Death on Beacon Hill (8 page)

“Lower your head,” Will said, reinforcing that command by pressing gently on the back of her neck.

“You know this lady?” Skinner asked.

“Yes, and I’m in your debt, sir.” From the corner of her eye, with her face half-buried in black crepe, Nell saw Will extend his hand. “William Hewitt.”

“Detective Charles Skinner, Boston Police. Hewitt, did you say? You aren’t any relation to Mr. August Hewitt of Colonnade Row?”

“I’m the son no one talks about. No, you don’t,” Will scolded as Nell tried to raise her head. He stroked her upper back, making her skin prickle beneath her stays. “And this rather obstinate young lady is Miss Cornelia Sweeney.”

Skinner hesitated for a moment—probably to grasp the fact that Nell was Irish—before saying, with careful formality, “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Sweeney.”

“And I yours,” Nell mumbled into her skirts.

“No offense, Hewitt,” Skinner said, “but if you’re August Hewitt’s son, how come you talk like a limey?”

“He sent me to England as a child,” Will said. “I found my way back home, though, so the joke’s on him.”

“I’m much better,” Nell said. “I can sit up now.”

“I’m the physician,” Will said. “I’ll tell you when you’re feeling better.”

“A physician, huh?” Skinner said. “So, uh, you got this in hand, then.”

“Entirely,” Will said. “Thank you for your help.”

Nell turned her head to watch Skinner retreat into the church. Through the open door she heard the choir wind up that dreary hymn, and then came the barely audible voice of Dr. Gannett inviting the mourners to join him in the Lord’s Prayer.

Will said, “You seem to have an awfully delicate constitution for a lady who claims she’s not prone to fainting.”

“I’m not.”

“What’s this all about, then?”

Still bent over double, Nell rummaged in her open chatelaine for the little prize she’d gone to such trouble to attain.

“What’s this?” Will asked as she handed it to him.

“Virginia Kimball’s key ring. I just pinched it off Detective Skinner.”

Will released her neck; she sat up. He gaped at the ornate silver ring in his hand, from which three or four brass keys dangled, amusement warring with astonishment in his eyes. “You
are
joking.”

She shook her head, gratified to have drawn such a reaction from the unflappable William Hewitt, although, in truth, she was almost as shocked as he at her audacity—appalled, even, but also perversely proud. After all these years of honest living, “Cornelia Cutpurse” still had the touch.

“You picked the pocket of a police detective?” he asked.

“Not so loud,” she whispered, darting a glance toward the church. “It was the only way I could get my hands on Mrs. Kimball’s house key.”

“One hardly knows where to begin,” Will muttered as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “All right, leaving aside for the moment the question of...well, all the many questions that come to mind, aren’t you at all concerned about Skinner’s reaction when he discovers you stole this?”

“He’ll never suspect it was me,” she said as she took it from Will’s hand. “It was in his vest pocket, and I rebuttoned his coat after I snagged it. When he finally discovers it’s gone, he probably won’t even realize it was stolen, and certainly not by—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Will cocked his head as if he hadn’t heard quite right. “You rebuttoned his coat.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Which suggests that you first
un
buttoned it, after which you swiped the key ring and stowed it in your chatelaine. Then you buttoned him back up, all while feigning a swooning attack.”

She smiled. “I was very good once.” Will was the only person in Boston who knew about the life she’d once led, the things she’d once done—the person she’d been. If anyone else were to find out, it would ruin her.

“It would appear,” he said as he fetched a tin of
Turkish Oriental
s from inside his coat, “that you’re still...well, I’m not sure ‘good’ is quite the word. ‘Talented.’ Rather unnervingly brilliant, actually. Do you mind?” he asked as he flipped the tin open and withdrew a cigarette.

“No, go ahead. You must be wondering what I want with this,” she said as she held up the key ring.

He struck a match. “You’re obviously poking about...
once again
,” he interjected gravely, “in very sticky matters that are none of your affair.”

Nell filled him in on her efforts, on Brady’s behalf, to clear his late niece’s name—briefly, because she could hear Dr. Gannett pronouncing the closing benediction. She emphasized the “Red Book,” possibly a diary or notebook of some sort, and the gunpowder burns on the mobcap and Fiona Gannon’s face, critical evidence never presented to the inquest jury. “They’re saying Fiona shot Virginia Kimball, who fell to the ground, apparently dead, but who then managed to grab the gun and shoot Fiona in the head. She presumably got off a shot from where she was lying in the doorway, but then how could Fiona’s cap and face have ended up in that condition?”

“That hardly proves Fiona Gannon was innocent of all wrongdoing,” Will said, echoing Detective Cook’s reservations.

“It
does
prove that it couldn’t have happened the way they say it did. I want to have a look around Mrs. Kimball’s house, see for myself the room where those two women died. I doubt it was ever thoroughly examined. Skinner didn’t care what really happened. He just wanted to pin it on Fiona Gannon and collect his payoffs.”

Will crushed out his cigarette and closed a hand over Nell’s arm. “Look...Nell. I know how much you care for Brady, but are you sure you should be stirring things up like this? It could get a bit dicey. After all, there are several very powerful men who obviously want this whole business brushed neatly under the rug.”

Soberly, quietly, she said, “Will, why did you come here today?”

He frowned and lifted his shoulders, as if the answer were obvious. “I knew Virginia Kimball. At one time, well, I was quite taken with her. In my mind, she was this icon of feminine glamour and romance. And she
was
a remarkably gifted actress—I really admired that about her. Of course, to her, I was just a passing amusement. She never so much as let me kiss her cheek. Still, I’ve never forgotten her.”

“Given all that,” Nell said, “doesn’t it trouble you even a little, knowing her murder will never really be solved?”

Will shot her an eloquently baleful look to show that he wasn’t so easily manipulated. Still, she detected a hint of genuine interest when he asked, “If Fiona Gannon didn’t kill her, who did?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But I do know that the inquest was a sham. No one asked the hard questions, because no one wanted to hear the answers. I’d like to ask those questions.”

“Of whom?”

Nell shrugged. “Orville Pratt, Maximilian Thurston... I’d like to know what Mrs. Kimball was really like, whom she associated with, what her circumstances were. I’d love to find out more about Fiona Gannon. And then there are the men who paid off Detective Skinner. I’d like to know what they thought they were buying.”

“Nell, Nell, Nell...” Will groaned as he rubbed the back of his neck. “These are not the kind of men who will tolerate your prying. You’ll be a threat to them, and they will deal with you as such.”

“You don’t think I’m capable of discretion?”

“Of course you are. You were discreet last autumn, with that Bridie Sullivan business. You were savvy and subtle, yet still you were very nearly murdered—in a most disagreeable manner.”

Organ music floated out from the church, accompanied by a bustle of activity. Nell turned to see Mrs. Kimball’s heavy iron coffin being borne down the aisle by eight pallbearers. Will rose and helped Nell to her feet.

As she dusted off her skirt, she murmured, “Rumors are starting about us.”

“Excellent,” he said as he replaced his low-crowned top hat on his head. “Life would be so dull without rumors.”

“That’s easy for you to say. In my profession, any whiff of scandal would be disastrous. You shouldn’t...” Nell hated this. She looked down, rubbed her thumb over the big silver key ring. “You shouldn’t meet Gracie and me in the park anymore.”

Will looked at her—really looked at her—for the first time that morning. His eyes, shaded by that prominent brow of his, were grim; his jaw had that surly thrust it sometimes got. The sharply carved features that looked so engagingly patrician when he was relaxed could turn wolfish in a heartbeat. “You would force such a sacrifice on us just to disarm a few idle gossips?”

“Will...”

“More of a sacrifice for me than for you, I suppose. It means a great deal to me, seeing Gracie and spending time with...” He looked away, shook his head. When he looked back and saw that the procession from within the church was nearly upon them, he lowered his voice to an earnest whisper. “Would you take that away from me?”

“Would you take Gracie away from
me
?” she asked desperately. “That’s what will happen if I lose my job because of these rumors you find so amusing.” Gentling her voice, she said, “Will, I’m sorry. I...I value those afternoons, too, more than you know, but...” She shrugged helplessly.

Will took Nell’s elbow and steered her aside as the coffin was carried out of the church, the pallbearers squinting against the sunshine—except for towering, silver-haired Orville Pratt, who stared grimly ahead with eyes like glacial lakes.
His face is dirty,
Nell thought, until she realized, with a start, that he had a shiner. The contusion had stained his left eyelid and cheekbone a dull, mottled purple, meaning it was about two or three days old. On another gentleman, it might have imparted an aura of vulnerability; in Orville Pratt’s case, it only made him look more formidable.

The Pratt ladies emerged from the church, Winifred still briskly fanning herself, her face a moist white dumpling nestled in a shirred bonnet, while Cecilia laughingly prattled away to her sister and the older lady. The latter, very thin and with a face pale as bone, appeared lost in thought as she watched the men lug the big iron box down the church steps.

“Aunt Vera!” Cecilia snapped. “You aren’t even listening!”

“I’m sorry, dear. You were saying...?”

Emily brought up the rear. Nell tried not to stare at her dress, the one that had looked from the back like a wrapper. An understated garment gathered at the waist, it was reminiscent of Mrs. Kimball’s medieval-inspired grave clothes, albeit more voluminous, and of a fluid black twill. It was clear that there was no crinoline shaping its skirt and, given the blousy bodice and natural silhouette, no evidence of a corset, either. Cecilia, on the other hand, had the kind of cinched-in waist a man could wrap his hands around with a fair expectation that his fingers would touch. She wore a ruby brooch and matching ear bobs, a violation not just of funerary protocol, but of the injunction against faceted gems for daytime wear.

Cecilia, Emily, and their aunt Vera descended the front steps to watch the coffin being heaved into the hearse. Their mother was about to follow them when she glanced to the side and noticed Will. “William? William Hewitt?” She touched her fan to her great pigeon’s breast of a bosom as she stared up at the much taller Will.

“Guilty.” Will lifted his hat and inclined his head. “Good to see you again, Mrs. Pratt.”

“Good heavens!” she exclaimed in a twittery little voice
. “Oh, my word. I can’t remember the last time I saw you.”

“I believe it was Christmas Eve, ‘sixty-three,” he said.

“Quite right,” she said. “Yes, quite. Your parents had us over to the house, along with the Thorpes. You were home on furlough, you and...Robbie.” Her smile faded; that was to be Robbie’s last visit home, Nell knew.

If Will was saddened by the mention of his late brother, his expression betrayed no hint of it. Looking from Mrs. Pratt to Nell, he asked, “Do you ladies know each other?”

Winifred Pratt regarded Nell with a sort of vague, puzzled recognition. “Were you at that lovely dinner party on the Cabots’ yacht last month?”

“No, ma’am,” Nell said. “We did dine together once, you and I, but it was about a year and a half ago, at the Hewitts’. I’m their governess.”

“Ah.” The older lady blinked at Nell. “You don’t say. Ah, yes. Yes, of course. Now I remember. Miss...?”

“Sweeney. Nell Sweeney.”

“Miss Sweeney. Of course. Of course. How silly of me to forget. I’ve got the brain of a peahen, that’s what Mr. Pratt says. Yes, indeed.” Mrs. Pratt’s gaze lit on Will’s hand, still curled around Nell’s arm. Her smile was inert, her eyes knowing. “Well. A pleasure to see you again—both of you—even under such melancholy circumstances. I take it you, er, knew Mrs. Kimball?” she asked, looking back and forth between them.

“I did, some years ago,” Will said.

“Yes?” Winifred Pratt’s smile was very close to a smirk. As a friend of the Hewitts, she would have known all about Will’s penchant for actresses. Schooling her expression, she said, “Terrible thing, just terrible, to have happened right on Beacon Hill. One has come to expect this sort of thing in...certain quarters, but
Beacon Hill
?”

“Yes, indeed,” Will said diplomatically.

“It’s not the same neighborhood it used to be,” she said. “And not because of what happened to Mrs. Kimball. My own husband was accosted the other night just a few doors down from our house on Beacon Street by some gutter-crawler from...well, I can only assume the North End, or perhaps Fort Hill. Mr. Pratt wouldn’t give up his wallet, so this...ruffian took a bludgeon to him. Did you see his eye? Did you?”