Death on Beacon Hill (6 page)

“Neither would I.”

“Neither, I imagine, would Fiona Gannon.”

Ignoring that observation, Nell opened the box labeled
F. Gannon,
which held a plain dress of black worsted, a white cotton apron speckled with blood, a rather shabby assortment of underpinnings, scuffed black lace-up boots, and, at the very bottom, the shredded and bloodied remains of a maid’s ruffled mobcap. Nell lifted it gingerly by the bit that was still white and undamaged, the greater part of it being black with soot.

“Powder burns,” Nell murmured as she studied it. “Very heavy powder burns. And it’s been blown to ribbons.”

Cook reached out to take it from her.

“You know what this means,” she said.

He sighed as he inspected the ravaged cap.

“It means,” Nell said, “that the muzzle of the gun that killed Fiona Gannon must have been—”

“Pressed right up against her head,” Cook finished. “And where would a nice young lady like yourself have learned a thing like that?”

“From books,” she lied, not wanting him to guess how familiar she’d once been with guns and knives—and the damage they could do. “Tell me I’m wrong,” she challenged. “Tell me this shot could have been fired from a distance.”

Cook glowered as he examined the cap.

“Baldwin didn’t mention these powder burns in his statement at the inquest,” Nell said. “If he had, it would have called the official theory into question.”

Cook looked as if he was going to say something, but changed his mind. He crouched down next to Nell, returned the cap to the box, and started gathering up the other items. “Let’s get this stuff packed back up just like it was, so Skinner won’t know we were rummaging through it.”

“You agree with me, don’t you?” she persisted. “The inquest’s conclusion is flawed.”

“Even if it is, that doesn’t mean Fiona Gannon was some innocent scapegoat. You want to think that because she was Irish and you’re fond of her uncle, but in my experience, them that meet with bloody ends usually had it comin’.”

“Her being Irish made it easier for Skinner and Baldwin to sell their version of events to the inquest jury,” Nell said as she arranged the clothes in the carton the way she’d found them. “Fiona Gannon was just another thieving little Mulligan. A murderess, too, but at least Virginia Kimball saved the Commonwealth of Massachusetts the trouble of hanging her.”

“If you’re wantin’ me to investigate this case,” Cook said, “you can just drop that idea right now. It was Charlie Skinner’s homicide, and as far as he and everybody else in this bureau is concerned, it’s been solved. Never in a million years would Chief Kurtz let me conduct some sort of after-the-fact investigation, knowing how it would set Skinner off. And if you knew what my caseload was like right now, you’d know I don’t have the time for the kind of work it’d take to set this business straight.”

“If you did have the time,” she asked as she replaced the lid on the carton, “what would you do?”

Cook stood, joints popping, and handed Nell to her feet. “I’d start off by goin’ to Mrs. Kimball’s funeral tomorrow. Murderers sometimes like to see their victim bein’ sent off—not always, by any means. Not even most of the time. But it’s a place to start.”

“But it’s a private funeral,” she said. “Doesn’t that mean only family and friends are welcome?”

“No one will question you if you just walk in like you belong there.”

“Oh, wait,” she said. “I can’t. Tomorrow’s Thursday. I’ll need to take care of Gracie.”

“Didn’t you once tell me they have a nanny to share the load?”

“Nurse Parrish is a million years old. She sleeps most of the afternoon.”

“The funeral is in the morning.”

“Will Detective Skinner be there?” she asked.

“He wasn’t plannin’ to go, but Kurtz is making him, just for show, on account of Mrs. Kimball being so famous and all.”

Nell chuckled through a sigh. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Interrogate the mourners, see if anything tickles your whiskers.”

“Interrogate? At a funeral?”

“They won’t know they’re being interrogated if you do it right. Let them think they’re making small talk. Ask a leading question, then keep your mouth shut. You’d be surprised what folks’ll tell you just to fill in the gaps in a conversation.”

Nell’s first thought when she entered the Arlington Street Church shortly before ten the following morning was that she must have gotten the time of Virginia Kimball’s funeral wrong. There weren’t enough people here. No more than two dozen heads rose from the sea of pews stretching before her—hardly what one would expect at the funeral of such a notable person.

Then she noticed the sarcophagus in front of the altar. That was what it looked like from Nell’s vantage point at the rear of the huge sanctuary—a big, elaborately decorated burial chest such as she’d only ever seen in books about ancient Egypt. Adding to its peculiarity was the fact that it was painted white, a color normally reserved for the coffins of children.

A group of five, a gentleman and four ladies, brushed past her and proceeded up the long center aisle toward the front of the church. They all wore mourning black, as did Nell, whose simple dress with its modish, crinoline-inflated princess skirt was similar to those of three of the ladies. The fourth had on a garment that, viewed from behind, looked for all the world like the kind of loose, sash-tied wrapper that a lady might wear in the privacy of her bedroom. Nell had never seen anything like it in a public situation.

The group paused before the bizarre coffin and, one by one, stood with heads bowed. Nell recognized them when they turned to seat themselves in the very first pew: Orville Pratt with his stout little wife, his two pretty, fair-haired daughters, and an older lady Nell couldn’t place. The oddly dressed one was Emily, recently home from her extended European tour. It stood to reason such a prominent attorney would attend the funeral of his late client, family in tow, if only for appearances. How would it look if he didn’t, after extolling her character during yesterday’s inquest, praise that had made its way into that morning’s
Daily Advertiser
?

The front page article had summarized the inquest in terms that left no doubt as to the guilt of the “cunning and shiftless” Fiona Gannon, who had “schemed with an inborn craftiness” to gain possession of Virginia Kimball’s celebrated diamond necklaces.

Brady had been more distraught than ever when Nell sought him out in his carriage house that morning.
She was framed,
he insisted,
and everybody believes it ‘cause she was Irish. “Inborn,” that means we’re all that way—you, me, all of us from the old country. I won’t rest till it’s put right.

He’d had Fiona’s body transported to an undertaker on Pearl Street, where he viewed it yesterday evening.
Worst thing I ever seen,
he told Nell, his eyes welling with tears.
She’d been such a pretty little thing. Twenty-one years old. To see her like that, with her head all...
His words had died in his chest; his shoulders shook.
I wish to God it was me instead.

Wanting to confirm that Fiona had been shot at point blank range, Nell had coaxed Brady into describing his niece’s head wound. The entry wound on the right temple was small, he said, and surrounded by a mottled black stain that spread over the side of Fiona’s face. The exit wound was a harrowing crater, the left side of her head having been blown entirely away.

Solemn music blossomed forth from the most spectacular organ Nell had ever seen, its pipes soaring toward the lofty, barrel-vaulted ceiling. It was a handsome church with two rows of tall white columns separating the nave from the side aisles and upper galleries. A gentleman of about sixty in clerical robes—the Reverend Dr. Gannett, she presumed—sat in a tall-backed chair on the altar, leafing through his notes. Having never before set foot in a Protestant church, Nell felt glaringly out of place, and—although she knew it was absurd—conspicuously Irish Catholic.

A man strolled past her and down the length of the center aisle before pausing at the coffin, one hand stuffed in a trouser pocket, the other holding a bowler at his side. After a moment, he turned and surveyed the church, his gaze lighting one at a time on the assembled mourners. He was slightly built, with close-cropped gray hair—prematurely so, Nell could tell, given the smoothness of his sharp-featured little face. In contrast to the other gentlemen, all in identical black frock coats, he wore a charcoal gray sack suit buttoned over a plaid vest, his feet clad in humble brown brogans.

Nell had no doubt whatsoever that this was Detective Charlie Skinner. She smiled to herself.
I can still pick out the coppers.

Her smile waned when Skinner fixed his pale-eyed gaze on her for a brief but penetrating assessment. To be stared at by a cop, even fleetingly and from such a distance, made her want to turn and dart out the front door.

That impulse grew stronger as the detective strode toward her with an air of purpose, but when he was about twenty feet away, he turned and slid into one of the rear pews. Stiffening her spine, Nell walked toward the front of the church, her pace slowing as she approached the strange coffin and saw that its closed lid was one thick sheet of plate glass, offering a head-to-toe view of the deceased. It called to mind an illustration in one of Gracie’s fairy tale books of the glass box in which Snow White was laid to rest after eating the poisoned apple. The casket itself appeared to be white-painted cast iron crafted to look as if it were draped with fabric.

Of all the many dead bodies Nell had encountered in her twenty-six years, Virginia Kimball’s was by far the most remarkable. Her unbound hair, so black it had to be either a wig or the product of dye, lay in sinuous ripples over the white satin pillow that cradled her head. Even in death, she was striking to look at, with her dramatically arched eyebrows, elegant cheekbones and powder-pale complexion. She’d been painted with stage makeup, Nell realized, right down to the kohl blackening her eyelids. The initial effect was of a lady who looked much younger than her forty-eight years—until one noticed the furrowed throat and slack jowls, the lines radiating from her eyes, the creases bracketing her crimsoned lips.

Not only were her cosmetics theatrical; her attire was, too. The dead actress wore a slim gown of silvery white satin with trailing sleeves and an ornate golden girdle, a medieval costume that echoed the fairy tale imagery. Garlands of daisies and wildflowers were strewn over her, and lotus blossoms all around her, giving the impression that she was floating on water.

Nell hitched in a breath when it came to her. She wasn’t Snow White at all. She was Ophelia.

Even death couldn’t keep Virginia Kimball from playing what had evidently been a favored role, that of the young woman whose love for Hamlet had driven her to drown herself in madness and despair. Nell couldn’t imagine an undertaker doing this of his own volition, nor was it likely to have been stodgy old Orville Pratt’s idea. Mrs. Kimball must have made her own arrangements ahead of time.

“Jesus,” Nell whispered, then sketched a hasty sign of the cross, appalled to have blasphemed in a church. Her cheeks stung when she noticed Dr. Gannett watching her from his seat on the altar; Protestants didn’t make the sign of the cross. He offered her a reassuring smile before returning his attention to his notes.

There was no kneeler in front of the coffin, so Nell merely clasped her gloved hands and murmured a prayer for the departed soul of Virginia Kimball. Unwilling, despite her discomfiture, to abandon the customs of her faith, she crossed herself again, to the accompaniment of a glassy little giggle from behind. Turning, she saw Cecilia Pratt eyeing her while whispering into her mother’s ear.

Nell chose an aisle seat on the left side about ten pews from the front, which afforded her a good view from behind of everyone except Detective Skinner, some eighty or ninety rows back. She withdrew her little tortoiseshell fan from her chatelaine and flicked it open, wondering why it had to be so blasted hot on a morning when she was obliged to wear wool crepe head to toe. The choir rose and sang “Nearer, my God, to Thee,” after which Reverend Gannett stood and crossed to the podium.

“Infinite Father,” the minister intoned, “God of light and love, we bless Thy name for this beautiful world Thou hast given us—for the love of our families, the peace of our communities, and, even in our tears, for that angel of death whom Thou dost send to each of us in turn...”

Much as Nell missed the traditional Latin funeral mass, she found it rather refreshing—heretically so, no doubt—to be able to grasp the substance of what was being said. The lengthy prayer was concluded with a paltry chorus of “Amen’s.” One deep male voice, emanating not from the first few pews but from overhead, stood out among the others. Looking up and to the left, Nell saw a handsome black-haired gentleman sitting in the front row of the gallery above her, his forearms resting on the balustrade, his gaze directed not at Reverend Gannett, but at her. Nell’s fan stilled.

Will.

Her breath snagged in her throat. How long had he been gone this time? Weeks. No, over a month. It had been April the last time she’d seen him.

Will inclined his head to her, not quite smiling but almost. He looked pleased to see her, if slightly baffled by her presence here. She nodded back, wondering whether he’d purposely seated himself directly above her.