Grace and Disgrace (23 page)

“Fine.” McNamara’s grizzled face expressed a wisp of benevolence at Eliza. It vanished like a snuffed-out candle as he continued with his account. “The doctor claims that Frost has always been to blame, even tracing back to the trial. He says Frost stole Hart and Dwyer’s affidavits from the office of McBarronThayer the night of the interview, and that he had been figuring on a way to silence the two girls since they were freed from the asylum. With them out of the way, along with Aiden and Father Donnelly silenced for good, and the affidavits destroyed,
all
possible proof about a staged trial has been destroyed. Frost comes out clean. Doctor Kearney says it’s plain as day. As for me, I wouldn’t put it past the scoundrel, neither.”

Eldredge chewed thoughtfully on an end of bread discovered near his elbow. “That theory is devoid of proof, but maintains a sense of logic, I suppose.”

“Frost knows his way around evidence, both how to find it and how to make sure it’s never found. In any case, the poor girl is dead.” McNamara pulled a rumpled piece of paper from his pocket. “This is Doctor Kearney’s address on Washington Street in Boston, adjacent to the Northampton Street El station. Perhaps you should consider payin’ him a visit, see what you can gather. You’re the inspector, after all.”

“Another tragedy,” Tuohay muttered, taking the paper from McNamara. His gaze settled out the window on the backdrop of Plymouth, the old houses, cold beaches, and remorseless ocean. A church rose from a distant bluff. “I had hoped to spare Mary Hart from it.”

No one spoke as Tuohay continued to stare out the window, the anticipation of further communiqué from him hanging in the air like a silent promise. It finally came in the form of a forced whisper.

“There is a heartless scoundrel behind this affair, playing us in an ingeniously crafted match. Every move he makes, another piece is eliminated from the game. And he is always one move ahead, knowing how the game will play out, furthering his sinister plan closer to conclusion without fail.
But how
?”

The darkening landscape did not respond except with a lonely sigh of wind. If it had answers, it was holding them to itself.  

The teapot whistled with the promise of a warm reprieve, and a minute later McNamara was accepting a steaming cup smelling faintly of a floral arrangement from Eliza. He gave her a thankful nod and settled onto a nearby stool, eyeing Tuohay closely as the inspector reviewed a handful of scattered notes.

“How did you find us?” Eliza asked, diverting the old man’s attention to her.

“I knew Tuohay’d be holed up ‘round here somewhere after cutting out on Frost,” he replied with a glint in his eye. “When Thayer and I alighted from the coach in Plymouth, I got straight to work.”

Tuohay’s attention was roused. “Thayer? He came back from Boston with you?”

McNamara waved impatiently. “Said there was something he needed to look into, but was vague ‘bout it. I think he just didn’t want me ridin’ alone, with everything that’s been going on. He was acting peculiar, but that’s not unusual for anyone connected to this bloody business.”

“When are you supposed to meet back up with him?”

“Tomorrow morning for breakfast. Said he would have something interesting to share by then.”

“Strange.” Tuohay seemed to ponder it for a few moments before letting it go. “In any case, how was it that you finally tracked me down?”

“Still have some bloodhound in me, for a fact. Figured I’d lurk around the telegraph offices and train stations for starters. Had only completed one circuit when I got hungry, and what do you know—I caught sight of your friend ‘ere leaving a café. Easier than it should have been.”

Eldredge’s face flushed. “Gads. I didn’t realize I was being followed.”

“No need to feel inadequate,” McNamara replied in his gravelly voice. “I’ve got a lot of years as a beat cop under my hat. I know what I’m do’n when it comes to trailing a suspect.”

“You got hungry and lucky,” Eliza laughed.

“It’s about the timin’, miss,” McNamara replied without a hint of humor. “More to it than you’re aware. Luck don’t come to nothin’ without setting the proper circumstances. It comes from experience, it does.”

Eliza shrugged. “Alright, Mr. McNamara, I won’t argue with that.” Despite her allowance, she did not seem entirely convinced.

“In any case, it comes down to me.” Eldredge’s face was dark with guilt.  

“It’s alright, John,” Tuohay stated, his attempt to be sympathetic spoiled by the weakness of his voice. He looked the worse for the wear, his linen Edwardian shirt and frock coat crumpled and slightly askew. Even seated, he leaned heavily on his cane, and death itself would have presented a cheerier disposition.

Eliza regarded Tuohay, finally stepping close enough to draw his attention. She looked as if she was about to ask a delicate question, but changed her course of thought. “Brass tacks, Jack. What does it all
mean
? All of these events, past and present, seem to be connected, but…are they, really?” She mused for a moment. “There is Father Donnelly’s death from his fall, Miss Hart’s poisoning death, the deaths of Aiden and Rian Kearney….the various clues we found at the crime scenes… remember that scrawling on the wall,
I am my brothers keeper
?”

“Yes, I remember,” said Tuohay.

McNamara cleared his throat. “And then there is this.” He picked up the newspaper that he had set aside and held it to the light for the others to see. “This came out before Mary Hart’s death…that will be in the late edition, no doubt.”

DEADLY TIES

Body Dredged from Boston Harbor

Poison and Gunshots in Plymouth

Answers Wanted by Medfield Police

All Linked to Templar Diamond

Unidentified Body with Gunshot Wound

Dredged from Harbor.

Body Shows Signs of Advanced Consumption.

Within hours of each other.

Woman Attending Fr. Donnelly’s Wake Poisoned.

Shots Fired in a Plymouth Hotel.

Suspect at Large.

Medfield Authorities Requesting Information

From the
Royal Irish Constabulary

In
Murder of Kip Crippen
.

Tuohay started. “Body dredged from the harbor?”

“I was wondering which of those headlines would get your attention first,” said McNamara.

Eliza pointed at the paper. “They did a good job on your profile sketch. Add that to your limp and your cane, throw in a few clove cigarettes and they’ll have you within the hour.”

“At least he is not wanted for a crime,” said Eldredge. “The caption just says he is working with the Boston authorities.” He squinted. “Why is there a sketch of Father Abrams Valentine next to Jack’s?” 

“The dead nephew?” Eliza tilted her head to get a better angle. “Where?”

“Just below the fold.” He pointed to a drawing on the backside of the paper, below Tuohay’s. “It looks nearly identical to the sketch you made of him in your journal, Eliza—when you investigated Father Donnelly’s study, you sketched him from a portrait. That’s how I recognized him in the paper.”

“That
does
look like the man in the painting,” Eliza agreed. She handed the paper to Eldredge and scanned the room for her journal. Finding it on a pile of loose papers, she flipped it open to the page with the sketch of the nephew’s face from the painting. “Not identical, but certainly close.”

McNamara stood and lumbered over for a look, holding his lame leg with a beefy hand. He grunted in agreement.

Tuohay pulled himself up, his eyes riveted on the two pictures. “May I?” Laying the paper and journal on the table side by side, he stared at them for several moments in silence. He broke his reverie with a curse. “Why didn’t I see the resemblance before?”

Eldredge shook his head. “I am missing the point.”

Eliza pointed at the sketch in the paper. “The point is, that’s
not
Father Abrams Valentine in the paper. It is a police sketch of Kip Crippen.”

“Kip Crippen? You mean, that’s
not
a sketch of the nephew?”

Eliza turned to Tuohay. “Jack, it could be a coincidence. They’re just sketches, after all. One looks like the next and all of that.”

“No, you are exacting in your work,” Tuohay argued. A cold eagerness entered his voice. “Do you recall what we found in the brothers’ apartment on Kneeland Street? The shovel, the dirt-covered rug?”

Eliza frowned. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

Eldredge waved his hand for attention. “What are you two talking about?”

“There has been a nagging in my brain ever since I laid eyes on the painting of Father Donnelly’s nephew,” Tuohay answered.

Eldredge exhaled in frustration. “And?”

“And it is time to address it.”

McNamara scowled. “I got a bad feelin’ about where this is going.”

Eldredge set his pipe down, a note of apprehension in his voice. “How do you plan to address it, Jack?”

“You are going on the first available carriage to Boston. Or by train, if necessary,” he added with a dry smile. “I need you to get into the Customs House and look through the 1896 passenger lists to Boston from Britain, primarily Belfast, for Abrams Valentine.”

“Not an easy task, but consider it done.” Eldredge looked at the others. “Not as dire an errand as I expected, from Tuohay’s grave tone.”

Eliza gave Eldredge a small smile. “Wait for it, Johnny.”

Tuohay turned to Eliza and McNamara. “As for us, we need shovels.” His face turned grim. “And we need to locate the nephew’s grave and pay it a visit.
Tonight
.”

*

A midnight mist immersed Plymouth in an ethereal river of eddying vapors and undulating wisps beneath the broken moonlight. Tuohay shambled down Church Street, his coat wrapped tightly about him in the chilly haze, the dirt road packed under his feet. The opaque gloom transformed the gable-roofed buildings into desolate hulks with vacant sockets for eyes, death-like in their stillness.

The mist parted as a horse and buggy careened past him from Pond Street, the clatter of the horse’s hooves audible long after the fog swallowed them again. Tuohay turned north up an unmarked dirt row, the sprinkling of a new rain cool against his face. The moon had disappeared. After a long sojourn up the row, he paused at the gated entrance to the graveyard, the mist low enough to reveal the tombstones closest by.

A shadow rose from behind the bones of a dying oak tree. The black form was that of a man. “Who goes there?”

“A midnight owl,” Tuohay replied, stepping under the gate where the man stood. McNamara glared back at him.

“You are mad, Tuohay.
Mad
.”

“Yet you have come. Does that not make you mad as well?”

McNamara eyed the darkness warily. “If we are caught—”

“Then you will tell them that you accosted me here breaking the law, and I will adhere to the story. You have nothing to fear.”

“Lie to the authorities? Who do you take me for? I thought you were a man of truth, Tuohay.”

A rough smile broke across Tuohay’s face. “A man
seeking
truth. I never claimed to be anything more.”

“Is that so?”

Tuohay stared across the twisted grass of the dark graveyard. “It is.” He bent close to gate, muttering to himself. “Eldredge said he would leave it here… ah, yes.”

“Is that a lamp?”

Tuohay struck his lighter to the wick, and within a moment a dull glow emitted from the shuttered lantern. He allowed only a slight beam to escape, which danced eerily in the fog. “This way.”

“And Eldredge?”

“As planned, Eldredge will not be involved with our activities tonight. He’s leaving by stage for Boston within the hour—I need him to look into 1896 passenger lists from Belfast, and to work out a coded operations book from the RIC.”

“Don’t know how you think he’ll get a hold of passenger lists at his late hour.”

“He’s a statistician that consults for the Immigration and Emigration Office, and two dozen other agencies. He has the keys to more lists and data in Boston than the census bureau—of which he also has access to.” 

“Right.” McNamara did not inquire further and the two men struck into the expansive grounds of the graveyard, taking to the headstones rather than the paths. Large, bare trees rose from the darkness like sentinels, glaring down at the men with accusing stares.

McNamara pulled the collar of his coat tight around his throat. “What in high heaven do you hope to accomplish out here?”

“I have to know if Father Abrams Valentine is actually buried in his grave.”

McNamara’s voice dropped to a hiss as if the graves themselves were listening. “You really believe the death of Father Donnelly’s nephew could have been a hoax?”

“I have reason to believe it was, yes.”

“What reason?”

“Look—there!” Tuohay pointed to a pinprick of light at the top of a nearby hill. “That would be our man.”

With renewed purpose Tuohay marched in the direction of the light, lasting only a few moments more before dissipating into the fog. McNamara kept pace with a grim look, his right hand thrust into his pocket.

“Damnable fog,” McNamara muttered, wiping the moisture from his forehead.

“Could not have picked a more appropriate night, in fact,” Tuohay replied. “It will shield our activities.”

“I don’t like the sound of that, Tuohay.”

Tuohay grunted as his leg stiffened beneath him. “No one said this was going to be a clean business.”

They were greeted by a cold blast of air at the summit of the hill. The scent of the sea was heavy upon it. Tuohay slid the shield back from the lantern’s glass and allowed a beacon of light to shine. A moment later a similar beacon responded some fifty feet away.

They approached at a hurried clip and came upon the figure in the center of a row of graves. A large rock stood at the apex, shielding Eliza from the wind. Despite that, her cheeks were ruddy from the cold.

Setting her lantern down, Eliza’s usual crooked smile was missing. “You sure about this?”

“You know which is his?”

Eliza led them to a stout marker, the gray stone barely marred by the weather. She kneeled beside it and wiped a crust of dirt from the name. “Here.”

Beneath

This stone lie the Remains of

Rev. Abrams Valentine

Late of St. Malachy’s Church

Who died March the 1
st
, 1896

Aged 36

“St. Malachy’s,” Tuohay whispered. “There is one in Belfast, not far from City Hall.”

McNamara frowned. “Why would they bury ‘im here, if his work was done in Ireland?”