but it was also the simple truth. The tall, angular Viola Hewitt, with her silver-threaded black hair and serene eyes, was the most striking woman Nell had ever met. Of her four sons, the only one who assembled her was Will. Martin, Harry, and the late Robbie were fair, like their father.

  Viola was dressed this afternoon in one of the flowing, silken tea gowns she favored for daytime wear, her throat and circled by a hefty turquoise necklace from Mexico that few other Brahmin matrons would deign to wear. On her lap was the silver mail tray from the hallstand by the front door, which held an envelope and an unfolded letter.

  Will you stay for supper, Dr. Greaves?” Viola asked.

  “I wish I could, but I have some patients to visit this afternoon, so I must to be on my way.”

  “You must join us Friday, then. I’m giving a little dinner to celebrate the return of my son Harry and his new bride from Europe. They’re in Boston now, but they’ve decided to spend a few days here with us. Mr. Hewitt will be coming down with them on the train for the weekend, and my son Martin will still be here. He doesn’t have to return to Boston until Saturday.”

  “What a kind invitation, Mrs. Hewitt, “ he said. “I believe I would enjoy that, especially if Nell can join us.”

  “Why not? Eileen can feed Gracie her supper that night. And please call me Viola. I’m really not very keen on formality.”

  “Then you must call me Cyril.” Turning to Nell with a smile, he said, “Both of you.”

  Nell wasn’t quite sure how to respond to the implied shift in their acquaintanceship. “I don’t know if I could get used to that. Old habits, you know.”

  “Do try,” he said. “It would please me.”

  Nell walked him through the entry hall and onto the front porch, whereupon he touched her arm, saying quietly, “Are you going to be all right?”

  “It’s doesn’t seem real. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe it wasn’t even Jamie. If only there were some way to find out for sure.”

  “I would imagine it was the police who identified him,” he said. “If you’d like, I can take you to see the Falmouth chief constable tomorrow. He’s got jurisdiction over East Falmouth. You can ask him how he made the identification—if Gracie can spare you for a few hours.”

  “Eileen can look after Gracie. I would like to talk to the constable. It’s very kind of you to offer, Dr. Gr—Cyril.”

  He smiled. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  He told her he would come by for her at ten the next morning, and took his leave.

  “I know it may be none of my affair,” said Viola as Nell rejoined her, “but it’s clear you’re troubled. Is it anything you’d care to talk about?”

  “It’s... about my brother Jamie,” Nell said. “Or someone with the same name, but... that’s probably wishful thinking.”

  Viola looked a little surprised that Nell had brought up the subject of her brother, as well she might. Nell never spoke about Jamie, nor had she ever corrected Viola’s assumption that they’d had a falling out years before. How else to explain an estrangement of eleven years that was due not so much to ill feelings as to Jamie’s disinclination to have anything to do with her? And what was Nell supposed a to answer, should Viola ask her what her brother did for a living? He’s been a petty criminal since he was a child, mostly sneak thievery, robbing drunks, and holding up carriages on out-of-the-way roads. And picking pockets, which, as a matter of fact, happened to be a particular talent of mine.

  “Has your brother been in contact?” Viola asked.

  Nell shook her head, looking down. “He... Dr. Greaves thinks he’s been killed. In a fire.”

  “Oh, my dear.” Viola wheeled closer and grabbed Nell’s hand. “Oh, what dreadful news. I am so terribly, terribly sorry.”

  “I... I still don’t quite believe it. I don’t think I will until I speak to this constable tomorrow.”

  Folding up the letter in her hand, Viola said, “This can wait, then.”


  “What is it?” Nell asked.

  “It’s nothing. It’s not important, not now, while you have so much on your mind.”

  Nell’s gaze lit on the envelope lying faceup on the silver tray. Reading it upside down, she saw that it was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. August Hewitt in a strained, almost juvenile hand. Her mouth flew open which he saw the name on the return address: Chas. A. Skinner.

  “That’s from Detective Skinner? Why on earth would he write to you?” asked Nell. “He barely knows you.”

  “It’s not ‘Detective’ anymore, remember? It’s not even ‘Constable.’”

  “Of course. It’s just force of habit to call him that. Loathsome little weasel.”

  Charlie Skinner, once a member of the elite but defunct Boston Detectives Bureau, had been downgraded at the beginning of this year to uniformed patrolman on the weight of his corruption and myriad misdeeds. Unwilling to accept that this demotion was his own doing—his type never was—he blamed Nell’s friend, State Detective Colin Cook. So virulent was his hatred of the Irish detective that he plotted to get Cook convicted of a murder he hadn’t committed. The scheme turned against him, though, thanks in large part to Nell and Will, and last month he was booted off the force altogether.

  “What did he write to you?” Nell asked.

  Choosing her words with evident care, Viola said, “Mr. Skinner obviously harbors a great deal of anger toward you for being the instrument of his downfall. It’s nothing you need trouble yourself over during this difficult—”

  “Mrs. Hewitt,” Nell said quietly. “Viola. Please.”

  Viola looked from Nell to the letter, grim-faced. “Have a seat, my dear,” she said, nodding toward the nearest settee.

  “My bathing dress is wet. I don’t want to get—”

  “Sit, Nell.”

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  Nell sat, shivering in her damp swimming clothes. Viola unfolded the letter and handed it to her.

  Boston Friday, July 29, 1870

  My Dear Sir and Madame,

  You will no doubt wonder why I who am barely aquainted with you have penned this missive. By way of explanation may I explain that until recentley, which is to say the 9th of July, I was employed by the City of Boston as a Constable, a fact which is known to Mrs. Hewitt who may regard me ill but who I pray will credit the contents of this missive. In the days preceeding my termination I was engaged in inquiries pursuant to my Constabulary duties, which inquiries were thwarted hammer and tongs by the ill-advised labors of the Irish female who you employ as a governess, in concequence of which I was as I say relieved of my duties.

  As I am led to understand that you hold the highest regard for Miss Sweeney, who is no “miss” as I shall explain—

  Looking up sharply, Nell saw Viola sitting in front of the bay window with her back to the room, gazing out onto the exquisitely landscaped north lawn and the bay to the east. Nell returned her attention to the letter, her hands shaking so badly that she could barely focus on the words.

  As I am led to understand that you hold the highest regard for Miss Sweeney, who is no “miss” as I shall explain, it falls to me as a man of rectitude who is vexed to see good folks such as yourselves gulled by a cunning Colleen to inform you that “Miss” Sweeney is in no way what she appears to be. On the 8th of July in the course of my afore-mentioned duties I had ocassion to observe “Miss” Sweeney leave your home on Tremont St. and hire a hackney coach, her uneasy manner arousing my intrest to the degree that I followed her at a distance in my gig North across the river to Charlestown.

  The hack proceeded to Charlestown State Prison, the driver waiting outside the gate as “Miss” Sweeney entered the Prison where she remained from one o’clock in the afternoon until half passed that hour. When she came out and got back in the hack I could not help but notice that her color was high and her atire unkempt withal. Which is to say her hat being crooked and a fair degree of dust besmirching the back of her dress.

  You can imagine my cogitations as to what such a visit might betoken. Upon finding myself two days thence in posession of considerable free time I set about making inquiries as to the nature of that visit. Such inquiries being hindered by my being sacked and the stain upon my repute it took me some time to sort things out. But at length I became privy to the truth, which is that “Miss” Sweeney is MRS. Sweeney wife of Duncan Sweeney inmate at Charlestown State Prison these 10 years passed with 20 more years to serve for the crimes of armed robbery and aggravated assault.

  Knowing that good folks such as yourselves could not and would not countenance such bald DECIET I took pen to paper so that you might know how you have been hoodwinked and act accordingly, which is to say sack MRS. Sweeney with all haste. I warrant she is as Bad an Apple as ever washed up on our shores.

  Ever most faithfully yours,

  Chas. A. Skinner

  Nell lowered the letter, sweat beading coldly on her face. Please, St. Dismas. Please don’t let this happen. I can’t lose her. I can’t lose Gracie.

  She pressed a hand to her stomach as it pitched, launching a surge of bile into her throat. “Oh, God.”

  Bolting up from the settee, she raced through the buttery and down the service hallway to the little bathroom off the laundry room, hunched over the water closet, and emptied her stomach. She flushed, rinsed out her mouth, and surveyed herself in the toilet glass. Her face was waxen, her eyes panicky. She whipped the absurd bathing cap off her head, and with palsied hands smoothed down her hair, plaited into a single, still damp, rusty brown braid.

  “God, help me,” she whispered, and walked back to the great hall on legs that felt as if they were made of India rubber.

  Viola was sitting with the letter in her hand, watching Nell gravely; Clancy, sitting next to her, bore a similar expression. “Are you quite all right?”

  Nell nodded, although, of course, she was anything but. “It’s the heat,” she said dully as she wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. “This blasted heat.”

  “And this letter, I should think. From your reaction... It’s true, I take it.”

  Nell sank to her knees in front of Viola, her strength utterly sapped by the double volley of bad news in such a brief period of time. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hewitt,” she said in a watery voice. “I’m sorry. I... I never meant to deceive you. That is, I never wanted to. I hated it, I always hated it. But I just... I knew I couldn’t be Gracie’s governess if I was married, especially to a... to someone like Duncan.”

  “Does Will know?” Viola asked. All she knew about Nell and Will was that they’d developed a friendship based on common interests, not the least of which was Gracie. When people had started whispering about the amount of time they were spending together, they pretended to be engaged in order to protect Nell’s reputation. Viola knew about the bogus engagement, as did her husband.

  “He knows,” Nell said. “And Dr. Greaves. And, of course, Father Gannon at St. Stephen’s. And Father Donnelly at St. Catherine’s in East Falmouth. He was my confessor before I moved to Boston. No one other than them.”

  Viola sat back in her chair, nodding pensively, her gaze on the letter.

  “Mrs. Hewitt...” Nell said, swallowing down the urge to burst into tears. Viola, with her classic British restraint, disdained emotional outbursts. “Gracie means everything to me. I couldn’t give her up. I’d rather die.”

  Viola stared at Nell, and then her expression softened, and she said, “Oh, Nell. Oh, my dear.” Leaning down, she stroked Nell’s cheek with her cool, soft hand. “You think I’m going to dismiss you? How poorly you know me.”

  “But... Mr. Hewitt, when he reads that letter...”

  Through a little gust of laughter, Viola said, “Mr. Hewitt is never going to read this letter.”

  She spun her chair around, plucked a match safe off a console table, and wheeled over to the fireplace. Scraping aside the summer screen of stained glass, she tossed the letter and envelope onto the empty grate, lit
a match, and threw it in. Within about two minutes, all that was left of Charlie Skinner’s damning “missive” were some flakes of black, papery ash.

  “Here, let me get that,” Nell said as Viola went to replace the heavy screen. Pulling it back over the hearth, she said, “I... I don’t know how to thank you, Mrs. Hewitt. I am sorry for having misled you, dreadfully sorry.”

  “Well, I mean, obviously I would have preferred that you’d been candid with me, but looking back, it wasn’t really outright deception. I assumed from the beginning that you were unwed. You simply never corrected me.”

  “You’re being generous, Mrs. Hewitt. I did call myself Miss Sweeney. I’d stopped calling myself ‘Mrs.’ ever since Duncan... well, ever since he went to prison. I’ve worried for six years about what would happen if it became known that I was married to a convict. I’m truly humbled by your kindness and your understanding.”

  “Do sit down, my dear. You’re so very pale.”

  Mindful of her damp clothes, Nell sat on the edge of the hearth.

  “I ought to be understanding,” Viola said. “I’ve a skeleton rattling ‘round in my own closet, after all.”

  Nell was one of two people, Mr. Hewitt being the other, who knew that at the time of the Hewitts’ wedding, Viola was some five months pregnant by the French painter Emil Touchette. During a calculatedly lengthy European honeymoon, Viola gave birth to Will, whom August had never been able to accept as his own, despite his well-meaning assurances to that effect when he proposed to Viola.

  “But to be quite frank,” Viola continued, “had I known about Duncan six years ago, I can’t say it wouldn’t have given me pause, not just because your husband was in prison, but because you had a husband. I was concerned about your attention being divided while Gracie was young. As it turned out,” she said with a wry smile, “your husband’s imprisonment ensured that you were able to devote yourself fully to Gracie.”