Death on Beacon Hill (21 page)

Will said, “With what money?”

“That’s what Virginia asked her. The girl claimed she had enough saved up, but how could she have, on a maid’s salary? Virginia tried to talk her out of it. She was quite soft-hearted, deep down. She was worried about the girl, you know, biting off more than she could chew and ending up on the streets or hooking out of some North End bagnio. But Fiona stood her ground. She did give a week’s notice, which was more than Clara had done.”

“If she hadn’t,” Nell said, “she would probably be alive now.”

Thurston nodded morosely. “Pratt came back the next day and killed them both, then set it up to look as if it was Fiona’s doing.”

“You’re saying he killed them out of simple anger?” Will asked.

“If you’d seen him that evening, sputtering and ranting, you’d know how unhinged he’d become. Virginia was the real target—although I’m sure he was put out with Fiona after she’d essentially called him a liar in front of us. I think he became so utterly enraged that he had no real control over his actions. Or, who knows? Perhaps he’d been planning it for some time.”

“All that drama over the gun,” Nell said, “and it turned out to have been locked away in his own desk the whole time—or so he claims.”

Will said, “I’d like to know when he really found it.”

“All I know is he killed my Virginia,” Thurston said, “and I promised her, as I stood over her coffin, that I would see him hang for it.”

“I was wondering about that coffin and how she was...laid out,” Nell said.

“I’m sure a great many people have been wondering about it,” Thurston said with a mordant little smile. “She’d planned every detail herself—circled the coffin in a catalogue, described her hair and makeup, and how the flowers were to be arranged on her. The gown was a costume she’d kept from a production of
Hamlet
some years ago. And she was most explicit about being buried as quickly as possible. She’d never been one to drag out the ending of a scene. ‘One should exit swiftly,’ she always used to say, ‘even with a bit of unseeming haste. Far better to leave them wanting a bit more of you than a bit less.’ Speaking of which...” The playwright rose to his feet, taking most of his weight on the cane. “I do hate to be rude, but I must dress for a read-through with the cast of my new play, so...”

Will pulled Nell’s chair out for her, then gestured toward Thurston’s cane. “I say, is that what I think it is?”

“Like it?” The playwright handed it over, leaning on the table for support. “It’s Belgian. I bought it in the early fifties, when they were all the rage.”

“Air?” Will held the cane at eye level and sighted down its wooden shaft, as if down the barrel of a rifle, which was when Nell realized that was precisely what it was.

“Percussion,” Thurston said. “Breech-loader. A far sight more powerful than those puny cane guns Remington is coming out with now. Takes a forty-four caliber bullet. The trigger folds up into that silver ring.”

Will met Nell’s gaze for a split second. “Mind if I take a look at the action?” he asked.

“Be my guest. But do take care—I keep it loaded.”

Will twisted the handle and pulled it out, exposing the exotic weapon’s inner workings. “That’s odd. You bought this in the early fifties, you say?”

“You’re wondering about the metal cartridge. I had it converted last year to fire those.”

“That explains it, then.” Will shoved the action back in, twisted it closed, and returned the device to its owner. “A fine weapon, beautifully kept. Thanks for letting me take a peek.”

Thurston walked his visitors to the front door, his gait laborious. Their visit had tired him, it seemed.

Thurston appeared lost in thought as he shook Will’s hand. “Virginia adored you, you know.”

Clearly taken aback, Will said, “I...I’m afraid you’re misremembering, sir—or possibly trying to be kind. My affection for Mrs. Kimball was entirely unreciprocated. The very afternoon I gave her those roses, she dismissed me from her life in no uncertain terms.”

Still clutching Will’s hand, Thurston smiled. “Oh, how she used to rhapsodize about you—your handsomeness, your keen mind, the...let’s see, how did she put it in her book... Ah, yes, ‘the white-hot passion simmering beneath that cool façade.’ She was mad for you, you know. But...” Thurston lifted his shoulders on a sigh as he released Will’s hand. “
Il Conte
was coming. He provided for her, kept her like a princess. She needed to get you out of the way, and quickly.”

“Perhaps if she’d simply explained the situation,” Will said, “and asked me to leave of my own accord...”

“Would you have gone away peacefully, or would you have stuck around and tried to fight for her?”

Will’s expression, as he pondered that, was telling.

Thurston chuckled. “As I say, most people never realized how smart she was, how...complicated. But I did. I always knew.”

From Louisburg Square, Nell and Will strolled down to the Pratt “family manse” at 82 Beacon Street and asked to see Orville Pratt, but he wasn’t at home. He was at his club, Mrs. Pratt informed them, lunching with friends, as was his custom on Saturdays.

On the way to the Somerset Club, they discussed the fact that Nell would be forbidden to enter the gentlemen-only enclave, and decided that she should wait for Will in the restaurant of the Parker House, just a short block away. Will would question Pratt alone, with the aim of corroborating or disproving what Maximilian Thurston had said about him.

According to the Somerset’s doorman, however, Mr. Pratt hadn’t been there that day, and wasn’t expected. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid whoever informed you that Mr. Pratt lunches here on Saturdays was mistaken. I’ve never known the gentleman to arrive before suppertime on a Saturday.”

The Tremont House, where Orville Pratt kept his new mistress, was virtually across the street from the Somerset Club. “How terribly convenient,” Nell said as they headed there.

It was the first time she’d ever been inside the luxurious hotel, and it took all her willpower to keep from gaping at its architectural splendor. “Miss Newland?” The desk clerk didn’t even have to look it up. “She’s on the second floor—suite two-oh-two.”

Will’s first knock went unanswered, as did his second. As he raised his fist a third time, a girlish voice called, “Who is it, fer Chrissake?” through the door.

“I’m William Hewitt, an acquaintance of Mr. Pratt’s,” he said. “I’m here with Miss Nell Sweeney. It’s imperative that we see him right away.”

“He ain’t here.” After a brief pause, she said, “And I don’t know any Mr. Pratt.”

Mr. Thurston had been right; Daisy Newland was an abysmal actress.

Will said, “Kindly tell him that it’s a matter having to do with Mrs. Kimball and the Stonewall Jackson gun. If he can’t see us right now, perhaps we’ll call on Mrs. Pratt and see if she can be of any help.”

About half a minute ticked by, and then the door was opened by a blonde in a lacy dressing gown with its bodice half-unbuttoned, putting her “compensatory assets” on audacious display. Her hair was loose and tangled, her skin creamy, her lips a vivid cherry red. She was softly pretty in that down-stuffed way some girls have, but for a pair of black-limned, dully sullen eyes.

Daisy didn’t greet them, merely turned and sauntered away across the fussily decorated sitting room, trailing a miasma of saccharine perfume. Rapping on a closed door, she said, “You ready yet?”

There came a muffled male response that Nell couldn’t make out. The girl crossed to a cocktail cabinet, emptied the last few ounces of whiskey from a decanter into her glass, and stretched out onto a velvet fainting couch to sip it. The skirt of her wrapper parted, revealing her legs from the knees down; if she realized it, she didn’t seem to mind. She surveyed Will over the rim of her glass, which made Nell feel as if all the little hairs at the nape of her neck were quivering on end.

Orville Pratt emerged several long minutes later, perfectly attired in a fine black frock coat and bow tie. He looked every inch the quintessential Brahmin businessman—save for his black eye, which was turning greenish, and his faintly ruddy lips. It looked as if he’d tried to wipe them off, but the more vivid shades of lip rouge tended to leave a stubborn stain. Nell assumed he’d kissed off some of Daisy’s rouge—until she realized that his lips were smudged not with cherry red, but with a warmer, more orangish vermilion.

Pratt glowered at his unwanted callers, his gaze settling on Will. “What’s the meaning of this, Hewitt?”

“Fiona Gannon’s uncle has asked Miss Sweeney to look into Virginia Kimball’s murder,” Will said. “We have reason to believe that your Lefaucheux may have been involved.”

Pratt frowned as if he hadn’t quite heard right. “Fiona Gannon committed that murder, using Mrs. Kimball’s own gun,” he said. “That’s been well established. For you to barge in on me like this, with utter disregard for my privacy or the dictates of common civility, only proves what your father’s been saying about you all these years. No gentleman would have done such a thing, and if you have a shred of common decency, you will leave this instant and apologize to Miss Sweeney for having brought her here. In return, I’m prepared to overlook your appalling judgment and go on as if none of this had transpired.”

“Well done, sir,” Will said. “I could never have composed that speech on such short notice. The reason we’re here is that it’s come to our attention that you threatened to kill Mrs. Kimball the day before she was, in fact, killed. You can see how that might pique our interest.”

“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear,” Pratt said. “I expect you to take Miss Sweeney and—”

“No, I’m afraid it’s I who haven’t been clear,” Will said. “Miss Gannon’s guilt has not, in fact, been well established, and there’s every reason to expect that this case will be reopened. When it is, your name will top the list of suspects.”

“Just because some dotty old poofter of a playwright claims he heard me make a threat?”

Nell said, “You’re referring to Mr. Thurston, I assume. What makes you think he’s the one who told us what you said?”

“What I’m
alleged
to have said.” The lawyer stalked over to the cocktail cabinet and shook the empty decanter. “Jesus, Daisy, this was full just three days ago.”

“There’s some rum,” she said as she raised the glass to her bright red mouth.

Pratt poured himself a generous helping of rum and took a gulp, his face screwed up in revulsion.

“We know about your affair with Mrs. Kimball,” Will said.

“Preposterous!” Pratt’s ears were scarlet. “Who told you that? Thurston? He’s hated me ever since I took Mrs. Kimball on as a client. He was jealous of everyone she knew.”

Nell said, “We know she blackmailed you after you ended it.”

“She
blackmailed
you?” Daisy said with gleeful astonishment.

“I wouldn’t get any ideas,” Will advised her. “It’s not a pastime for amateurs.”

“You were too proud to pay up, though,” Nell said, “so Mrs. Kimball lit a fire under you by crashing your annual ball—which seemed to work, until you, uh, misplaced your Lefaucheux. You drank yourself into a rage the next day, grabbed one of your daggers, and went to her house to accuse her of stealing it.”

Daisy barked with laughter.

“An amusing story.” A vein crawled across Pratt’s vast, pink brow like a worm burrowing just under the skin. “But I daresay it’s as far-fetched as those idiotic little farces of Thurston’s.”

Will said, “It gets more dramatic.”

“Mrs. Kimball demanded her money,” Nell said. “You demanded your gun. Eventually Vera and Emily took you home. But a month later you were back, with some tall tale about having given Fiona Gannon five thousand dollars in exchange for your—”

“Tall tale?”
Pratt wheeled to face Nell, half his drink sloshing onto the rug. “That lying little bogtrotter! I handed her that money myself, and she stood there and denied ever having—” He shut his eyes and growled something under his breath.

Will smiled at Nell as if impressed that she’d smoked this much of an admission out of Pratt. “So,” he said, “you admit that Mrs. Kimball made you an offer—the gun for five thousand dollars.”

“I admit nothing to you,” Pratt said with seething contempt. “Who do you think you are—either of you—seeking me out here, of all places, and—”

“If you’d prefer,” Will said, “I’d be happy to send a police detective over, and you can talk to him. Of course, you’ve handled enough criminal cases to know that if you do that, certain unsavory details will become public knowledge sooner or later. Even if you’re found innocent of any wrongdoing toward Virginia Kimball, all of Boston, including your wife and your clients, will know some very interesting things about you. If, instead, you talk candidly to us, we’ll reveal only as much as is necessary to see justice done.”

Will paused to let that sink in. Pratt dropped into a chair and stared at the Persian rug. Daisy regarded him with frank but mild interest, as if he were an actor in a play and not the man who’d been sharing her bed for the past few months.

“The gun for five thousand,” Nell said. “Did Mrs. Kimball put this in a note?”