A Season in Purgatory (15 page)

“No.”

“It’s terribly sad and all that, but what does it have to do with us? We didn’t even know her, did we?”

“Constant danced with her last night at the club. He will most certainly be questioned.”

“Even so.”

“You’re right, Grace. It has nothing to do with us. It’s just that it’s such a tragic thing, happening right here in the neighborhood.”

“Thank God the girls are back in the convent, in case there’s a dangerous man running about. That poor woman. Mrs. Utley. She was so frantic last night. Do you suppose the girl was already dead when she called? I’ll send flowers, and a note. What do you think of a Mass card, Gerald? They probably aren’t Catholic, with a name like Utley. Will they mind, do you think?”

“No. How could they mind? That would be lovely, Grace. Oh, by the way. Your priest called. Father Murphy. He’d like very much to come to dinner tonight.”

“Have you told Bridey?”

* * *

The
Scarborough Hill Times
carried the story on the front page.

We were at dinner when the police arrived: Gerald and Grace, Jerry, Sandro, Desmond (who was on a break from
the hospital), Constant, Sims Lord (who was Gerald’s New York lawyer), Father Murphy, and me. Father Murphy was from a slum parish, and the grandeur of the Bradley mansion, after the poor working-class houses he was used to visiting in the course of his duties to the sick and dying, was almost overwhelming for him. He had never thought of Catholics in terms of such wealth. He sat to the right of Grace, as an honored guest, and Sandro, the new congressman, sat on his other side. All the Bradleys had a charm that could make even the shiest guest feel at ease, and the conversation at dinner, before the arrival of the police, dealt mostly with the recent election. If Father Murphy was aware of the slaying that had occurred the night before so close to the house in which he was dining, he did not mention it.

“We are a very close family, Father Murphy, and our father has brought us up to understand the obligations that people like us have toward those who are less fortunate than we,” said Sandro. “We have been brought up to play some part, to get involved in politics and public service. It is what we aspire to. Hopefully, people are interested in what we have to say.”

“Oh, they are, they are, Congressman,” said Father Murphy enthusiastically. “This is a grand family, the Bradleys, an example of good Catholic family life. You will be a credit in public life.”

“Both my grandfathers were immigrants who moved to this city, lived in what is now your parish, attended Mass in what is now your church, and prospered. In fact, both my parents were baptized at Our Lady of Sorrows. But they never forgot their origins, and it is my hope in Congress to introduce a bill that will provide increased welfare payments—”

A police car drove up the drive, signaled by the crunching sound of the white pebbles beneath the tires. It stopped
in front of the porte cochere. The doorbell rang. No one in the dining room acted as if anything out of the ordinary was happening.

“Colleen, would you answer that?” said Gerald. She was passing a large silver tray on which were enough lamb chops for each person at the table to take two.

“Just put that on the sideboard, Colleen,” said Grace. “Bridey will pass it. Or Nora, is that her name? The new girl? Why don’t you send her in. Let her pass. It will be good training for her.” She turned to Father Murphy. “It’s such a problem, training some of these girls, Father, when they first come over from Ireland. They hate wearing the maid’s uniform. ‘What day am I going to have off?’ is the first question they always ask. Thank God for Bridey. Seventeen years she’s been with me. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

Father Murphy, baffled by such a problem, had no answer for Grace. Nora, the new maid, nervously picked up the tray of lamb chops and passed it to Grace.

“No, Nora, the other side. You serve from the left, and you remove from the right. Pass it to Father. On the left, Nora. Serve from the left. Now serve the congressman. Thank you, Nora.” She turned back to Father Murphy. “Now, of course, they’re all frightened that there’s a murderer in the neighborhood, and they say they won’t wait on the corner for the bus, they want to be driven by Charlie the chauffeur when they have their day off. Can you imagine?”

Colleen came into the room. “There’s a Captain Riordan and a Detective Potts in the hall. Shall I ask them to wait in the kitchen until you’re finished?”

“Oh, good heavens, no,” said Gerald. “Have Captain Riordan and the detective come in.”

When the officers entered the dining room, Gerald and his sons stood. They were the same two officers I had seen
at the Utleys’ house that afternoon. “Good evening. I’m Gerald Bradley and this is my wife, Grace Bradley.”

“How do you do? I’m Captain Riordan, and this is my associate, Detective Potts.”

“Potts. Potts. Any relation to Walter Potts?” asked Gerald.

“Brother.”

“Really? There on the other side of the table is my son, Dr. Desmond Bradley, who took the bullet out of your brother’s heart at St. Monica’s Hospital.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Grace. “Imagine. Did you know about that, Father Murphy? Desmond actually held the heart of that young man right in the palm of his hand and removed a bullet. It was in all the papers at the time.”

Desmond walked around the table and shook hands with the officer. “How is Walter? He used to come and see me in my office, but I haven’t heard from him lately.”

“He’s okay,” said Detective Potts. “He’s in trade school over on the east side.”

“Isn’t this an amazing coincidence?” asked Gerald. “These are my sons. Desmond you’ve met. Congressman Sandro Bradley, up from Washington. Gerald Junior, whom we call Jerry. And Constant. You have come to see us on a mostly male evening, Captain. My two younger daughters have just gone back to the Sacred Heart Convent this morning, and my older daughter is in Chicago visiting the family of her fiancé. There is Sims Lord, my business associate from New York, Harrison Burns, a school friend of one of my sons, and Father Murphy from Our Lady of Sorrows Church in Bog Meadow.”

“Evening, Murf,” said Captain Riordan.

“Hello, Tom,” said Father Murphy.

“You know each other?” asked Gerald.

“From the parish,” said Father Murphy.

“Murf? He called you Murf, Father Murphy?” asked Grace, in a surprised tone.

“We were in high school together,” replied Father Murphy.

“Even so, you are an ordained priest,” said Grace.

“I’ll speak to Detective Riordan about showing me a little more respect, Mrs. Bradley,” said Father Murphy with a smile.

“And I, Mrs. Bradley, regret my impudence,” said Detective Riordan, smiling at Father Murphy. He turned back to Gerald.

“Now, gentlemen,” said Gerald, “would you care to pull up some chairs? After they clear, Bridey and Colleen will bring in the dessert and coffee, and we would be delighted for you to join us.”

Gerald Bradley was the richest man in the city, but he never forgot his roots. He understood the value of not distancing himself too far from his simple origins. “Those people,” he once told Constant, after Constant had neglected to speak to an aged friend of his grandfather at a funeral, “are best to have on your side.”

“It’s profiteroles, Detective. Bridey, my cook, prides herself on her profiteroles,” said Grace. “With chocolate sauce.”

“No, thank you, I’m afraid we’re here on business, Mrs. Bradley.”

“Oh, yes, this terrible neighborhood tragedy. Mrs. Bradley has just sent flowers and a Mass card round to Mrs. Utley,” said Gerald.

“Yes, I did, the poor woman. Imagine having that happen. She called me last night, simply frantic, looking for her daughter. What kind of a girl was she?”

“We actually don’t know the Utleys,” said Gerald, interrupting his wife. “They’re new here. Do you have any leads?”

“We’ve found a bat,” said Captain Riordan.

“A bat?”

“A baseball bat.”

“Was that the murder weapon?”

“We’d like to ask your son some questions.”

“Which of my sons?”

“Constant.”

Constant raised his hand. “Here,” he said pleasantly. “I’m Constant.”

“Is there a room where we can talk in private?” asked Captain Riordan. “In a house this size, there must be.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” said Gerald. “We are a very close family, and we are all concerned with what has happened.”

“It would be better in private,” said Captain Riordan. “There are some intimate details we would like to discuss.”

“No, no, no. Father Murphy and Mr. Lord are both family friends. Go right ahead. We are all so terribly concerned about this tragedy,” said Gerald. “I find it very difficult to believe that someone from this community could be responsible for a murder.”

Captain Riordan, dissatisfied, nodded. “It has been my experience that most criminal cases come down to liquor, lust, or loot,” he said. He removed a notebook from his back pocket and addressed himself to Constant. “My colleague, Detective Potts, is going to tape-record your answers.”

“Fine,” replied Constant.

“We understand you were at a dance with Winifred Utley last night at The Country Club.”

When Constant spoke, he was completely at ease. No sense of guilt hung over him. “I was not actually at the dance. The dance was for the younger set, the fourteen-, fifteen-year-old crowd. I’m seventeen, about to be eighteen. I was having dinner at the club with my sisters and my friend.”

“But you danced with Winifred Utley, did you not?” asked Captain Riordan.

“Oh, yes, that’s true,” said Constant. “I did dance with her, but then I went home.”

“How well did you know her?”

“I didn’t know her. I met her once before. I was leaving the club after dinner with my sisters and my friend, and she asked me to dance.”

“She asked you?”

“Yes.”

“And your sisters? Your friend?”

“They went home in my car.”

“How did you get home?”

“My friend Harrison Burns here came back to drive me home.”

“Which one is Harrison Burns?” asked the captain.

“I am,” I replied, raising my hand as Constant had done.

He looked at me, recognizing me from that afternoon. “Oh, yes. You were at the Utley house this afternoon, weren’t you?”

“Yes. I was delivering some food from the Bradleys to the Utleys’ maid,” I replied. I had not told the family of my conversation with Mrs. Utley.

“Is that right, what Constant said? Did you return to the club to drive Constant home?”

“Yes,” I replied. I was as at ease as Constant. “I first brought Mary Pat and Kitt home. Then I returned after a bit to pick up Constant.”

“Did you go out again after you came home?”

“No.”

“Did you, Constant?”

“No.”

“Is there any way you can prove that, Harrison?”

“No. Only my word.” I was prepared for the test. My answers were the correct ones.

“I see.” Captain Riordan made a note on his pad.

“Mrs. Bradley can prove it, Captain,” said Gerald, suddenly. “She went to their room when Mrs. Utley called her at two in the morning looking for Winifred, and both the boys were sleeping like babies. Isn’t that so, Grace?”

Grace stared at her husband down the length of the table. “Uh, yes,” she answered. “Yes. I didn’t have the heart to wake them up.”

“I see,” said Captain Riordan.

I did not look in Grace’s direction.