The End of Innocence (2 page)

“I hope Arnold goes to jail.”

“Arnold may not have been involved.”

Wils set the glass down on the wooden desk and stood up. “He's a pig.”

“Wils, according to Arnold, Max tried to send sensitive information about the Charlestown Navy Yard to Germany.” A faint tinge of pink briefly colored the professor's cheeks. “Arnold said he knew about this and was going to go to the police. Max may have thought that he would go to jail for endangering the lives of Americans and British citizens. And if what Arnold said was right, then Max may have faced some very serious consequences.”

“America's not at war.”

The professor didn't respond.

“Why would Max do such a thing then?” asked Wils curtly.

“Arnold says he was blackmailed because of his gaming debts.”

“What could Max possibly have found? He's incapable of remembering to brush his hair on most days.”

Copeland threw up his hands, nearly tipping over a stack of books on the desk. “I have no idea. Maybe America's building ships for England. Maybe we've captured a German ship. Apparently he found something. Sometime later, Max was found by his maid, hung with a noose fashioned from his own necktie. His room was a wreck.” Copeland looked at him intently. “And now the police don't know if it was suicide or murder. Arnold might have wanted to take matters into his own hands—as he did the other night after the Spee Club incident.”

Wils ran his hands through his hair. “Arnold a murderer? It just doesn't make sense. It was a schoolboys' fight. And Arnold's a fool, but much more of a village idiot than a schemer.”

“Don't underestimate him, Wils. He's not an idiot. He's the son of a very powerful local politician who wants to run for higher office. His father holds City Hall in his pocket.”

“Are you speaking of Boston City Hall?”

“Yes.”

“I could care less about some martinet from Boston. I'm related to half the monarchs in Europe.” Wils sneered.

“City Hall has more power over you right now than some king in a faraway land,” said Copeland. “Arresting another German, maybe stopping a German spy ring—that would be exactly the thing that could get a man like Charles Archer elected to Congress. I'd recommend you cooperate with City Hall on any investigation into Max's death. If you have information, you will need to share it.”

“If Arnold killed Max—” He stopped, barely able to breathe. Max dead by Arnold's hand? Unthinkable. “Was there a note?”

“No, nothing. That's why the Boston police may arrest Archer even if his father does run City Hall. Either it was a suicide and it won't happen again, or perhaps we need to warn our German students about…a problem.” Copeland's fingers brushed the edge of his desk. “That was the point of my summoning you here now. It could've been suicide. Therefore, the police want to talk with you before innocent people are accused, and I'd recommend you do it.”

But Wils had already taken the bait. “Innocent people? Arnold Archer? Is this a joke?” asked Wils.

“He may not be guilty.”

Wils paused. “I'm not sure how much money his father's giving Harvard, but it had better be a lot.”

“That's most uncharitable!”

“And so is the possible murder of a decent human! Where's Professor Francke? I'd like to speak with him. He is a great German leader here on campus whom everyone respects. He'll know how to advise me.”

“You are right. Professor Francke is a moderate, respected voice of reason. But he's German and the police questioned him this morning. He is cooperating. His ties to the kaiser have naturally brought him under suspicion. City Hall thinks he could be a ringleader of a band of German spies. The dean of students asked me to speak with you and a few others prior to your discussions with the police. They should contact you shortly regarding this unpleasantness.”

“If that is all—” Wils bowed his head to leave, anger rising in his throat from the injustice of what he'd heard. First murder and now harassment were being committed against his countrymen, and somehow they were to blame for it? Not possible. Professor Francke was one of the most generous and beloved professors at Harvard. Max was a harmless soul.

“Wils, you had said you wished to ask me about something.”

Wils thought back to his mother's telegram. Perhaps she'd been right to demand his return after all. He looked up at Copeland, sitting under an image of an old Spanish peasant. He seemed to have shrunk in his large desk chair.

“No, Professor. Nothing at all. Good day.”

Copeland didn't rise as Wils turned to enter the dimly lit hallway. As his eyes adjusted, a famous poem Copeland had taught him in class—Matthew Arnold's “Dover Beach”—came to him. Wils turned back to his teacher and said:

“For the world, which seems

To lie before us like a land of dreams,

So various, so beautiful, so new,

Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;

And we are here as on a darkling plain—”

Copeland brightened. “‘Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, where ignorant armies clash by night,'” they finished together. Wils nodded, unable to speak further.

“Matthew Arnold has his moments. Do take care, Wils. Stay alert. I am concerned about you and want you to be safe. The world is becoming darker just now. Your intellectual light is one worth preserving. Now please close the door from the outside.” Copeland looked down again, and the interview was over.

* * *

The rain had driven the students inside their dormitories and flooded the walkways in Harvard Yard. As Wils left Hollis Hall, he removed his tie and pushed it into his pocket.
The damned Americans talk brotherhood
, he thought,
but if you're from the wrong side of Europe you're no brother to them
.

Max
dead. Arnold Archer under suspicion. And what was all of that ridiculous nonsense about the Charlestown Navy Yard
, he wondered, deep in thought, nearly walking into a large blue mailbox. He crossed the busy street and walked toward his room in Beck Hall.

In his mind, he saw Max trading barbs at the dinner table and laughing at the jests of Wils's roommate, Riley, an inveterate prankster. And how happy Max had been when Felicity, his girlfriend from Radcliffe College, had agreed to go with him to a dance. But he'd been utterly heartbroken when she deserted him last year for a senior. This past summer Wils and Max had walked along the banks of the Baltic, when they were back in Europe for summer vacation. He said he would never get over her and he never really had. So what had happened to him?

Anger at the injustice of Max's death welled up inside Wils as he opened the arched door of Beck Hall and walked quickly past Mr. Burton's desk. The housemaster didn't look up from his reading. Wils shut the door to his room behind him. His breath was short. His hands hadn't stopped trembling. He had to find Riley and discuss what to do about Arnold.

What was happening to his world? His beautiful, carefully built world was cracking. Germany and Britain at war? Max dead? Professor Francke hauled in and questioned?

Wils felt a strange fury welling up inside of him. He wanted something to hurt as badly as he did. He picked up a porcelain vase and hurled it against the brick fireplace. It crashed and shattered, the blue-and-white shards scattering over the crimson rug.

Concord, Massachusetts

Saturday, August 29, 1914

Colonel William Buttrick Darlington, Harvard class of 1863, was a tall, thin man in his early seventies. He had a shock of gray hair brushed across his forehead and a fine nose—one that Cleopatra herself would have envied. He had never been known to voice a single immoderate sentiment in his entire life. In fact, since he married the talkative Mrs. Darlington, he'd not managed to be heard on many subjects at all.

But his money spoke for him. He owned the largest private estate on the banks of the Concord River, which stretched for more than five acres on either side of the water and encompassed a large wood, a greenhouse, a gazebo, a park, a garage filled with elegant cars, a boathouse, and a large redbrick mansion.

The manse, Bertram Hall, was a three-story affair built in a late Georgian style. It defied the Concord standard set by none other than Ralph Waldo Emerson, whose own manse was a modest two-floor, foursquare home. If that humble house design had been good enough for the founder of the transcendentalist movement, it was good enough for everyone else, or so thought Concordians.

To make matters worse, the Darlingtons topped their mansion with a white cupola and a bright polished weather vane shaped like a clipper ship. The design was practically stolen from the church in the town's square. The tip of the weather vane was rumored to stand six inches higher than the church's thin white spire.

Concord was well aware that the Darlington family had built its fortune in shipping during the Napoleonic wars, and neither that nor their ostentatious residence endeared them to the town. One hundred years later, they remained one of the richest families of New England society, the trust having survived a century of bankers, teachers, preachers, gadabouts, spendthrifts, and Harvard graduates.

New England, however, had not reached its final verdict on the Darlingtons. Rumors of Tory sympathies from their English roots lingered, even over a century after the Revolution. The Darlingtons countered by marrying a lost branch of Concord's famed Buttrick family, whose forefathers' known contempt for the likes of the Darlingtons had shone true on April 19, 1775. Major John Buttrick had stood at the forefront of battle at the Old North Bridge and helped turn the Redcoats, and those who sympathized with their tyrannical plans, back to Boston to run them out of the countryside. Bostonians felt no marriage could change history.

The family then placed a bronze statue of George Washington on their front lawn back in 1850. Neighbors felt the Darlingtons, in their desire to be accepted, were incapable of understanding the very basic tenets of New England society. One could and should have substantial wealth in the bank, but never in sight of one's neighbors. The practice of Yankee Thrift was practically a religion in these parts. Garish statues of people from Virginia, even one of the founding fathers, only made things worse, especially after the Civil War. These were the best days of the American Republic after all, not the last days of Rome.

The colonel had served with some distinction in the Union army, unlike many of his neighbors who hired men to go in their place. These acts did little to mollify the neighbors. The Puritans had been able to pick out a Tory in their midst several generations before the upstart Darlingtons had even landed.

Thus, when the ladies of the Equal Suffrage Society asked the Darlingtons to support the 1914 women's voting rights movement with a dance at the estate, the family accepted with alacrity. It was widely believed that they were in no position to refuse, especially after their disgraceful conduct during the War of 1812 when it was rumored they had shipped goods for the dreadful British again.

As a result, on the last Saturday in August, Colonel Darlington and his wife opened their home to raise money for women's suffrage at the last dance of the summer. The banks were bursting with money, real estate values had risen with the outbreak of war in Europe, and farmers predicted a bountiful harvest. The burghers of Boston were rich, and the ladies of the Equal Suffrage Society knew it. It was time to fleece the flock.

The dance that night was an elegant affair. Japanese lanterns glowed a mellow orange all along the driveway to the mansion. Servants assembled trays of delicacies on the closely cropped grounds by the kitchen. Smoke from spits roasting lamb and beef drifted lazily in the air. Boys cranked ice cream machines under bunting-hung windows. Young women in white pinafores carried silver trays stacked with pastries into the house. Children ran across the lawn in a pack, carrying sparklers toward the bright white lattice gazebo, which stood at the edge of the Concord River. In spite of their misgivings, all of Boston's top society had turned out this evening for such a party, crowding the receiving line by the time seventeen-year-old Helen Windship Brooks and her parents reached their hosts.

Helen was a slender girl with a pretty smile, large blue eyes, and a sharp tongue. Boston attributed her spirited opinions to her mother's side, which had produced generations of unflinchingly frank women who seemed to live forever. Her charm and steadfastness were attributed to her father's family, which had produced generations of men bred to withstand the onslaught of Windship-like women. Brooks men tended to live only into their early sixties.

On that cool August evening, Helen stood prettily by both of her parents in the receiving line at the Darlington mansion. Like most of the unmarried girls there, she wore a simple dress of white silk. Her adornment was a matching white silk purse and a white satin ribbon wrapped around her dark hair, worn tonight in a severe knot. Mr. Brooks insisted that Boston encouraged and approved of this temperate style. She thought it made her look like George Washington and that Boston approved because Boston didn't change, not even for war.

And there was little hope of Boston changing now. She looked down the receiving line. No one even seemed to notice there was a war going on. Men in black or white jackets and two-quart hats stood talking in a circle. The ladies were dressed in immaculate silk gowns in the colors of the Boston fashion season: white and gray, brown and black—the colors for every season, at least as far back as Helen could remember. And if anyone wished to peacock, she could expatriate to New York. That was how they'd lost Aunt Adèle.

Colonel Darlington stood erect on the red-carpet dais at the top of a set of wide, polished steps, his eyes smiling as he greeted them. Standing beside him was his wife, Bertha, dressed in reliable Boston brown. She was a good Christian woman, prone to gossip, and when she smiled, her penciled eyebrows nearly reached her hairline. Above her was a sign that read
Rights for women, Boston's other poor, downtrodden majority
.

The colonel kissed her mother's gloved hand. “Enchanted, Mrs. Brooks—”

“Merriam Brooks! Have you heard the good news?” interrupted Mrs. Darlington. “Frank Adams and Caroline Peabody are to marry!”

Helen stiffened as her mother nodded, pretending to care.

“And I see you've brought Helen!” Mrs. Darlington's eyebrows cocked. She placed her fleshy hand on Helen's upper arm. “Helen, I won't mention the fact that you're not engaged, but Robert Brown is here and available to dance.” Her pink cheeks looked like tiny polished crab apples. Helen turned to see that her mother and father had been accosted by another couple, abandoning her in the receiving line.

Helen felt her face go hot. “Thank you,” she said, looking down at the edge of her white slippers.

Mrs. Darlington's hand tightened on Helen's arm. “I hope you'll return for the Harvest Festival next Saturday. We'll have an event to raise money for voting rights. We're having young ladies get in a motorcar and race, and your mother said you'd volunteer to drive.”

Helen blanched. “I'm not sure I'd like to do that, Mrs. Darlington. I don't know how to drive.”

“Nonsense, Helen,” Mrs. Darlington replied. “I'm surprised she didn't tell you herself. It will be good for you.” Mrs. Darlington nodded and elaborated on this plan and others that might be of use in procuring a husband under circumstances that were, she sighed, not ideal. Mrs. Darlington whispered, “If the newspapers had not made such a fuss over your mother's arrest last week, and if your mother would stop talking about”—Mrs. Darlington blushed—“you-know-what, then things could return to normal and you could once again look for a husband.”

Helen's heart sank as she walked into the mahogany-paneled ballroom. She had an idea about what everyone assembled there might be thinking. Namely, that her mother, recently jailed for distributing information and actual devices for family limitation by mail, was too busy solving the world's problems to properly raise her daughter.

A few might also affirm that it was understandable, given the circumstances, that Frank Adams would choose to marry Caroline instead of her. This Helen knew to be entirely unfair. The sins of the mother were now on her child as well.

But no news of war halfway around the world would change the fact that here, in Middlesex County, Helen's future was bleak.

Helen sniffed.
Things must be better in more sensible areas of the country—maybe Nebraska or Iowa
, she thought.

Athens on a hill. Indeed.

* * *

Helen watched her mother, a humorless woman with a hawklike nose, walk over to the head table to help count the contributions. They hadn't discussed next week's festival, whom Helen was to marry, or Helen's general state of mind. And they'd most certainly not spoken of the unpleasantness during the past week.

In truth, Helen had barely seen her mother since March. Mrs. Brooks had spent the summer with Margaret Sanger in New York to learn how to provide health care for the women of the tenements. There she wrote, published, and distributed information about preventing pregnancy, tracts intended for the poor of New York's Lower East Side. The federal government had recently indicted both women and several of their friends under the Comstock Act for violating postal obscenity laws. This had prompted Helen's father to demand his wife's return to Boston while she awaited trial. But as soon as Merriam returned to Boston, she began to mail this type of information from their parlor, leading to a second arrest on the steps of Boston City Hall for violation of the state's postal obscenity laws. This time the news made the pages of the
Boston
Evening
Transcript
. Only the eruption of war in Europe had been able to push it off the front pages.

Helen wished they could just leave the dance. The people might look elegant, but they lacked any semblance of grace. At least, toward her.

She watched her mother, clad in a gray silk dress that nearly matched her lips, stand at the contributions table with the proud air of a woman used to carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.

Helen's father, Jonathan Brooks, on the other hand, who rarely carried more than the weight of a good history book in his hands, looked longingly in a different direction, toward a group of his friends standing by the drinks. He shifted restlessly in his starched collar and black jacket and looked as if he were a bit embarrassed by the entire evening. He had made the case just that morning that he preferred to sit in his study with a new book,
The
Mechanics
of
the
Horseless
Carriage
.

It wasn't, Helen knew, that her father was against merriment. It was just that he had all the friends he needed and didn't think he'd like anyone he'd not yet met. She, on the other hand, liked very few of the people she'd met and looked forward to meeting new ones at college in the fall.

Helen glanced farther around the room. Caroline and Frank, the newly engaged, stood nearby in a circle of admirers close to the musicians. Not far away, in the corner, she spied her longtime friend, the broad-shouldered, dark-eyed Robert Brown, nodding while escorting a great-aunt to a seat near the window. He could not stand dances, she knew, and he had told her he'd been mortified by his mother's interference regarding their future prospects together. Not that his protests mattered.

“Father,” asked Helen, as he stood beside her at the edge of the ballroom, “don't you think it's a bit untoward to have a celebration like this when the world is in such peril? The British are being blown up and here we are at a party.”

Her father opened his mouth, only to think better of it and shut it quickly. His eyes dulled. “Helen, try to imagine yourself having a good time. That's what I am doing.”

“Perhaps we could leave?”

“I tried to negotiate that into the agreement I made with your mother this morning. We must stay. The ties that bind and all.” But his weary face, with its widening whiskers and graying hair, spoke what he wouldn't say aloud.

They stood in bored silence for a good ten minutes, watching the scene before them. When a person came by to greet them, Mr. Brooks would give a nice smile and engage in brief small talk about the weather or how Harvard, his own alma mater, was predicted to do in the annual football game against Yale. In those short exchanges Helen would dutifully nod in feigned interest, feeling each time as if she were a hypocrite. None of these people had paid a call on their family since her mother's arrest, and several had been too busy with other things to even inquire as to how they were managing. She especially had a hard time even choking out words of greeting to Mrs. Peabody, who had been exceptionally vocal at church in her concern for community decency standards.

About the time Helen had become convinced that the evening was to be borne in silence, Robert Brown walked to her side. He'd been dismissed by the great-aunt, who was now talking with the couple du jour, Caroline Peabody and Frank Adams.

As Mr. Brooks hailed a waiter with a tray of scotch whiskeys, Robert bowed to Helen. Except for their eyes, they could have been cousins. Outsiders had, at times, mistaken them for brother and sister, given their similar coloring, height, and demeanor.