Back Bay (43 page)

Fallon shook his head. It all sounded convincing, but he didn’t want to accept any of it, least of all the part about the FBI.

He recalled the name of William Rule and mentioned it to Hannaford. He felt a momentary hesitation, as though the room had gone over a bump. Then, Hannaford explained that Rule was a close associate who had helped arrange the Golden Eagle deal.

Evangeline was becoming confused by the story and realized they were all forgetting the central character. “Where is Grandmother?”

“Under protective custody in a nursing home,” said Philip. “Christopher’s death has deeply upset her. That’s the main reason she is now under doctor’s care. However, she is also a rather easy target for people who would like to extract information from her. You’ve discovered that yourself, Mr. Fallon. We want to protect her completely.”

“When can I see her?” asked Evangeline.

“When the doctor permits. At the moment, he does not want her to see anyone who might remind her of Christopher.”

“As for you, Mr. Fallon,” Calvin Pratt’s courtroom voice rang from the corner of the room, “we would suggest that you get back to your own business. Until we investigated your background—a process not completed until this morning, hence the little scene yesterday—we thought you were working for the syndicate.” Calvin calculated a long pause. “Now, we fear for your life. We fear for both of you.”

“As long as you keep yourself in the middle of all this,” said Philip, “you’re in danger. Go back to your pursuits, both of you, and you probably won’t have anything to worry about.”

“How can we be sure of that?” asked Evangeline.

“By telling us what you know,” answered Soames. “once we’ve ascertained that, we can determine the amount of protection you may need.”

Fallon hesitated. Perhaps this was the whole point of the meeting. He didn’t want to give away information. Then he decided that he might learn more by telling them everything. He recounted his research for the last two weeks, from Dexter Lovell’s note to Abigail Pratt Bentley’s 1845 diary. When he mentioned the diary, he could sense sudden interest. He guessed he had found something they all had missed.

“The diary tells us that in 1845, the tea set was still sitting in the mud in the Back Bay.” Fallon looked at Hannaford. “In your history of the tea set, you said that Dexter Lovell probably took the tea set to England after the British burned the White House. How could you be so far off?”

“We didn’t have access to Abigail Pratt Bentley’s diaries at the time. Our researchers theorized on whatever information they had. You’re a historian. I’m sure you’ve done the same thing many times.” Hannaford showed no discomfort.

“But historians shouldn’t present their theories as fact.” Fallon tried to press him.

Hannaford backed away gracefully. “You’ll be pleased to know that we’re revising our story to fit more closely with the few Bentley diaries that still exist. We now think that the tea set was found by scavengers digging through the landfill in the 1860s. A smart art dealer bought it for a song from the scavengers, then sold it in England to Sir Henry Carrol.”

Fallon dropped the subject and asked no one in particular how the name of Jack C. Ferguson fitted into the story.

Mr. Soames wrote Ferguson’s name on his scratch pad, then the words, “
FIND HIM
.”

“At first,” said Calvin Pratt, “we thought that he was part of the blackmailing operation.”

“The article,” said Hannaford, “seemed like the first broadside in the attack. Then, of course, Ferguson disappeared.”

Fallon decided not to tell them that Jack C. Ferguson had visited his apartment a few days earlier. Instead, he asked them about Christopher Carrington’s death.

For a moment, the room was silent. Fallon could feel them all studying him, all except Soames, whose eyes remained glued to his notepad.

“The police determined that his death was a suicide,” said Philip Pratt firmly.

“No possibility that somebody killed him because of his knowledge?”

“What did he know that was so special?” asked Soames without looking up.

“He was the family historian. He knew more about the Pratts and probably more about the tea set than anybody else.”

Philip Pratt stood slowly. Evangeline could see him hit one of his internal switches. The glib businessman became the friendly confidant who sat on the edge of his desk, casually swung his legs, and counseled a friend.

“We deeply, sincerely appreciate your concern, Mr. Fallon… Peter. But my nephew committed suicide. That’s what the authorities believe. That’s what we believe.” He took Fallon’s hand in both of his, the gesture of a comforting friend. “If there’s anything that we can do to help you with your work, please let us know. But I urge you to get back to it.”

“You’re getting the suave brushoff,” said Evangeline. “Let’s go.”

Fallon thanked them politely, which Evangeline found rather surprising, and told them he would be going back to his work. Then, he and Evangeline headed for the staircase.

After they were gone, Pratt turned to Hannaford. “Larry, I want to thank you. I wanted my niece out of danger.”

“I’m always happy to convince someone to stop searching for a tea set I found years ago. I wish I could convince you.”

Pratt took Hannaford’s hand in both of his. “We’re doing our best to protect you. I wouldn’t want to injure the career of an old friend.”

Hannaford smiled. He liked Philip Pratt, in spite of everything. “Save your crocodile tears, Philip, and invite me up to play tennis more often. You must know that it’s an absolute bitch to get court time anyplace in this city.”

“Take good care, and if any more Dali engravings come your way, remember that I’m at the top of your list.”

The rain had stopped. The sun was poking a few tentative shafts down through the trees along Commonwealth Avenue. A southerly
breeze had begun to blow, but the air was still thick and moist. The rain had simply aggravated the heat.

Peter Fallon leaned against a lamppost at the corner of Commonwealth Avenue and Clarendon Street and gazed down the arcade of elms on the mall. Autos sped past and the noise of the city was all about.

“Are you really going to go back to your work?” asked Evangeline.

Fallon shook his head. “I don’t want to.”

“Do you think the scavengers found the tea set?”

He shrugged.

“Well, dammit, do you believe anything they told us in there?”

“They had an answer for everything.” He had been convinced of nothing, but the Pratts had created doubts. He realized that he had nearly killed a man the day before, and it didn’t matter whether the man was with the FBI. Fallon’s excitement wasn’t worth anyone’s life. Maybe this was like one of his benders, and he should quit now, while he still had the chance. Then he thought about Ferguson and Rule and wondered what they could tell him. He shook his head.

Evangeline was disappointed. She did not expect him to seem so confused. “I don’t know what to believe either, Peter. But I can’t be standing on Commonwealth Avenue staring off into space. I’m going to see if I can find my grandmother, then I’m going to work. Come to my house for dinner. We’ll talk then.” Evangeline climbed into her car.

Fallon crossed Clarendon Street and started down Commonwealth Avenue toward Kenmore Square. He remembered that the Red Sox were playing an afternoon game at Fenway.

October 1863

A
bigail Pratt Bentley and Artemus Pratt stood on the corner of Commonwealth Avenue and Clarendon Street, at the edge of the Back Bay landfill. New lands—flat, dusty, neatly segmented into lots and streets—stretched from the Boston and Worcester Railroad tracks to the Mill Dam and from the Public Garden to Clarendon Street. Beyond Clarendon, the water receded daily as the landfill moved west. The Back Bay had been covered a third of the way to Gravelly Point in a layer of sand, gravel, and trash twenty feet deep.

This would be the new home of Boston’s aristocracy, and Abigail Pratt Bentley was certain that one day it would be a beautiful place. Few of the lots beyond Arlington and Beacon streets were occupied. The houses on other completed blocks stood like volunteers, with proud fronts and blank brick sides, waiting for their ranks to be filled. And as yet, there was not a tree west of the Public Garden capable of giving shade on a hot day. But the trees would grow, and the homes already built had set a criterion of French Empire elegance that others would follow. Abigail imagined an American Paris.

“This is where we’ll build,” said Artemus, recently returned from his mission in England. “As soon as the war is over and the land is judged stable.”

“My father would have cackled for a week if we had ever told him we were going to build a mansion on the Back Bay flats.”

Abigail squinted into the afternoon sun and looked toward the Easterly Channel, now just a few hundred feet away. It was a rut in the mud, covered by three feet of water at high tide, a bare trickle at low. To the south, a mile or so away, she saw landfill stretching out from the Neck to join the new lands in the Back Bay. Southwest of the Neck stood the handsome brownstone bowfronts of the South End, built in the fifties and already doomed to slow decay by the development of the Back Bay. Like her father before
her, she shuddered at the changes she had seen in fifty years. They had come so quickly.

“Cynthia and I want you to know,” said Artemus softly, “that you will have a bedroom and a sitting room on the fourth floor. You shouldn’t be living alone.”

Abigail thought that she had come out to see the site of her nephew’s home. She was shocked. “Except for Sean and his family, I’ve lived alone for almost forty years.”

“And now we want you to move in with us. Artemus and Jason are grown men now. When they come back…” He hesitated. He remembered the death of Elihu’s son Francis. “If they come back, they will probably wish to strike out on their own. So there will be plenty of room, and Cynthia thinks you would be a marvelous influence on the younger children. Besides, what use will a Boston mansion be unless it is filled with people?”

She kissed his cheek and brushed a tear from her eye. “I’ve never had children, but with you to love me like a son, I’ve never needed them.”

“It’s our loss that you never had children, Abigail. They would have been extraordinary.”

She laughed. “They would also have competed with you for power, so don’t mourn too loudly.”

“I shan’t. Now, are you living with us or not?”

She started to say that she would.

“Good mornin’, folks!” Up from the mud of the Back Bay, dressed in filthy clothes, and carrying a sack, crawled a figure of indeterminate age and sex. It hoisted itself onto level land and stood face to face with the Pratts. “I said good mornin’. Are you deaf or somethin’?”

“Good morning,” said Artemus coldly.

It curtsied and grinned. Apparently, it was a woman, and she wore her hostility proudly. Layers of dirt were caked on her neck and hands. She dropped her sack in front of Abigail, who stepped back instinctively and held her handkerchief to her nose.

“Stink, don’t I?” said the woman. “I smell just like shit, ’cause that’s mostly what’s left down there on the flats. Shit and piss and stinkin’ tidewater.”

Artemus took Abigail by the arm. They turned to walk away, and the woman jumped in front of them.

“Don’t be runnin’ off so soon, folks. Give me a chance. It ain’t often rich folks like you runs into somebody like me. I’m what you might call a… a curiosity, a Back Bay scavenger. There’s hunnerts of us just now, and I’m one of the best. I lives damn good from the junk I dig outa the landfill. Looka here.” She pulled a spoon from her sack and wiped it on the sleeve of her filthy sweater. “Gen-u-ine silver from the Crawford House. Got threw out with somebody’s dinner and ended up here. Like to buy it?”

“No, thank you.” Artemus tried to push past her.

She pulled out a wooden hoop. “For the lady’s skirt?”

Artemus led Abigail past the scavenger woman and back toward the carriage.

“So you’ll have nothin’ to do with a woman of the earth?” she shrieked. She reached into her sack, pulled out a handful of oyster shells, and fired them at Artemus. “Take these. I sell them to the Chink down on Stuart Street. He grinds ’em into powder and sells ’em to his friends. Says they make your cock stiff!”

“Disgusting,” muttered Abigail. “Absolutely disgusting.”

“Vermin like that are all over the landfill.”

“I know,” said Abigail softly. “Something must be done.”

In the late afternoon, the winds shifted. By midnight, it was overcast and chilly. Abigail Pratt Bentley’s carriage stopped at the corner of Commonwealth and Clarendon, at the edge of the landfill, and she climbed out. She was wearing heavy riding boots, an old tweed skirt, and a loose-fitting jacket that would give her freedom of movement. A strenuous evening lay ahead.

Sean Mannion jumped down from the box. “Are you sure you want to be doin’ this, Mrs. Bentley? It’s mighty wet and muddy out there.”

“It must be done, Sean. By you and me and no one else. And you must promise never to reveal what you see tonight.”

Sean promised without question. He took his pistol from the carriage boot, then swung two shovels and a pick onto his shoulder. He was fifty-six, still brawny and strong, but now weighed down by a paunch that hung over his trousers.

They found a switchback path, used by the dumping carts to haul landfill, and started down. A few steps and Abigail tripped over the leg of an old chair protruding from the gravel. She was seventy-three, but only recently had her age begun to slow her down.

“Shall I light the lantern?” asked Sean.

“No. We’ll not attract attention. There’s light enough.”

The lands which surrounded the Back Bay were not as deserted as when Dexter Lovell had rowed into the Easterly Channel fifty years before. Light from streetlamps and homes reflected off the clouds and gave a dim, phosphorescent glow to the mudflats, tidepools, and sheets of water in the distance.

It was low tide. Since the building of the Mill Dam, the tide no longer flowed freely, and much of the bay was kept covered in a few feet of water, which lessened the stink of the polluted flats. However, during certain night tides, the water between the landfill and Gravelly Point was allowed to drain through the Mill Dam gates, so that some of the offending sewage was carried away. Tonight was such a night. There was nothing between the landfill and the Easterly Channel but mud.