Back Bay (33 page)

“What are you doing?” asked Evangeline.

“When they built these houses, they sometimes didn’t finish off the attics completely,” he explained as he fished around. “When someone in the house needed extra storage space, they’d just drop a few long planks across the beams and nail them down. Sometimes the planks wouldn’t be long enough to…”

He had found a book. He pulled it out from under the floor and read the title excitedly: “
The Memoirs of Fanny Hill, Woman of Pleasure
.” His voice trailed off. He threw the book across the room.

Evangeline picked it up, wiped the dust from the cover, and studied the old print. Suddenly, her eyes filled with tears. She turned her head from Fallon and began to cry very softly. Fallon didn’t know what had upset her, but he did not intrude.

She didn’t cry long.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You see, Christopher was fifteen, and I was twelve.” Her voice halted. “There weren’t many kids our age in the neighborhood, so, on summer afternoons, we used to sneak up here and give dramatic readings.” She managed to laugh at the memory.

“I’m sorry,” said Fallon gently.

“It’s all right. If we found Fanny Hill, maybe Abigail Bentley’s under there too.”

Fallon reached around again. He found a few old letters, several buttons, a sprung mousetrap, two pornographic magazines, and an old baseball glove. Then his hand hit another book.

“I think we’ve got something.” He stretched his arm as far as he could under the floorboard and tried to grab the book. With two fingers, he was able to snatch a corner of it. As he started to drag it out, he heard a car arrive in front of the house. He looked at Evangeline.

She stepped to the dormer. “It’s the Harrisons.”

Fallon pulled the book from under the floorboards. “A.P.B.,
1845” was embossed in the dust on the cover, and a metal clasp held the book shut.

“Is it a diary?” asked Evangeline.

“It sure is,” he said. “Now, what chance do we have to get out of here?”

“There’s only one way down, and Harrison’s coming up.”

Fallon looked around the attic and noticed a trapdoor in the ceiling. “Do you think you can convince them that you’ve come here alone to pick something up?”

“Wait a minute.” Evangeline put up her hands, as if to refuse something she didn’t want. “I’ve come about as far as I intend to with you. I’ve had all the cloak-and-dagger stuff I need.”

“Doesn’t it seem strange to you that your grandmother and these diaries disappear at the same time?”

“Coincidence,” she snapped.

Fallon could hear Harrison on the first floor. “Okay, coincidence.” He was whispering now, hoarse with tension. “But somebody doesn’t want people reading these diaries. The guy coming up the stairs probably works for that somebody. Help me find out what’s in here.”

Slowly, she lowered her hands.

He saw an old dollhouse in the corner of the room. He lifted the roof and put the diary inside. He picked up the dollhouse.

She stepped back. She could hear Harrison drawing closer. She remember how much she disliked his polite manner and the threat of physical persuasion that always accompanied it. She took the dollhouse from Fallon. “After this, take care of yourself.”

“Come back when they leave,” he whispered, and his eyes thanked her.

He grabbed the folding stairs connected to the ceiling and pulled them down. They hadn’t been moved, he guessed, in fifty years. Dust fell everywhere as they creaked into place. He climbed the steps, released the bolt locks, and pushed his shoulder against the trapdoor.

“He’s on the second floor. Hurry up!” Evangeline was listening at the attic entrance.

Fallon pushed again, harder. This time, he felt something reluctantly giving way above him. He knew that the trapdoor must have
been shingled over and the shingles were starting to come loose. He squared his back to the ceiling, mustered all his strength, and pushed. His face turned red, the veins popped out on the sides of his head. Then the shingles seemed to give up all at once. The door popped open, and sunlight poured into the attic.

A moment later, Fallon was on top of the house, on the widow’s walk. He closed the trapdoor and sat down on the broiling shingles.

After replacing the staircase, Evangeline dragged the dollhouse to the attic entrance and began rummaging for bits of personal junk. Might as well make this look convincing, she thought.

“I expected we might find you up here,” said Harrison, as he climbed into the attic. He was holding a .22 revolver casually in his right hand and seemed very relaxed. “But my wife and I made a search of the rest of the house first.”

“What are you doing with that gun?”

He smiled and lowered it. “I’m sorry, but you can never tell whom you may find hiding beneath a bed or in a closet. Are you alone?”

She looked around the attic in mock concern. “I don’t see anyone else up here.”

“May I ask what you’re doing up here?”

“I’m collecting some old toys for the children in my neighborhood. May I ask you where my grandmother is?”

“Mrs. Carrington was very upset by your brother’s death. Your Aunt Isabelle has removed her to a rest home.”

“Rest home? Isn’t this rest home enough?”

“I’m afraid she needed psychiatric attention. Your grandmother is not well.”

Evangeline was stunned. Her grandmother was a strong, vigorous woman. She would not need psychiatric care, even after the trauma of another Carrington death. “Where is she? I must see her.”

“The doctors have proscribed visitors,” Harrison said. “And now, let me ask you once more. What are you doing up here?”

“I just told you,” she said.

Harrison studied her as though he didn’t believe her. “If you’ll please follow me down the stairs, you can be on your way.”

Evangeline started to walk toward the opening, then stopped. “Would you mind helping me carry these toys down to the car?”

“Very well,” said Harrison. He placed the revolver in the holster on his belt and picked up the dollhouse.

Evangeline picked up a few other things she had collected and started to leave, but before she could step past the butler, she heard his wife thundering up the stairs.

“Harrison! Harrison!” Her voice echoed through the whole house.

Harrison stepped in front of Evangeline and blocked the exit.

Mrs. Harrison jumped the stairs two at a time, arriving breathless at the attic entrance. “Mrs. McChesney from across the road says she saw a young man come in here with the girl.”

The color filled Harrison’s face. He dropped the dollhouse. Evangeline jumped back and dropped the other toys.

Harrison snapped the revolver out of his holster. “That student.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” answered Evangeline.

He raised the .22 again and pressed it against the nipple of her left breast, which showed stiff and scared through the material of her jersey. “Where is he?”

Evangeline was trembling, but her voice was strong. “I think Mrs. McChesney’s been in the wine cellar again.”

Harrison looked around the attic, but Fallon wasn’t there.

“He isn’t up my sleeve, either,” she cracked.

On the roof, Fallon must have moved, or maybe the adrenaline was pumping through him too fast. A loose bit of dust was jarred from the folding stairs and trickled past Harrison’s face. Harrison smiled briefly at Evangeline, then reached for the staircase.

When the door began to open, Fallon stepped back. First, he saw the revolver. Then Harrison’s face, which had become an expressionless mask, emerged from the darkness. Harrison stopped halfway out of the attic, his belt buckle level with the rooftop.

He pointed the pistol at Fallon. “Please step down.”

Fallon didn’t move.

“If you want to dehydrate, stay right where you are.” Harrison glanced at the sun. “In this heat, you should be fried by two o’clock.” Harrison started to close the trapdoor.

Fallon stepped toward him. He didn’t think he could handle Harrison in a fight, and he didn’t want to find out. He tried not to sound nervous. “Put the gun away, and I’ll step down.”

Harrison opened the trap again. “That’s better.”

“But I want your assurance that we’ll be allowed to leave immediately.”

“I’m afraid not. My employers will want to talk with you.” He paused. “Which makes the roof the best place to keep you until they arrive.” He started to close the door again.

An hour on those shingles would mean sunstroke at the very least. Fallon wasn’t staying. Before he had time to think about it, he was kicking the gun out of Harrison’s hands and trying to fight his way down the stairs. But Harrison was too strong. He grabbed Fallon by the legs and flipped him onto his back. Fallon hit the roof like a brick, kicked loose and rolled to his feet. In one motion, Harrison launched himself out of the attic and flew at Fallon.

Fallon kicked hard. He caught Harrison right in the groin. Harrison bellowed and started to fold, but as Fallon leaped for the hole, a huge hand grabbed him by the collar and spun him around. Another hand fastened at Fallon’s throat and started to tighten.

Fallon’s kick had enraged Harrison. To forget his pain, Harrison poured all his strength into his hands.

Fallon couldn’t breathe. He could feel his nostrils dilating, but no air was reaching his lungs. He began to gasp. He heard a rattling noise. It sounded like somebody else, but it was him. He was strangling. He struggled violently to pull Harrison’s hands from his throat. He could feel his eyes bulging out of their sockets and his ears popping under pressure, as they would in a fast-moving elevator. Harrison could feel nothing but cartilage collapsing in his hands.

Fallon’s excellent conditioning kept him alive, but he couldn’t pry Harrison loose. He was beginning to see a large, black spot that seemed to be floating somewhere between his eyes. He was passing out. He straightened his right hand into a hard, flat plane. He jabbed viciously, hitting Harrison a perfect shot in the solar plexus. Harrison’s body snapped like a knee joint, and he fired Fallon across the roof.

Fallon hit the railing on the other side of the widow’s walk and nearly toppled over it. For an instant, he could see the ocean crashing against the rocks two hundred feet below. As he caught himself, he felt the wood giving way in his hands. It was rotten.

Harrison lunged again. This time, Fallon sidestepped him, stuck a foot between the butler’s legs, and with a final burst of strength, swung his left elbow into Harrison’s kidney. Harrison caught himself on the railing and tried to pivot back, but the railing disintegrated. He somersaulted twice down the roof. His third tumble spun him to the edge. His heels caught the gutter and his fingernails dug into the shingles. He was stranded.

Fallon took two deep breaths and jumped into the attic. Evangeline was trying to get down the stairs, but Mrs. Harrison had her by the hair. Fallon grabbed the maid, broke her grip, and toppled her into a pile of boxes.

“I’ve got the diary,” said Evangeline. “Let’s go.”

Ten minutes later, Evangeline and Fallon were speeding down a lonely stretch of road heading for Route 1. Both of them were bruised, and Evangeline was trembling. The adrenaline had worn off.

Fallon looked behind him. “I guess they’re not going to follow us.”

Evangeline shuddered involuntarily and gripped the wheel to steady herself.

“Are you all right?” asked Fallon.

“Just a bump on the head.”

“I don’t mean that. I mean right now. You look…”

“Why did you fight with him?” she demanded.

“I didn’t want to end the day looking like a piece of bacon cooking on the roof. If I’m going to talk with Harrison’s employers, I’m going to do it on my own terms.”

“My aunt is Harrison’s employer.” She was beginning to think clearly again. “My grandmother never liked him.”

“From the way he talked, Isabelle isn’t the only one he works for.”

“Isabelle is very close to Philip Pratt,” she offered.

“Do you want to talk to him?” Fallon was hoping she would.

“I don’t know.” For a mile or so, she drove in silence and
concentrated on the road. “Grandmothers and family papers disappearing, butlers running around Searidge with drawn guns. Maybe I should be talking to the police.”

Fallon shook his head. He wanted no interference, least of all from the police. He was trying to trace a delicate web of events covering two centuries. The police would only make his work more complicated. Beyond that, if the real tea set was still missing, he wanted to find it.

“As you said yourself, this is all still coincidence. We have no reason to be going to the police.” He thumped his fingers on the diary. “We nearly got ourselves killed to find this thing. Let’s read it, then talk to your uncle.”

She looked at Fallon. For a moment, she hated him for dragging her into this. Then she realized that he was probably doing her a favor. At the main highway, she headed north, instead of turning south toward Boston.

“You’re going to wrong way,” he said.

She didn’t answer. She accelerated to sixty and started for New Hampshire.

November 1830

A
bigail Pratt Bentley was now forty years old. For five years she had lived alone in the house on Pemberton Hill, attended by her footman poet and his Irish mother. In the eyes of friends and relatives, she was no longer the young widow of James Elwood Bentley, but a middle-aged dowager who would spin out her life sponsoring readings and recitals for struggling artists like Sean.

Let them think what they wished. She had maintained her youth better than any of them. Beside Sarah Lowell Pratt, Abigail still looked like a young woman. She still had her beautiful lover,
her dreams of controlling Pratt Shipping and Mercantile, and her secret treasure. She needed little else.

She stood naked in front of the mirror in the master bedroom, now decorated in feminine pastels. She wondered what the Reverend Mr. Russell would say if he saw her admiring her body so blatantly. She didn’t care. She had seen him admiring it. Most men admired it, but she allowed only one to have it.