Murder in the North End (22 page)

“Where to from here?” she asked around a yawn.

“Palazzo Hewitt, so you can take a much-needed nap,” he said.

“What about you? Aren’t you tired?”

“Not especially. I had that little cat-nap, remember, and I suspect I’m a good deal more accustomed than you to going without sleep—the cardsharp’s lot, you know. I’ll stop at the house to wash and change, and then I’ll try to find out whether Cook’s been arraigned yet, and if so, whether the judge granted bail.”

“Do you think he will have?”

“I think it’s extremely unlikely, given that Cook has already proven his propensity for flight, but anything’s possible. I’ll make sure he’s got a good attorney, though.”

“The best one you can find,” Nell said. “He’ll need it.”

Will’s conversation with Larry Pinch and Ezra Chapman at the Somerset yesterday had only served to tighten the noose around Detective Cook’s neck. The two young men had, indeed seen Cook standing over Jimmy Cassidy with his gun drawn, had taken him for the murderer, and were prepared to testify as such. They were, according to Will, entirely as arrogant and dissipated as their friend Harry Hewitt, but despite that and their opium use, he had no doubt that their social standing would add an aura of veracity to their testimony when the case went to trial.

“Given that Ben Shute was heard threatening Johnny Cassidy’s life Monday night,” Nell said, “it might not be a bad idea to pay another visit to Nabby’s later this evening to find out if anyone can recall having seen him come back Tuesday. If he was as furious as Detective Cook said he was, perhaps he—”

“Nell.” Grabbing her arms to halt her, Will turned her to face him, his gaze on the bodice of her gray silk dress, which she’d been wearing since yesterday. “What’s this?” he asked, frowning at reddish-brown specks half-hidden amid the French piping that formed a
V
from shoulders to waist. They would have been nearly impossible to see in the dimly lit interior of the Cooks’ house, but in the harsh light of day, there could be no mistaking what they were.

“This isn’t
your
blood, is it?” Will asked.

“No. No, it’s...” Nell hesitated, trying to imagine how Will would react to this. “It’s Duncan’s.”

His jaw dropped. “Duncan
Sweeney?
Your husband?”

“I, um... I went to see him yesterday, at the prison, after you left for the Somerset—”

“You
what?”

“I just... I needed to—”

“By
yourself?”
he asked incredulously, clutching her arms just a bit too tightly. “Here I’ve been trying so hard to keep you safe, and you... What were you thinking, Nell? Why in God’s name would you have gone off without me—”

“To tell him I want a divorce.”

Will stilled, staring at her as if he couldn’t quite trust his ears. He eased his grip on her arms, stroking them lightly; he didn’t even seem aware he was doing it. “Really? Wh-what about...the Catholic thing?”

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about it, Will—quite a lot, actually, and...you’re right. God would never turn his back on me. The problem isn’t that, not anymore. The problem is Duncan.”

“He doesn’t want to give you up.” This was old territory.

“He says I’m all he has. But every time I start to feel a little sorry for him, I... Well, I’m reminded of why I left him in the first place.”

Frowning at the blood spatters on her dress, Will said, “What happened?”

“He became unhinged when I told him I’d be serving him with divorce papers. I had to punch him in the nose.”

“Nell, Nell, Nell...” Cupping her face in his hands, Will said, “I’m proud of you for holding your own, very proud, but I don’t ever want you putting yourself in that position again. The man is unbalanced. There’s no reason you should ever have to deal with him again, certainly not alone. If you ever feel as if you have to go there, I’ll come with you.”

“I can’t imagine that would put him in a more conciliatory frame of mine,” Nell said dryly.

“I don’t care about his frame of mind. I care about you. As for the divorce, if he fights it, fight him back. I’ll find you the best lawyer in the commonwealth. We’ll—”

“It’s not that simple, Will.”

“The money, you mean? I’ll pay for it.”

“Oh, Will, I couldn’t let you—”

“For pity’s sake, Nell,” he said testily. “Aren’t we beyond that?” He looked away for a moment, as if to compose himself. Stroking her cheek, he said, in a gentler voice, “The money doesn’t mean anything to me. It’s faro swag. Why shouldn’t it come in good for something other than bankrolling more faro? I know it won’t be easy to secure a divorce with Duncan opposing it. I know it’ll take time and you’ll have to do it in secret, but—”

“That’s the problem,” she said. “I won’t be able to keep it a secret. He’s not going to just oppose me, Will. He’s going to tell your parents. He’s going to write a letter to them, telling them about my marriage and my past, picking pockets and all that.”

“Bloody hell.” Will looked off down the street, rubbing his neck as he thought it through. He closed his eyes, whispering, “Bastard.” It was more swearing that he’d ever permitted himself in her presence.

“If they find out what I’ve been keeping from them,” Nell said, “especially your father, I’ll be ruined. Destroyed. I’ll lose everything. My position in their household, my livelihood, my home, my reputation... Your father loathes me. He’ll badmouth me far and wide. I’ll be a pariah. But worst of all, I’ll lose Gracie. I’ll never be allowed to see her again. Your father might even try to send her away, as he did you when you were little. You know I can’t risk that.”

“There...there must be some way,” Will said desperately, “something we can do to free you from this, this...”

“I’ve thought about it from every angle, Will, and if there
is
a way, it’s beyond my ken. Twelve years ago, I took a vow to unite myself with Duncan till death do us part. It looks as if God is holding me to my word.”

It was Saturday night—fight night, as Nell and Will were reminded by the bloodthirsty roar that greeted them as they crossed the threshold of Nabby’s Inferno. Although the boxing match was taking place in the dance hall at the rear of the building, the screams of “Kill him!” and “Trounce the bastard!” resounded in Nell’s skull as if she were standing in the middle of the ring.

Riley, the bartender, nodded as they walked over to him, a vague disappointment in his gaze as he surveyed Nell’s attire. She wore the same gaudy tournure skirt of Mary Agnes’s that she’d had on Thursday night, but with a lace-trimmed white blouse of her own. Even with the top few buttons undone, it was a considerably more modest, if still somewhat humble, costume.

After a couple of minutes of small talk, Will asked Riley if he happened to have noticed the one-legged fellow Johnny Cassidy threw out of the saloon Monday night. “I wasn’t here,” Will said in his provincial Boston accent, “but I heard about it. Thing is, he sounds like he might be this fella I knew in the Army, so I was wonderin’ if anyone knows who he is.”

“I saw him when Johnny ousted him,” Riley said as he wiped the bar down using the same slimy rag with which he “cleaned” the glasses. “Don’t know his name. He ain’t a regular.”

“Are you sure?” Will asked. “I heard he mighta come back the next night.”

“Tuesday? Not that I noticed,” Riley said, “and I’m right here near the front door. But then, there was all that mayhem after Johnny was shot.”

“He would have come in before that,” Will said.

Shaking his head, Riley said, “Finn might know. He was boxing Tuesday night, but there ain’t much goes on here that escapes him.”

“Thanks, I’ll go ask him.”

“You’ll have to wait till the match is over.” Cocking his head toward the dance hall, Riley said, “That’s him in the ring right now, fightin’ Bulldog Cunigan.”

They paused in the entrance to the dance hall, where scores of cheering and jeering onlookers stood gathered around a roped-off wooden platform in which Finn and his shorter but beefier opponent pounded each other with bare, blood-slicked fists. The clamor was deafening, the fight rawly savage.

“Attaboy, Southpaw!” someone yelled. “Teach ‘im a lesson.”

“Get him, Finn!” screeched a woman pressed right up against the ring, clutching the ropes: Pru. “Hammer him!”

Finn did hammer him, landing punch after punch to the head as Cunigan staggered backward. Sweat flew off the big Irishman as he pummeled his opponent, his face contorted in a feral grimace that made Nell shiver. With Cunigan now pinned against the ropes, Finn drove his left fist like a mallet into the poor fellow’s face, splitting his eyelid open and spraying blood.

Nell clutched her stomach, willing herself not to be sick.

“Nell.” Will wrapped an arm around her and hustled her away from there. “Are you all right?” he asked, half-yelling to be heard above the din.

Expelling a shaky breath, she said, “He’s an animal.”

Will nodded. “It’s not a sport with him, it’s a kind of mania. You can see it in his eyes. Come—let’s finish this up so I can get you out of here.”

None of the bar girls or waitresses they questioned had seen Ben Shute return to Nabby’s Tuesday night. By the time they got around to questioning Mother Nabby herself, the fight was over. Nell was surprised it had lasted as long as it had, given the magnitude of the punishment Cunigan had absorbed.

“I don’t see nothin’ that happens out front, sittin’ back here,” Mother said as she puffed on her pipe. “But I do know Johnny had to boot out some cripple Monday.”

“You didn’t hear anything about him coming back?” Nell asked.

Mother shook her head. “Hey, listen, that flat’s ready for you to move in any time you want. Blood’s all cleaned up.”

“Good to know. Is Denny Delaney around?” Will asked.

“Yeah, he’s downstairs, sweepin’ up,” she said. “Or s’posed to be. Prob’ly down there with his nose in a book, lazy little scrap heap.”

*   *   *

“A leg and an eye both?” Denny asked. They’d found him lying on a pallet in one of the empty “dance booths,” reading
The Last of the Mohicans
by candlelight, his broom on the floor next to him. He’d panicked when they found him, fretting about getting punished for holing up down there, until they promised him they wouldn’t tell.

Will said, “Yeah, he lost them at Fredericksburg.”

“If
he’s the old acquaintance you’re thinking of,” Nell said.

“If he’s the old acquaintance I’m thinking of.”

Sitting up, Denny said, “I seen him. Saw him. I noticed him ‘cause he was sittin’ with Detective Cook Monday night, so I figured they must be friends. Then they left, but the gammy fella, he came back later and...” He looked away, shifting his jaw. “Him and Mary...you know.”

“She brought him down here.”

The boy nodded, picking at the rough woolen blanket with his fingers. “Johnny threw him out. He used to throw a lot of fellas out, the ones that...went with Mary. I think they musta got rough with her, some of them. I’d see bruises on her face afterwards, and little scrapes and cuts. Course, Johnny used to slap her around, too, sometimes, but I guess he wanted to be the only one to do it. I asked her once how come she put up with it, and she told me it was complicated, and there wouldn’t be no way to make me understand.”

“Did you ever see him again, after that night?” Nell asked. “The man Johnny threw out?”

“Sure, he came back the next night. I remember, ‘cause it was right before Johnny got killed.”

Nell and Will looked at each other.

“There was a fight goin’ on,” Denny said. “Not the first fight, between Finn and Davey Kerr. That only lasted two rounds before Finn knocked Kerr out. The second fight had started, but only just.”

“The second fight,” Will said. “Muldoon against McCann, right?”

“Right. It was the first round. I’d gone out back to, uh...” He glanced at Nell. “You know.”

“Use the privy?” Will said.

Denny nodded. “When I come out, there’s this fella just kinda standin’ in the alleyway on the side there, lookin’ down at something in his hand. It was dark, so at first I couldn’t really tell what it was. He looked up, and I seen it was the fella from the night before that Johnny threw out. He had a top hat on, nice frock coat... He called me over, and when I got closer, I seen it was a newspaper he was holding.”

“A newspaper?” Nell said.

“Yeah, all folded up real tight. He said he’d give me two bits if I’d give it to Johnny Cassidy, but I had to give it to him myself, not just leave it somewhere for him. I said sure. He gave me the two bits and the paper and left.”

Will’s grim expression echoed Nell’s feelings. Chances were that newspaper was wrapped around a thousand dollars. Why would Ben Shute have paid Johnny the blackmail money, only to turn around and put a bullet in his head? This revelation boded well for Shute—but left Colin Cook as much a suspect as ever.

Nell said, “Did you get the chance to give Johnny the newspaper before he...?”

“Nah. Nah. It wasn’t that long after that that he, uh, got shot.”