Death on Beacon Hill (5 page)

Maximilian Thurston, sworn:

Was “intimate friend” of deceased w/whom he shared aft. tea daily. Knocked on her door at 4:00; entered house; found her just inside doorway of her 2nd floor bedroom, new hatbox and parasol next to her, blood on chest, her own Remington pistol inches from her right hand; pistol smelled of gunpowder; deceased kept it under pillow for protection, always fully loaded because she was a poor shot. Blood bubbled in and out of wound as she struggled to breathe. Mr. Thurston comforted deceased until she passed. In bedroom found body of Fiona Gannon shot in head, lying on left side in roughly east-west orientation; necklaces in hands; open jewelry boxes on bed bench. Diamonds were actually paste
.
Mrs. Kimball was visited the day before the murder by
Mr. Thurston appeared greatly distressed.

Det. Charles Skinner, sworn:

Summoned to home of deceased about half past 4:00. Two dead bodies, “a gruesome scene” much as Mr. Thurston described it; bedroom window broken, otherwise nothing out of place except jewelry. Thoroughly inspected the premises. Mrs. Kimball’s Remington, recently fired and missing three rounds, was the only weapon in the house. Spent ball recovered from window frame; presumably a shot that missed its mark. “Clear enough what happened.” Fiona Gannon shot Mrs. Kimball in the chest, after which Mrs. Kimball, using the same gun, fired one stray shot into the window and a second into Miss Gannon’s head.

Samuel Watts, sworn:

Master gunsmith with 17 years’ service as firearms expert to the Boston Police Department. Matched the spent ball “with utter certainty” to deceased’s 5-shot .31 caliber Remington pocket pistol after test firing the 2 remaining rounds into wood and cotton wool. (Gun, recovered ball, and test balls displayed to jury.) 

Orville Pratt, Esq., sworn:

Was att’y for deceased approx. 3 yrs. Her character above suspicion; she retired from the stage some 6 or 8 years ago. Fiona Gannon employed in his (Mr. Pratt’s) home from Feb. 1863 until April now last past, when she went to work for deceased. Mr. Pratt “relieved to see her go” due to cheekiness and lack of steady habits; for same reasons dismayed his client hired her.

Erastus W. Baldwin, Suffolk County Coroner, testified that post mortem examinations by a surgeon would yield no useful results, as cause of death in both instances “should be amply obvious even to a layman.”

In the case of Virginia Kimball: Entry puncture wound consistent with gunshot in upper left quadrant of chest between 4th & 5th ribs, ball remaining inside deceased.

Opinion: This is a fatal injury.

As to Fiona Gannon: Gunshot wound to the head, the ball entering the right temple and remaining inside.

Opinion: This is a fatal injury.

At the conclusion of the evidence given by the last witness, and after a full and patient hearing, the Jury terminated their labors by rendering the following verdict:

Boston, Massachusetts

County of Suffolk, June 2, 1869

“We, the undersigned, a Jury of Inquest summoned by the Suffolk County Coroner to inquire into the death of Mrs. Virginia Kimball, after hearing such testimony as has been submitted to us, find that said Virginia Kimball came to her death about four o’clock on the afternoon of Tuesday, June 1, 1869, from the effect of a gunshot wound to the chest at her home on Mt. Vernon Street, Boston.

“The jury does further find that said gunshot wound was inflicted at the hands of Fiona Gannon, a maid. It is our conclusion that Mrs. Kimball arrived home to find Miss Gannon in her bedroom, engaged in an act of theft. Upon being challenged by Mrs. Kimball, Miss Gannon took Mrs. Kimball’s .31 caliber Remington pocket pistol from beneath the pillow where she knew it to be kept, shot her employer once in the chest, and thinking her dead, set the gun down and continued about her business. Having not yet expired, Mrs. Kimball gained possession of the weapon and fired twice at Miss Gannon, the first shot lodging in the window frame, the second striking Miss Gannon in the left temple, thus killing her instantly.”

Cornelius Bingham, Phineas Ladd, Edward Ackerman, Philip Sheridan, Davis Cavanaugh, Silas Mead and Lawrence Burke

Nell skimmed the coroner’s testimony a second time. “Autopsies weren’t performed?”

Cook, reading over her shoulder, said, “It’s the decision of whichever coroner’s been assigned to that particular case. He can choose to call in a surgeon, or he can just examine the body—or bodies—himself, and render his own opinion. Even if he does order an autopsy, he might not agree with the findings—it’s his prerogative.”

“But aren’t the coroners all laymen?”

“That they are.”

“A surgeon might have found something significant.”

“Well...” Cook took the transcript from her and leafed through it. “Perhaps in some cases. Much as I hate to agree with a lout like Skinner, I’d have to say it’s fairly clear them two died from tradin’ bullets. And the testimony of the witnesses seems to support that.”

“Only because they were questioned on so few points. I would have tried to find out who Mrs. Kimball’s friends and associates were, other than Mr. Thurston and Mr. Pratt. Did she have lovers, enemies...? She hadn’t acted in years, and her diamonds were imitation, so presumably she sold the originals. Did she owe someone money? Did she have expensive habits? Opium, perhaps, or cards? Was she secretly destitute?”

 “I hardly think that’s likely,” Cook said as he returned the transcript to the folder, “given that she’d gone shopping for hats and what-not the very afternoon she died.”

“Destitution never kept a female from buying hats,” Nell said. “Not that kind of female.” Pointing to the crossed-out bit from Maximilian Thurston’s testimony—
Mrs. Kimball was visited the day before the murder by
—Nell asked, “Why do you suppose this was stricken?”

“Couldn’t really say, seein’ as how I wasn’t there.” Cook lifted the top off the
V. Kimball
box, peered inside, and withdrew a lady’s ivory kid glove, which he sniffed. “Mrs. Kimball fired that gun, all right.”

Nell approached him and took the glove, the palm of which was bloodstained. She sniffed, inhaling, along with leather and blood, the smoky tang of burnt gunpowder. Even in the watery moonlight, she could detect a faint, grayish smudge on the back of the glove, emanating from between the thumb and index finger. She handed the glove back to Cook, who returned it to the box.

“That doesn’t prove anything,” she said. “If you ask me, that transcript is evidence of an appallingly slapdash inquest. I wouldn’t be surprised if the coroner—what’s his name, Baldwin?—if he’d been bribed to steer the jury toward the conclusion they reached. They’re probably all in on the take—Baldwin, Detective Skinner, that firearms expert—”

“Sam Watts?” Cook shook his head resolutely. “I know Sam. He’s a good sort, and honest to a fault. And there’s not a soul on God’s green earth who knows more about guns. If he says that slug was from Mrs. Kimball’s Remington, it was from Mrs. Kimball’s Remington.”

“That’s good enough for me,” Nell said. “But as for Baldwin and Skinner, my guess is they orchestrated the whole thing together, in exchange for God knows how much money. Someone—or several someones—don’t want this case investigated.”

“It’s not impossible,” Cook conceded with a sigh as he rooted around in the box, “but I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions. Could just be the inquest was slapdash ‘cause that’s how most of ‘em are around here. Could be this case wouldn’t have been properly investigated even if no one got paid off ‘cause there’s not a single detective on the Boston Police Force who really knows his way around a murder, and that includes yours truly.”

Nell gaped at him, astounded that a police detective—especially one whom she respected so thoroughly—would confess to any measure of professional incompetence.

He reached into the box and lifted out a smart little blue bandeau hat trimmed with feathers, bows, silk orchids, and a dotted veil. “I bought something like this for Mrs. Cook for her birthday last year, but she said it was too fancy. Made me take it back and get a plainer one. I told her pretty ladies should wear pretty bonnets. She said it wasn’t so much pretty as flashy.”

“It sounds as if she’s afflicted with good taste.” Five years ago, when Nell had first started working for the Hewitts, she’d been both thrilled and disappointed by the wardrobe of custom-made frocks that Viola had provided her with, at her own expense—thrilled because until then Nell had worn nothing but threadbare cast-offs, disappointed because the dresses were so plain. Over the years, she’d come to appreciate their sleek elegance, but it had been an acquired appreciation.

“I do my best, Miss Sweeney,” said Cook as he nestled the hat back in the carton, “I surely do. But the truth is us detectives all earned this job on account of how well we deal with thefts. When I was young, you heard about maybe one homicide a year in Boston, sometimes none. I came on the force in January of eighteen-sixty. You know how many people have been murdered in this city since then?”

Nell thought about it, but she couldn’t’ begin to guess.

“Seventy.” He pushed the lid back onto the carton and turned to face her, hands on hips. “Seventy homicides in the past nine years.”

“My God!”

“Seventy-one counting Mrs. Kimball. When somebody gets killed in this city, it better be plain as day who done it, or it’s probably gonna go unsolved. Investigating homicides is a complicated business, and there’s nobody I know of who’s got any real experience in it. What we do—what most big city cops do—is we offer rewards to the citizenry for providing information or turning in the guilty parties.”

“Does that work?”

“Not often enough to suit me. I’ve been trying to convince Chief Kurtz that we need to get out there and dig and scratch, not just rely on snitches, most of whom are no better than the slamtrash they’re ratting on. We need to figure out how to catch these murderin’ scum, and then we need to hang ‘em by the neck and let the good Lord worry about what to do with ‘em after that.”

“Do you think the Chief will take your advice?” she asked.

“Nah, the rest of ‘em keep tellin’ him I’m daft. Skinner, especially. He just thinks all we need to do is offer bigger rewards. Lazy muttonhead just doesn’t want to have to do his job.” Cook gestured her toward his office. “Looks like we’re all done here.”

Nell hesitated, eyeing the two cartons on the floor. “Those contain the clothes Mrs. Kimball and Miss Gannon were wearing when they died?”

“And whatever other personal effects they had on ‘em.” The detective crossed his arms and gave her a look that said he knew precisely what she was getting at. “And how do you suppose Skinner would take it if I let some little miss—some little
Irish
miss—root about in his evidence?”

“Who’s to say he’ll ever find out? Besides, it seems to me it’s only ‘evidence’ if it’s going to be used in prosecuting a case, which it clearly isn’t, since this case is considered solved and will never go to trial. And doesn’t Skinner himself think the police should rely on citizens to solve the city’s murders?” She spread her arms. “I’m a citizen, and I’m more than happy to help.”

Cook carried the cartons into his own well-lit office, setting them on the only section of floor not heaped with books, folders, and old newspapers. She knelt and uncovered the box marked
V. Kimball
, set aside the gloves and hat, and withdrew a small mesh reticule. It contained a folded handkerchief, a silver powder compact, a tiny enameled one for rouge, a mother of pearl card case with several calling cards in it, and an embossed leather change purse, which was empty.

“Looks as if Skinner helped himself to whatever money was in here,” she said.

“Maybe she’d spent it all on her shopping trip,” suggested Cook as he sat perched on the edge of his desk, watching her. “Or maybe she didn’t have any, and she’d been running up bills.”

“Detective Skinner has her house key, I assume.”

Cook nodded. “It’s on this fancy silver key ring. I seen it sticking out of his vest pocket.”

Next came two white lisle stockings, a pair of garters, lace-edged drawers, two petticoats, and a crumpled-up spring-steel crinoline. Nell drew in a steadying breath when she came upon the rest of Mrs. Kimball’s wadded-up underpinnings—chemise, stays and corset cover—all stiff with dried blood and punctured with one neat hole on the left side of the chest. The bodice of the fashionable blue-striped silk walking dress was in the same condition. At the bottom of the box Nell found a fringed silk parasol, a pair of black satin boots with silver heels and appliquéd stars, and a tangle of diamond necklaces.

She lifted the necklaces, squinting at the glittering little stones. “These are paste?”

“Must be,” Cook said. “I wouldn’t know the difference, myself.”