Death at Charity's Point (6 page)

She read it slowly. When she had finished, she handed it back to me. “Shakespeare, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “Some of it.”

“I recognize the Hamlet. His dying words. What’s the other mean?”

I shrugged. “Who knows? It means whatever George meant it to mean. His father wrote a suicide note that was a
joke
, for God’s sake. The point is, the man who wrote it ended up dead on the beach.”

“If you want to know
why
he ended up there, that’s not the point at all,” said Julie. “This note doesn’t say he’s going to
kill
himself. For heaven’s sake, it doesn’t say he’s going to
do
anything at all. It just—well, it says he’s sad.”

“Right. Very sad. Depressed.
Very
depressed, I’d say. Very depressed people commit suicide a lot.”

“No. People who commit suicide may tend to be depressed. But that doesn’t mean that depressed people tend to commit suicide. There’s a difference.”

I waved my hand. “Whatever. George’s dead.”

“Sounds like you’ve bought it all.”

I shrugged. “Guess I have. It fits.”

“Hell,” said Julie, her eyes flashing. “This could mean
anything.
It’s a poem. It’s not even a note.”

“Except, you see, George did kill himself. And he left this behind. That makes it a suicide note.
Q.E.D
.”

Julie grinned in triumph. “Correction, learned Counselor. George
died
. That’s all you
know
. What ever happened to reasonable doubt?”

“Ah, there’s always doubt, Julie. How reasonable is reasonable? Dr. Clapp said to me, ‘The commonest things most commonly happen.’ Set reasonable doubt up against the preponderance of evidence here, and the doubt seems pretty unreasonable. Remember. The law does not say ‘beyond all doubt.’ They stuck the word ‘reasonable’ in there. It’s the rule of reason that still makes the law work.”

“You damn lawyers. Always think you can outtalk us lay people. But it doesn’t make you right, you know. Come on, Counselor. We’re just having a little discussion here. We’re not in front of any judge or jury now, so you don’t have to conquer any adversaries or win points. Not with me. What do you really think?”

I touched Julie’s hand. “I really think that George jumped into the ocean, that’s what I think. But you are right in one respect. The lawyer in me should doubt it.”

“The human being in me doubts it,” said Julie. “I can’t get Mrs. Gresham’s face out of my head. So what’re you going to do?”

“Go up to The Ruggles School. See if I can talk to some people. Try to make some sense of it for Florence. It’s the least I can do.”

Julie smiled. “Good. That’s good.”

“In the meantime, tell me about all the morning’s excitement in the bustling offices of Brady L. Coyne, Attorney-at-Law. What happened while I was gone?”

She waved her hand around. “Nothing interesting. More coffee?”

There’s a little restaurant along Route 127 south of Gloucester known as Gert’s Place. The sign outside announces, in typical understatement, simply “Good Food.” The tourists always miss it, of course, as they race along the superhighways for the glamorous spots on the Massachusetts North Shore—Gloucester, with its fishing fleets and its Moonies and its statue of the slickered fisherman at the helm, or Rockport with its famous Motif #1 and its boutiques on Bearskin Neck, or history-rich Newburyport at the mouth of the Merrimack.

The sun-worshippers miss Gert’s, too, preferring to crawl bumper-to-bumper along Route 128 on a steamy Saturday for the dubious pleasure of lying cheek to thigh with similarly minded strangers on the glimmering sands of Crane’s or Wingaersheek or Good Harbor or Singing Beach, in a mindless race to see who can contract the first case of skin cancer.

The folks who live hard by the ocean go about their business, tolerant in their taciturn Yankee way of the strange people who drive long distances to broil under the sun on their beaches. They’re happy to sell them old pieces of furniture and ice cream cones and gasoline along the way, and if they think it’s damn foolishness, they keep it to themselves.

Gert knows what to do with bluefish and wine, and she performs saintly miracles with fresh ground pepper and lemon slices and striped bass. The halibut and the sole and the scrod she buys directly off the boats, and she gets the fillets into her ovens under a layer of breadcrumb and butter and bits of shrimp and crab before the fish realizes it’s dead. She serves Gloucester lobsters and Ipswich clams. For those who prefer, Gert keeps in her head a portfolio of recipes inherited from her mother, who must have been a Neapolitan wizard. Gert’s veal scallopine with mushrooms and peppers and a carafe of her musty house red remains my second favorite way of accomplishing sensual ecstasy.

The crushed-stone parking area alongside the rambling, cedar-shingled building was nearly full when I arrived at Gert’s. It was about noon on Tuesday. I got there at lunch time, needing directions to The Ruggles School and having had no breakfast. I hadn’t exactly planned it that way, at least not consciously, but it worked out just the way I wanted.

The dining room was crowded—local people, mostly men, some in shirt and tie, their jackets thrown over the backs of their chairs, and others in work clothes. Bankers and insurance salesmen, electricians and plumbers, clerks and a few young secretaries.

I was led to a small table with a checked tablecloth against a side wall. The place was noisy. The patrons all seemed to know each other, and laughter bubbled up frequently as the diners conversed, the men and women twisting in their chairs to talk with friends at adjacent tables.

My waitress was a hefty girl in her twenties. She dumped a pile of silverware in front of me, then straightened, pencil poised over pad.

“Help ya?” she asked. Beads of perspiration stood out on her forehead. The armpits of her white uniform, which she was jammed into like a fat sausage, were stained.

“Busy, eh?” I offered.

“Special today is fish chowder,” she said, digging into her beehive hairdo with the eraser end of the pencil.

“What kind of fish?”

“Fresh cod. Off the boat this morning.”

“Fine. I’ll have a bowl. And a bottle of Beck’s.”

Then she smiled, and her round face was momentarily beautiful before she waddled away.

The chowder was delicious. Chunks of flaky white fish, hunks of potato, and slivers of transparent onion swam in a peppery, thick broth which I knew was pure cream. Bits of crisp bacon were sprinkled on top. I devoured it, and sat back with a sigh to sip my beer.

My waitress—Alice, the black plate pinned above her left bosom said—returned and plucked up the empty bowl.

“’Nother beer?”

“Please. And tell me, how do I get to The Ruggles School?”

“’Bout a mile and a half north on one-twenty-seven, take a left at the second set of lights. You’ll see it on your right.” She seemed to study me for a moment. “You a cop?”

“Me?” I laughed. “No. I’m not a cop.”

“Oh. There was lots of cops around last week. The guy, what’s-his-name there at the school who killed himself. Big hoop-de-do. Glad that’s all over with. Next thing you know, all the tourists will be comin’ to take pictures of Charity’s Point, havin’ picnics up there.” She snorted. “Who needs ’em?”

I smiled in what I hoped was a disarming manner. “I’m not a tourist, either,” I said. “To tell the truth, I’m an attorney.”

Alice looked disgusted. “Attorney, cop, same difference. I’ll get your beer.”

I
ALMOST MISSED THE
Ruggles School, although Alice’s directions were perfect. The driveway was bounded by two stone pillars. The modest sign on one of them announced “The Ruggles School, est. 1923.” The driveway wound under a canopy of giant maples. Along either side, green lawns rolled gently among the ancient shade trees. Pathways intersected the grassy slopes, and perennial borders sparkled with late spring bulbs and splashes of pot-o’-gold and low pink phlox. I drove slowly, minding the sign that ordered “15 MPH.” Here and there, young people strolled the pathways or lay sprawled in the sunny patches, some on their bellies, chins propped in hands, feet waving in the air, open books in front of them, and others stretched out flat on their backs squinting at the spring sky. The girls looked fresh and healthy. The boys looked young.

The driveway ended at a cluster of brick buildings, constructed, I judged, some sixty years ago when the school was founded. They were solid, square, functional. I parked directly in front of a sign that read “Authorized Personnel Only.” I had an appointment. I supposed that made me authorized.

I entered into a cool, dark corridor. The interior walls were brick, the floor a worn, checked tile. From somewhere inside came the reedy voice of Buddy Holly. “It’s so easy to fall in love,” he sang. “So doggone easy.”

It comforted me to hear Buddy Holly still singing in the corridors of The Ruggles School.

I found an open door and peeked in. A girl—a student, I assumed—smiled up at me from behind a sleek, incongruously modern desk.

“May I help you, sir?”

“I’m looking for Mr. Elliott. I have an appointment.”

“This is Mr. Elliott’s office.” She consulted a book. “Are you Mr. Coyne?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Come right this way, please. He’s expecting you.”

She got up from behind the desk and led me to a closed door. The girl wore stockings and high heels, used old-fashioned words like “sir” and “please,” and I concluded that there was something to be said for private education after all.

There were two people in Headmaster Elliott’s office. I took in Elliott at a glance: tall, beaked nose, thinning gray hair combed straight back and curled at the nape of his neck. Deerfield ’44, Princeton ’48. Something like that. The old school tie. Stroke for the lightweight crew. Number three man on the subvarsity squash team. Gentlemanly C’s. English major. Thesis on Alexander Pope.

Just like his Daddy.

And now he exemplified Dr. Peter’s well-known principle as he drifted around the sedate, vine-covered campus of a distinguished New England prep school. He would comfort the trustees, cajole the alumni, amuse the faculty, and fool none of the students with his vague banalities.

He extended his hand to me. “Mr. Coyne. Bartley Elliott. A pleasure, sir. So regrettable, the sadness of this occasion.” The Headmaster cleared his throat habitually as he spoke, as if phlegm were bubbling up there. He inclined his head toward the other person in the room, a slim young Oriental man wearing a corduroy jacket and a plaid flannel shirt opened at the collar. “This is Mr. Alexander Binh. The Dean of the Faculty. Mr. Binh is also a member of the History Department. Your secretary indicated, Mr. Coyne, that you’d like to talk to some of our people. Mr. Binh can help arrange that, I believe.”

I took the hand that Alexander Binh offered me. His grip was hard, practiced, impersonal. He slipped his hand from mine quickly and bowed his head in acknowledgement of Bartley Elliott’s introduction. “Happy to help out in any way I can,” he said in a soft, flat voice.

“Seated, seated,” commanded Elliott, waving his arms around. I sat.

“I’m here on behalf of Mrs. Florence Gresham,” I began, “as I believe my secretary indicated. She’s George Gresham’s beneficiary. His mother. You know, of course, that his death has been ruled a suicide. We are exploring an appeal of that verdict. Mrs. Gresham has retained me to investigate and to advise her whether or not to proceed with this appeal. Anything you and your staff can tell me to shed light on this question would be appreciated.”

“Do you doubt it was suicide?” asked Binh.

“I’m a lawyer, Mr. Binh. I’m trying to reserve judgment.”

Mr. Binh nodded. His little smile seemed to say, “That’s bullshit.”

“George Gresham,” said Elliott. “A fine, fine man. Hard to believe. Suicide, that is. Scholar, George. Real scholar. Even-tempered, mild-mannered man. Loved the books, George. Personal friend, I might add. Real shock to us all, Mr. Coyne.”

“I’m looking for clues, Mr. Elliott. I’d like to try to understand Mr. Gresham’s state of mind at the time of his death. For example, did he seem depressed recently? Did he have any financial problems that you were aware of? Or maybe a personal relationship that wasn’t going well for him? Did you notice any changes in his patterns of behavior, anything at all that might, looking back on it, make his suicide understandable?”

“I told the police. Nothing. Goes to show. Think you know a man, and…”

“What about his work?” I went on. “Was it going well for him?”

“George was the bulwark of the History Department. Could have taught in college. Had offers. Should have, maybe. But he said he preferred it here. Loved his books, the students, the place. No pressure. That was important to him. No. A credit to his school. Credit to his profession. Published, too. Distinguished man.”

I looked at Alexander Binh. “What about you, Mr. Binh?”

He shrugged in what I was tempted to interpret as an effort at inscrutability. “I agree with Mr. Elliott,” he said.

“Did you know George Gresham well?”

“As well as anybody, I suppose. We were colleagues. We both taught history. I’d say I knew him professionally, but not personally. I don’t believe I can tell you anything that will help you.”

“Well, okay,” I said. “Did his suicide surprise you?”

Binh gave me that “bullshit” little smile of his, and said, “His
death
surprised me. That’s all.”

I gave up with him. I turned to Elliott. “Perhaps if I could speak with some of your staff…”

Elliott stood up, as if he were grateful for the opportunity to usher me out. “Of course. Mr. Binh, if you will be so kind…”

Binh inclined his head slightly, rose, and moved toward the door. I shook hands with Bartley Elliott and followed the young Dean of the Faculty. He was, I noticed, much taller than he had seemed, and he moved with the smooth grace of an ice skater.

He led me outside the old building into the May sunlight. He walked along a pathway leading away from the quadrangle of grass onto which the cluster of buildings faced. I had to quicken my pace to keep up with him. He spoke without looking at me.