Murder in the North End Page 7

  She said, “Do you mind my asking why you didn’t become a priest?”

  Shute puff-puff-puffed on his cigar and blew a stream of smoke out the window. “Not temperamentally suited to it. I was a Jesuit seminarian, halfway through my studies at Woodstock College in Maryland, when I realized it would be a calamitous mistake for me to take holy orders. That life, the sacrifices...” He shook his head.

  “Why did you pursue it in the first place?” Will asked.

  “A reasonable question,” Shute answered with a chuckle. “If only I’d asked it of myself at the time. The thing is, one of my older brothers, Nicholas, whom I idolized, had become a Jesuit priest. He went into teaching—he’s headmaster of Georgetown Preparatory School in Bethesda now. I’d felt so alienated from the rest of my family, everyone but Nick. He was the only one I could talk to, the only one with whom I felt any rapport at all. If the Church was his vocation, of course it must be mine. That was my thinking, anyway. Simplistic, I know, but adolescent males tend to be simplistic creatures.”

  “So you left Woodstock College?” Will asked.

  Shute nodded as he smoked his cigar. “Got a law degree at Harvard, which was when I fell in love with Boston. I went back home to start practicing. Well, not home, but close to it. I was taken on by a firm in Washington, D.C.”

  “When did you enlist in the Army?” Nell asked. It occurred to her, as the words were leaving her lips, that he hadn’t told them about his service during the war; Chloe had. But there was the missing eye, the bum leg. Nell wondered how Shute would react to her query.

  He smiled—one of those deep, wordless smiles that speak volumes. “I joined up as soon as war was declared. My parents were outraged—they and most of my siblings. They were slave owners, major supporters of the Maryland secession movement, in fact. My fighting for the Union, it was like a slap in the face. When I came home short a couple of body parts, they acted as if it was no more than I deserved for having defied them. So I moved back to Boston. I had friends here, fellows I’d gone to law school with. A couple of them were with the city government. That was how I ended up doing what I’m doing.”

  “Do you enjoy your work?” Will asked.

  “I like going ‘round to the pawnshops,” Shute replied, “but the rest of it can get tedious at times. Sometimes I run up against a wall of bureaucratic twaddle and I wonder why I’m bothering. But it’s a job that needs doing for the good of the city, and I do it well, so it’s ultimately satisfying, and that’s more than most men can say about their jobs.”

  “Do forgive the personal nature of the observation,” Nell said, “but my understanding is that you have the means to be a man of leisure if you so desired.”

  “In other words, why do I choose to earn a living instead of living a life of parasitic entitlement?” Crossing with two halting steps to the desk, Shute rolled the tip of his cigar in an alabaster ashtray. “At the risk of oozing sanctimony, it’s my opinion that if a man wants to hold his head up, he needs to be of some use to society, even in a small way. If that makes me self-righteous, you can blame the good Father Nick. He was the one who hammered that particular lesson into my head. ‘Try to make a difference, Ben.’ He must have told me that a hundred times—still does.”

  In that way, Nell reflected, Ebenezer Shute and Colin Cook were very much the same. She knew for a fact that Cook viewed law enforcement as a sort of mission to give malefactors their due. I’ve got the comfort of having the good book on my side, he’d told her once. An eye for an eye, you know.

  Long before he joined the police department, there’d been something of the crusader about Cook—the Young Ireland Movement, organizing the mineworkers... Doomed endeavors, both. Good intentions are no match for a little power.

  “Superintendent,” she said, “I realize you didn’t meet Detective Cook till after the war, and he’d been living here in Boston for a good decade before that, but do you happen to know what he did for a living when he first moved here? Not when he first got off the boat, but after he came back from Pennsylvania.”

  “Sure, he used to talk about it when he was in his cups—not so much anymore. He worked for Brian O’Donagh.”

  “Why do I know that name?” Nell asked.

  “Oh, he’s quite the big bug up in the North End,” Shute said. “He and Colin came over on the same ship. They’d fought together in Ireland, and both escaped justice, such as it was, at the same time. Colin went off to mine coal in Pennsylvania, but O’Donagh stayed here and gathered together a group of Irishmen of like mind. Over the years, it’s developed into quite a powerful organization. They call themselves the Fraternal Order of the Sons of Eire.”

  “I’ve heard of them,” Nell said. “Aren’t they...well, it’s more or less a gang, isn’t it?”

  “Well, not in the sense of a pack of thugs stalking the streets with knives and brickbats. The Sons are always beautiful dressed and groomed. Oiled hair, silk cravats. They could pass for successful businessmen—which some of them actually are.”

  “But whenever I hear of them spoken of,” Nell said, “it’s always with a hint of fear.”

  “That wasn’t always the case,” Shute said. “According to Colin, the Sons were founded to fight discrimination against Boston’s Irish, to help the men get jobs, and the women to feed their children. For the first few years, that’s exactly what they did, but by the time I settled here, it was a different matter. They’d started using theft and violence to achieve their aims. They’d even use it against their fellow Irishmen if they didn’t see eye to eye on something. And they started shaking down their constituents in the form of ‘donations’ to the cause. If you paid them off, you got protection. If you didn’t, they were the ones you’d need protection from.”

  “And Cook worked for them?” Will asked.

  “He said they weren’t that corrupt yet when he took up with them in the mid ‘fifties, at least not so much that he took exception to it—at first. O’Donagh recruited him as his lieutenant—his second in command, as it were. He was only with the Sons a few years. I know he was a constable by the time war was declared.”

  “Did he ever tell you why he parted ways with the Sons?” Will asked.

  “Not in any detail. He said it was complicated, but I know he was disgusted with the road they were taking—the tactics, the payoffs.”

  Will said, “I would assume Cook runs across O’Donagh on a regular basis, seeing as he spends so much time in the North End. That’s still where the Sons are headquartered, is it not?”

  Nodding, Shute said, “Richmond Street, near Salem, in the back room of a pub called the Blue Fiddle that one of the Sons owns. I get the impression Colin tries to avoid running into O’Donagh.”

  “I should think it puts Cook in a fairly thorny position,” Will said, “striving to maintain the law in a neighborhood where his old friend and compatriot is in the business of breaking it.”

  “O’Donagh’s a smart man,” Shute said. “He may be ultimately responsible for the actions of his men, but he’s learned how to keep his hands clean—or at least, looking that way. Colin says it’s virtually impossible to connect any criminal activity directly to him. As a state constable, he’s expected to root out the sources of crime, but O’Donagh’s been too slippery to pin down. In a way, Colin’s been grateful for that. He doesn’t relish the notion of having to arrest an old friend. On the other hand, he’s a man of integrity, a man who embraces his responsibilities and always tries to do the right thing. That’s why I’m just so incredulous at the notion that he’s supposed to have killed a man. What made him a suspect in the first place?”

  Will said, “We’ll know more after we visit Nabby’s Infero tonight, but—”

  “Nabby’s?” Shute looked up sharply.

  “That’s where the murder took place,” Nell said. “Are you familiar with it?”

  “It’s infamous. And of course, I’m in that neighborhood quite a bit. There are half a dozen pawnshops on North Street t
hat I monitor on a fairly regular basis.”

  “Have you been inside?” Will asked.

  “Not my type of watering hole.”

  That wasn’t precisely an answer, so Nell asked, “You never met Detective Cook there, even once, when you were in that area?”

  “Um...well.” Shute smiled a bit sheepishly. “As a matter of fact, we did run into each other on North Street the other evening—Monday, I believe. He was on his way there, so I tagged along.”

  “What was your impression of the place?” Nell asked.

  “It’s a snakepit. Can’t say I’m surprised there’s been a murder there.”

  “The victim was a fellow named Johnny Cassidy who lived at Nabby’s,” Will said. “He was shot in the head. I had the opportunity to examine the body before coming here, and it was apparent from the powder burns and other evidence that he was shot at close range, but not quite point blank. Shortly afterward, his common-law wife disappeared, along with Detective Cook.”

  Shute cocked his head as if he hadn’t heard right. “What are you saying? Are you saying he took the woman with him?”

  “It looks that way,” Nell said. “Does the name ‘Mary Molloy’ ring any bells, Superintendent?”

  He stared at her, smoke fluttering from his mouth. “Is that who he... Is...is that her name?”

  “Yes. Do you know her?”

  “No,” Shute said. “No, I, uh, don’t believe so.”

  “Detective Cook hasn’t mentioned her to you?” Will asked.

  Shute shook his head while studying his cigar with grave concentration.

  Will said, “We’ve been told she’s his mistress.”

  Shute gaped at them. “His mistress?”

  “So we’ve been told,” Nell said. “Please understand, Superintendent, we’re trying to help him. Nothing you tell us will become public knowledge unless it’s essential to keep him from hanging for a murder he didn’t commit.”

  “He never told you about her?” Will asked.

  “No,” Shute said dazedly. “No, he...he wouldn’t have.”

  “But you’re his best friend, aren’t you?” Nell asked.

  “Yes, but Colin... He’s the type of man who tends to hold his cards close to the vest when it comes to certain areas of his life. You know how it is. You disclose something to just one person, and that person lets it slip to someone else, and before you know it, you’ve spawned a world of heartache. He wouldn’t never have risked telling me about a mistress. Colin loves Chloe more than anything in the world. He worships her. He’d rather die than hurt her. This Molloy woman, if it’s true... I know she can’t mean anything to him, not like Chloe does. I hope to God Chloe never finds out.”

  “She found out yesterday,” Nell said.

  “Oh, Christ.” Shute sank back against the window sill, shaking his head. “That poor woman—and in her condition.”

  “You know about the pregnancy?” Nell asked.

  With a rueful little smile, he said, “I know, I know. Colin wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. And he didn’t. As I said, he’s discreet. But there’s been something about his attitude of late, an excitement, a sense of anticipation. I guessed at the reason. He hesitated just long enough to confirm it. I was happy for him. His new position with the state constabulary has been more of a challenge than he’d anticipated, and he deserved some good news.”

  Nell said, “We understand you’d advised him to open his own private agency after the Detectives’ Bureau was disbanded.”

  “Yes, and I wish he had. It would have been perfect for him. But he was concerned about providing for his family, and of course he was still reeling from the hearings and their aftermath. It’s not easy to have the rug pulled out from under you, professionally, especially when you’ve done nothing to deserve it. He was an exemplary detective. Still is.”

  “Were you privy to the hearings at all?” Will asked.

  “I wasn’t present during them, but I followed them as closely as anyone, and I had my sources for information. Some of the men who were on the board that conducted the hearings belong to my club. Colin was found innocent of any serious misconduct, of course—in fact, as I understand it, the hearings pretty much showcased his sterling qualities, which was why Major Jones snapped him up for the state constabulary.”

  “Do you know anything about secret testimony Detective Cook may have given?” Nell asked. “Constable Skinner seems to think he fabricated evidence against them.”

  “I do know about that testimony,” Shute said as he raised the cigar to his mouth. “It was about restructuring the city police. They just wanted Cook’s candid opinion about what was wrong with the department and how to fix it.”

  “It had nothing to do with Skinner and his pals?” Will asked.

  With a little grunt of humorless laughter, Shute said, “They didn’t need Colin to condemn those men. Their offenses were many and varied—and well documented. I’m quite sure the only reason Skinner is still on the force is that he greased a few palms. Probably called in a few favors, maybe even engaged in a little blackmail.”

  “Whom would he have blackmailed?” Nell asked.

  “One of the men overseeing the hearings, perhaps, someone in a position to say yea or nay to his continuing on the force. Cops learn all kinds of things about people, things men in certain positions wouldn’t want known.”

  Shute leaned back against the wall, one hand in his pocket as he drew on his cigar. Through a drifting blur of smoke, he said, “Even the most upstanding among us have our little secrets, do we not?”

  Chapter 7

  “A bit warm tonight for that shawl, isn’t it?” Will asked Nell as he handed her into a hackney on a dark street corner two blocks from Colonnade Row, where none of the Hewitts’ neighbors would see them; he’d sold his phaeton and horses before leaving for Shanghai. “Nabby’s Inferno,” he told the driver as he climbed in next to her. “The corner of North and Clark.”

  Nell drew the swath of fringed wool around herself as she settled into the seat. “I think I may have overdone it.”

  Will had suggested they dress so as to blend in with the local denizens, the better to elicit their trust and cooperation. If we show up at Nabby’s looking like a couple of toffs on a gaslight tour of the slums, all we’re likely to learn is how quickly they can pick us clean and hurl us back out onto the street.

  The only females who frequented North End saloons at night, Will had said, were those who either sold their favors outright, or in implicit exchange for shelter, protection, or trinkets. In that spirit, they tended to flaunt their charms rather boldly; a modestly attired lady would, paradoxically, attract a measure of suspicion after dark at a place like Nabby’s.

  There was no arguing with Will’s logic. The only problem, aside from Nell’s natural aversion to looking cheap, was the fact that she owned nothing that wasn’t supremely tasteful; as a governess, it was incumbent upon her to present an image of refinement and good breeding. She’d resorted, finally, to rummaging through the clothing left behind by the Hewitts’ maidservants when they departed for the Cape—the “civilian” garb they wore during their off hours. The pickings were slim. They’d taken most of it with them, of course, and there wasn’t anything really tawdry—until Nell opened an old steamer chest belonging to one of her least favorite people, the cheeky, copper-haired Mary Agnes Dolan. Inside, she found three snug, lowcut basque bodices, a modish blue tournure skirt festooned with swags, ruffles and bows, a flashy little feathered hat, and a pair of fingerless black lace mitts.

  Nell chose a basque of emerald satin, which was so wasp-waisted that she had to lace her stays within a quarter-inch of asphyxiation for it to fit. It was scandalously low-cut. She blanched when she looked down and saw how much bosom had been propped up on display. Reasoning that exhibition was, after all, the idea, she resolved to throw herself into the role, rouging her lips and cheeks and twisting her hair into a loose chignon with ringlets haloing her face and tumbling down her n
ape. Her accessories were a mesh reticule, some of Mary Agnes’s paste necklaces, the feathered hat, and the mitts.

  She’d smiled at her reflection in the mirror on the Hewitts’ entryway hallstand, thinking, If Saint August could see me like this... The grin vanished when she heard Will come in through the back door, having returned from a visit to his house to collect his things. She snatched one of Viola’s shawls off the hat rack and hastily wrapped it around herself, wishing she’d thought to pin a lace fichu over her décolletage. It would have compromised the effect, of course, but at least she could have held her head up.

  Turning toward Nell on the seat of the hack, Will—clad in a humble sack coat and tweed cap—said, “I can’t imagine you’ve gone too far. You may think you have, given that monstrous propriety of yours, but some ladies are incapable of true vulgarity, and you’re one of them. Come, now.” He pushed the shawl off her shoulders. “You’re supposed to look like a tart tonight, not a school...” He blinked down at her. “Marm.”

  “You see?” she said, pulling the shawl back up.

  He tugged it back down. “Nell, don’t be ridiculous. It’s far too warm a night for—”

  “But I look...I look...”

  “You look wonderful,” he said softly.

  “I’ll be plagued by leering boors,” she said. “They’ll stare at my...” She glanced down at her abundant cleavage.

  “Any man you’ll encounter at a place like Nabby’s is used to seeing women dressed like that. They won’t leer.”

  “It’s just...it’s been a long time since I’ve fit in with people like this. I’ve gotten so far from these people, this world. It feels...” She shook her head.

  “I know.” Will closed his hand over hers, but withdrew it almost immediately, as if he’d committed some sort of indiscretion. “It’s not as if you’re returning to this world, though, not really. You’re just acting a part, for Colin Cook’s sake.”