Back Bay (37 page)

“I thought he was trying to kill you.”

“He was.”

Sean’s mother appeared at the door. She saw the body and the guns in her son’s hands. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. What’s happened?”

“A drunken merchant has been murdered and robbed in a waterfront alley,” said Abigail firmly. “Sean, hitch the carriage. Delia, come over here and clean the rug.”

The mirthless November sun gave little consolation as another Pratt was buried in the Old Granary Ground. Jason Pratt was found in an alley off Broad Street, his clothes reeking of wine, his money gone, and a bullet hole in the back of his head.

The words were spoken, and Artemus turned the first shovel of dirt. The crowd of mourners, much larger for Jason than for his father, began to disperse. Artemus did not linger by his father’s grave. He offered his mother his arm and led her, past relatives and friends offering condolences, to her carriage. Philip trailed along behind them, and Abigail followed on Elihu’s arm.

Before Sarah Pratt climbed into her carriage, she turned and stared at Abigail.

“I’m so sorry.” Abigail sobbed and threw her arms around Sarah’s neck. Her grief was genuine. She had not loved her brother, but she had never wished him dead.

“I despise you,” said Sarah coldly. Widow’s weeds made her face look waxen. “You drove my husband to his death, and now you express your hypocritical sorrow. Take your arms off my shoulders and never embrace me again.”

Abigail stepped back and brushed the tears from her eyes. “As you wish.”

Artemus helped his mother into the carriage, and she called to Philip. As the boy stepped up, Abigail ran her hands through his curls.

He pulled his head away and gazed at her defiantly. “I hate you, Auntie Abigail. You made my Papa die.”

Artemus tried to help his little brother into the carriage. Philip pulled away from him, as well, and climbed in on his own.

“I hate you too, Artemus. Papa asked you to help him, and you wouldn’t. I hate you and Elihu, and I miss Papa.” The boy buried his face on his mother’s breast and began to cry.

Artemus led Abigail to her carriage. “Don’t pay heed to words spoken in grief,” he said softly.

“I try not to, but their hatred hurts me deeply. You must assure me that you have no such feelings.”

“You didn’t kill my father. His own weakness and too much wine destroyed him. You simply acted for the good of the company.”

She was relieved. “I care very much about your feelings, dear, because I know that you have taken the time to understand me.”

Artemus patted Abigail’s hand. His touch was firm. It gave her confidence in their future.

“I want you to know,” he said, “that I have long admired your business sense and your foresight. I hope that you will be ready to offer me your advice and guidance.”

She smiled. Those were the words she had been waiting to hear. “At any time, Artemus.”

“Then I’ll expect to see you in my father’s… in my office on Monday morning.”

“You can rely on it, dear. And I will tell you now that my house and property are at your disposal. You may do with them what you wish.”

He had almost expected that. He kissed her on the cheek and helped her into her carriage. Sean closed the door.

“I’ve arranged for you to sail next week on the
Pegasus
,” said Artemus to Sean. “You’ll be assistant to the supercargo.”

“Well, sir…” he began weakly and fumbled for words.

Abigail spoke for him. “Sean is most upset by your father’s death. He has decided to stay in my service for a short while longer.”

“Very well. I’ll cancel his appointment.” Artemus saluted and returned to his carriage.

“Take me home, Sean,” said Abigail softly.

“Yes, ma’am.” His voice rang hollow.

That night, Abigail felt the darkness. To hold it back, she wrote.

E
vangeline Carrington didn’t stop driving for three states. She picked up Route 95 in Massachusetts, skimmed across the southeastern corner of New Hampshire, and into Maine, where she took Route 1 up the coast. The weather 150 miles from Boston was cool and dry, and after a three-hour drive, they arrived at a village called Dory Landing.

A handful of wood-frame buildings, shingled weather-gray and trimmed in white, clustered around the town dock. A half-dozen fishing boats bobbed on the incoming tide. Dory Landing was a working community where men in slicers and woolen caps stayed out for days to fill their holds with cod, where men in rubber boots and rubber aprons chugged along the coast, baiting lobster traps,
cursing shorts, and praying for a two-pounder at the end of every rope.

“Welcome to Winslow Homer country,” said Evangeline.

About a mile north of the village ten or twelve small cottages grew among the pines. Evangeline parked in front of a saltbox which looked across a meadow to the ocean. The nearest cottage was a hundred yards away and barely visible through the trees.

“Very nice,” said Fallon.

“I come up here when I need to get away from things. No one in the family knows I own it.”

“Are all these places summer cottages?”

“No. A lot of craftsmen and artists live around here, would-be Wyeths who sell their paintings to tourists during the summer and starve the rest of the year.”

“Not a bad place to be hungry. You can fish and pick wild berries, and when it gets cold, you can chop down a tree and spend the winter by the fire.”

“Sounds idyllic,” said Evangeline, “until you try it.”

The shades were drawn and the cottage was chilly and damp inside. It reminded Fallon of the beach houses that his parents had rented when he was a boy. He recalled the smell of mildew and wet sand and the gloom that burned away as soon as Evangeline raised the shades. The afternoon sun poured in, reflecting off the knotty-pine paneling and maple furniture, filling the room with an amber glow. Fallon could feel himself begin to relax. He sat at the table beside the picture window and placed the diary in front of him.

“Not yet,” said Evangeline firmly. “I need a drink and a few minutes to collect myself.”

She hasn’t said a word between the Massachusetts border and Dory Landing, thought Fallon. She should be well collected by now.

“Then,” she added, “I’m going to call my uncle.”

She produced two bottles of Miller’s beer, a small store of ripe Camembert, and a box of crackers. The beer, in clear bottles, caught the sunshine and highlighted the amber glow with gold. Fallon drank and realized that his throat had been dust-dry since he had stepped onto the widow’s walk at Searidge.

Philip Pratt stood at service line, five stories up. Behind him stretched three blocks of Back Bay. In front of him, an attractive brunette named Melissa Pike awaited his shot. She was his woman for the season.

In autumn, he chose ladies who enjoyed gourmet cooking and Harvard football games. Winter brought Nordic types who made love as well and as willingly as they skied. In April, he went to the Bahamas alone to recover. And in early summer, he sought lithe young professionals who played tennis and sailed. Melissa worked as a junior editor for a Boston publisher, she shot a withering backhand, and on weekends she didn’t wear underwear.

Pratt shot.

“Fault,” she cried. “Game, set, and match.”

Pratt didn’t like to lose, but Melissa jumped about in triumph and distracted him from defeat.

They were playing on the rooftop tennis court of Pratt’s Commonwealth Avenue home, which had been in the family since its construction in 1866. Soon they would be playing in Pratt’s circular bathtub, which had not been part of the Pratt tradition for quite as long.

“Another match?” she asked.

“You’ve got twenty years on me, Melissa. Besides, it’s too hot. Let’s have a drink instead.” He poured two chilled martinis, and the phone rang.

“Philip? This is Evangeline.”

Pratt excused himself and took the call in his study on the fourth floor. “Where the hell are you, Evangeline?”

She refused to tell him, but it sounded like long distance. “This morning, I went to Searidge.”

“I know,” he said coldly. “Breaking and entering is a crime.”

“Is that why Harrison pulled a gun on me?” She didn’t pause for an answer. “And where is Grandmother?”

“We’ve admitted your grandmother to a rest home. Christopher’s death has had an absolutely devastating effect on her.”

“A rest home will have an even worse effect.”

“It’s for her own good.”

Evangeline laughed. She didn’t believe that Philip Pratt ever did anything for anyone’s good but his own.

“Is that student with you?” asked Pratt.

“Yes. Why?”

“Harrison was trying to protect you from him. We’re not certain of his intentions, and your safety may be in jeopardy if you stay with him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t trust him.”

“Philip, I don’t trust anyone.”

“You’d better trust me, and get yourself up here as soon as possible. I’ll explain everything when I see you.”

“Tomorrow at ten.”

“We’d prefer to talk to you today.”

“Tomorrow at ten.” She hung up.

Pratt called Soames and told him about the phone call.

“Is she bringing the student with her?” asked Soames.

“I don’t know. I told her he might be dangerous and suggested that she get away from him.”

“I think it’s imperative that we talk to him. Did she say where they were?”

“No.”

“He has more than his share of nerve,” said Soames after some thought. “I won’t be surprised if he’s with her tomorrow. I suggest calling Mr. Hannaford. He may be able to help us.”

“What if Fallon doesn’t show?”

“We’ll go out and find him. Whatever he knows, we can’t have his knowledge floating around free.”

Pratt hung up and stared down at the traffic on Commonwealth Avenue. He had been fighting depression for weeks, and it was making another assault. Once he had moved through his world like a corsair. He had directed the affairs of the corporation with the supreme confidence that came to him from six generations of leadership. His authority had been unquestioned, his business ability recognized by associates, competitors, and stockholders alike. In the early years, as he worked through the lower levels of management to a vice-presidency, he had been tough, disciplined, ruthless, and the stockholders had agreed with Artemus Pratt IV when he had stated, in his last corporate report before retirement, that his son had earned the presidency and chairmanship of Pratt
Industries. For years, Philip Pratt fulfilled their expectations. Now his future rested on the tea set.

He had to commit his aunt to a nursing home because she was deemed a threat to company security. He had to worry when his niece spent time with a Harvard graduate student. And he relied more heavily on the advice of his personal secretary than he did on himself.

Someplace, he had lost control, first of himself, then of the company. As he had reached forty, the discipline which had brought him to be president and chairman of the board had begun to deteriorate. He had realized that he was not enjoying his life, and the future had no longer seemed limitless. He had turned his attention to new pursuits. He had spent more time sailing, playing tennis, and skiing. He had bought into American Center Films because he wanted a plaything. He had begun to enjoy the company of younger women.

A divorce had followed. His wife had taken the house on Martha’s Vineyard and custody of their two sons, aged ten and eight. Pratt had kept the family mansion in the Back Bay and the lifestyle he was learning to enjoy.

Then, William Rule had mounted his challenge, and Philip Pratt had tried to fight back. He had reached into himself for his old resources and had found them gone. He had called to his old allies, and they had not answered. Philip Pratt had decided that he had enjoyed himself too much. He had resolved that he would not be the first Pratt to turn over the chairmanship, and he had instructed Christopher Carrington to investigate the history of the Golden Eagle Tea Set.

Pratt remembered that Melissa Pike was still on the roof waiting to play another set. He stepped into the hallway and heard running water. He glanced toward his bedroom. Melissa’s clothes were piled on the rug, and the bathroom door was open. A whirlpool bath for two. Pratt kicked off his shorts and forgot his problems.

Bennett Soames was in his office when Philip Pratt called him. Since the tea-set business had begun, Soames had been working extra hours just to read and initial the paperwork required to keep the executive office functioning smoothly.

However, Soames had always worked long hours, ever since he had begun work in 1946 as a twenty-two-year-old veteran with a background in military intelligence. He had started as an accountant and was running the department within a few years. In the late fifties, he had attracted the attention of Philip Pratt, who was just out of Harvard Business School. He had become Pratt’s administrative assistant and confidant, and he rose with the president’s son. His loyalty to Philip Pratt had been rewarded with power, a spacious office, a generous stock option, and a salary on which he lived most comfortably.