Murder, Sweet Murder, page 9
Mr Tileston regarded Rees solemnly. ‘I see you are a very progressive father; very progressive. Well, Miss Cheney will show you around. We would be delighted to admit your daughter to the school.’ He looked down at his desk. Rees and Lydia remained seated for a few more seconds, not realizing the interview had concluded.
‘Come this way,’ Miss Cheney said from the door.
They followed Miss Cheney down the hall to a classroom on the right and looked into a room filled with girls. Rees thought they were all younger than Jerusha, maybe eleven or twelve. The young woman at the front was teaching English grammar; the eyes of most of her pupils were glazed with boredom.
Miss Cheney moved on to another classroom. The students here were older, almost young ladies soon to graduate. This class was not a lecture but a discussion of something. When Jerusha peeked inside, they turned to glance at her curiously. Her cheeks flushing, she backed away.
‘The Tempest,’ Lydia remarked to Miss Cheney. ‘That seems advanced.’
Miss Cheney smiled. ‘We pride ourselves on fully educating the mothers of tomorrow.’
‘This is quite a large school,’ Rees commented.
‘There are other Reading Schools in Boston,’ Miss Cheney said with quiet pride. ‘When Mr Bingham first established his school for girls, he attracted the daughters of the finest families. Since the school has become a public school, we now also educate the children of tradesmen.’ She flicked a glance at Rees.
Did he look that much like a tradesman? He wondered if the word weaver was inscribed across his forehead.
They spent a few more minutes touring the school before taking their leave. Rees wasn’t sure what he had expected but it wasn’t this large brick structure. Lydia was frowning slightly. And Jerusha, as soon as they started down the steps, burst into noisy sobs.
‘What is the matter?’ Rees asked.
‘My clothes!’ Jerusha wept. ‘They are all wrong.’
Rees stared at her in shock. Until they arrived in Boston, he would have said she cared nothing for such fripperies. Lydia put her arm around Jerusha’s shoulders.
‘Come now. Dry your tears. By the time you attend this school, you will have many new gowns and other items,’ Lydia said reassuringly. ‘You know that. Why, the dressmaker is coming first thing tomorrow to fit you.’
Still weeping, Jerusha nodded.
‘I don’t understand,’ Rees said in puzzlement. ‘I think she looks lovely.’
Lydia threw him a glance as she urged her daughter toward the landau. ‘All of the young ladies were wearing newer, more fashionable gowns,’ she said. ‘Similar to those worn by Cordy. All pastels. And all cut in the new style.’
‘I see,’ Rees said. ‘I noticed they all wore shawls.’ He had paid scant attention to the girls, and now his focus was already moving forward to his next plan. ‘Did you remember to bring Mr Bustamonte’s address?’
‘I believe so.’ Lydia pulled a ragged paper from her reticule and handed it to him.
SEVENTEEN
After the landau carried Jerusha home, Rees gave Mr Bustamonte’s address to the coachman. He looked surprised but did not ask any questions. Rees understood the coachman’s concern when they arrived at the victim’s lodging.
He resided close to the wharves, in a poorer section of Boston where the buildings leaned over the narrow cobbled lanes and shaded them from any illumination by the sun. Although it was almost midday, the steps leading up to Roark’s home were almost invisible in the deep shadow.
The landlady, an enormously fat woman, directed them to the top floor and the garret on the right. She displayed no curiosity at all, and she did not ask any questions about their intent. When Rees pointed out they would not be able to enter, she handed them the key. Rees and Lydia began the long climb. The flights of stairs grew narrower and ever more rickety as they ascended and by the time they reached the top landing both of them were panting.
There were only two rooms here, one on either side of the stairs. The key afforded them access to the large room although Rees thought he could have probably pushed the flimsy door open with brute strength.
There was no fireplace to warm the space and it was very cold. A large bed and one broken chair equaled the sum total of the furniture. On one side, two clean shirts and a cloak were hung over the window. A welter of clothing took up the floor on the other half.
‘Two people are staying here,’ Lydia said as she looked around.
‘How do you figure?’ Rees asked.
‘One,’ she said, pointing to the window, ‘is neat. The other,’ and she pointed at the pile of clothing on the rough wooden boards, ‘is not.’
‘I see,’ Rees said. The difference was obvious now that Lydia had pointed it out.
‘Wasn’t Mr Bustamonte from the West Indies?’ Not waiting for Rees to respond, she went on. ‘Look at the clothing. Most of it is older, well-worn, and more appropriate for a warm climate. But the cloak is new.’
Rees looked in at the clothing on the floor and then at the cloak and saw that she was right. Very gingerly, Lydia began picking up the clothes and examining them. ‘Mr Bustamonte’s companion was another young man.’
‘I wonder if he is the one who followed me from the Painted Pig,’ Rees said.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ Lydia replied as she lifted a shirt between two gloved fingers.
‘Is he still staying here? Roark’s roommate, I mean.’
‘Probably.’
While Lydia finished sorting the clothing, Rees searched the rest of the room. Other than the apparel, and a set of wooden rosary beads draped across the chair back, there was nothing personal in here at all.
Roark, it appeared, had been murdered so soon after his arrival that he had not made an impression on his surroundings.
Rees and Lydia finally concluded there was nothing more to find. Locking the door behind them, they descended the stairs. Since the landlady was nowhere to be found, they left the key on the bottom step and went outside.
The landau parked in front had attracted attention and was surrounded by a crowd of mostly young boys. The coachman stood by the horses, shouting at the children to keep them away. And the tiger, a fairly young boy himself, had descended from his perch and was strutting around the vehicle. Guarding it, but also proudly displaying his position. When he saw Rees and Lydia come out, he quickly jumped up on the back. The coachman hurried around and opened the door. As Rees and Lydia crossed to the vehicle, and he offered her a hand to assist her inside, he looked around him. Behind the throng of young boys, and heading straight toward Rees, was the young man in the yellow jacket and buff breeches. Rees stared into the face of his pursuer from the night before.
Dropping Lydia’s hand, Rees pushed his way through the throng. But the young man, who saw Rees coming for him, turned and fled in the direction from which he’d come. Rees gave chase, hearing the hoots and hollers of the kids behind him.
Rees managed to keep the bright yellow coat in sight for several blocks, even as the fellow made a number of turns. But he was younger than Rees by far and he knew this neighborhood. Rees pursued him down an alley that opened onto a busy main street and realized, as he searched the mob around him, that the yellow jacket had disappeared. Rees walked up and down for several minutes, peering down one narrow street after another, but he could not find his quarry.
Rees looked around. He had arrived in a square near the waterfront and was standing in front of a very large building. He had no idea where he was. But this area was crowded with people, both men and women, passing in and out of the building in front of him. Rees knew Lydia’s family home was located near the State House; surely he could find someone to ask how to make his way back. He did not think he was too far away.
As he prepared to walk inside of the building, he heard someone calling his name. And when he turned, there was Lydia, waving at him from the landau. He hurried across the square to meet her.
‘What happened to you?’ she asked, at the same time flicking a glance at the coachman. Rees nodded slightly to show he understood.
‘I thought I saw someone I knew,’ he said vaguely. ‘How did you find me?’
‘Oh, we thought it was a safe bet you would end up here, at Faneuil Hall,’ Lydia said. ‘If your friend went inside, you would never have found him. It is a large market …’
Rees nodded. He was still breathless and, despite the cold, sweating like a running horse. When he finally caught up with that young man, who was quite clearly Roark’s roommate, he would have some choice words to say.
They arrived home just before one. Rees had barely enough time to wash his face and hands before descending to the dining room for the meal.
‘Where were you,’ Cordelia demanded of Lydia and Rees when they met on the stairs.
‘You know we went to the school—’ Lydia began.
‘Yes, and you deposited Jerusha on the doorstep like an unwanted baby,’ Cordelia said. ‘Where did you go, that you did not even want her with you?’
Rees hesitated as they reached the ground floor. Mrs Farrell was waiting for them and he did not want to discuss their investigation in her presence.
‘We took a drive past the residence of the murder victim,’ Lydia said.
‘Roark Bustamonte?’ Mrs Farrell asked. As Rees had feared, she was curious.
‘Yes,’ Lydia admitted.
‘What did you find?’ Cordelia asked eagerly.
‘Not a thing,’ Lydia said, shading the truth a little.
‘Did you find any connection to my father?’ Cordy persisted.
‘No,’ Lydia said. ‘That is still a mystery.’
‘Or anything that might direct you to Roark’s true murderer?’
‘Cordelia,’ Mrs Farrell murmured reprovingly.
Rees nodded. He also thought the girl was displaying an unhealthy relish for the seamier side of this investigation.
‘Nothing, as I told you,’ Lydia replied, turning a stern eye upon her sister.
‘We will have no more of this subject,’ Mrs Farrell said as they entered the dark-paneled dining room. ‘It is not a fitting topic for conversation in polite company and certainly not when one is eating.’
Cordelia went silent but the mutinous curve to her lips and her quick glance at Rees and her sister told them she would not let the matter rest.
Quietly they took their places at the table. After saying grace, Mrs Farrell began the luncheon conversation with an approved topic – the weather, by remarking on how cold it had been. Lydia made some innocuous response about the temperatures in Maine. Rees allowed his thoughts to drift. He had to speak to the young man in the yellow coat. That fellow knew something, of that Rees was certain. But it would be difficult to find him again. He might not return to his room, now that he had seen Rees and Lydia there. And if he changed his coat from the bright lemon to something more sober, Rees suspected he would not be able to pick the young man out of a crowd.
Tracking someone down in a town as large as Boston would be much more difficult than in a village in Maine, especially one in which Rees knew almost everyone.
But he did know someone here, he realized. The proprietor of the Painted Pig. That fellow might know something further. Or his wife. Or the little maid who’d been so helpful. Rees realized now that Lydia’s probing questions were niggling at him, prompting him to ponder some follow-up queries.
He was drawn out of his reverie by a sudden quiet. Returning to his surroundings, he realized Mrs Farrell and Lydia were staring at one another. Mrs Farrell looked angry and suspicious and Lydia’s tight lips and cool expression betrayed her stony defiance. He glanced at Cordelia. ‘My mother—’ she began.
‘I wish to know how you obtained Roark’s address,’ Mrs Farrell said. ‘Surely it is not a secret?’
‘Is Mr Bustamonte’s address a secret?’ Rees asked, raising his eyebrows at Mrs Farrell.
‘Well, no, but we asked you not to approach our friends.’
‘And we didn’t,’ Rees said. ‘Would any of them have known it anyway?’
‘We went to Uncle Julian,’ Lydia said. ‘As a member of the family, he is already involved.’
‘Did you suggest that?’ Mrs Farrell asked, turning on her daughter.
‘No, she did not. I thought of Uncle Julian,’ Lydia said. ‘I wanted to see him …’
‘He is not welcome in this house,’ Mrs Farrell said. ‘And neither is your brother, James. I had hoped not to address this with you. But their behavior has been so offensive I felt I had to forbid them from calling on us. I am very distressed that you felt it necessary to visit him. I ask that you not do so again.’
Lydia said nothing. But Rees knew, if Mrs Farrell expected her step-daughter to obey, she was mistaken in Lydia’s character.
The remainder of the meal passed in an uncomfortable silence.
EIGHTEEN
After the meal ended, Rees and Lydia convened with Jerusha and Cordelia in the nursery. Sharon was asleep, napping in her little bed. While Bridget put away toys and gathered the little girl’s dirty dishes, the others squeezed around the small table in the center of the room.
‘So, you spoke to Uncle Julian,’ Cordy said.
‘Yes,’ Lydia said. ‘We had to. No one else would tell us anything.’
‘And he gave you Mr Bustamonte’s address?’
‘Yes.’ Lydia exchanged a glance with Rees.
‘I didn’t realize he knew Mr Bustamonte,’ Cordy said thoughtfully.
‘Now I am more interested in the animus between your mother and Julian,’ Lydia said.
‘Mother and Father’s animus,’ Cordy corrected. ‘Well, you know Julian and my father have not been friendly for years. I’m not sure why. Another family story they keep from me,’ she added in a sulky voice.
‘What happened with James?’ Lydia brought her sister back to the topic.
‘I don’t know,’ Cordelia said. ‘Mother and Father kept the arguments out of my hearing. When he came home last time, they were all shouting at one another. I could certainly hear that. But they wouldn’t tell me what the quarreling was about. They treat me like a baby.’
‘Can you guess?’ Rees asked.
‘Something to do with his shipping.’ Cordelia tossed her head in annoyance. ‘Everything is about my father’s business.’
‘We don’t need to concern ourselves with that now,’ Lydia said, putting her hand on Cordy’s arm. ‘Perhaps, if I speak to your mother, she will confide the whole.’
‘I thought you would have discovered the murderer by now,’ Cordelia said angrily. ‘You are not even trying.’
As Rees stared at the girl in exasperation, Lydia said, ‘Be patient, Cordy. We only just arrived on Tuesday. These things take time.’
‘I think Roark’s friend, the one he traveled from the West Indies with, is the guilty man,’ Cordy said. ‘Did you ask Uncle Julian about him?’
‘We didn’t know he existed then,’ Rees said, wondering why Julian had not mentioned the connection.
‘But we will,’ Lydia promised. She glanced at Rees. ‘When we visit him again.’
As they left the nursery, Rees looked at the empty afternoon before him. The prospect of chatting with Mrs Farrell did not appeal. Turning to his wife, he asked, ‘What are you planning to do until dinner?’
She waited until they gained the privacy of Lydia’s bedroom until speaking. ‘Talk to Cook and the other servants,’ Lydia said. ‘You?’
‘I think I’ll walk down to the Painted Pig again,’ Rees said. ‘I hope to find someone who recognizes the description of either your father or Roark.’
‘I’ll accompany you,’ Lydia said, instantly changing her mind. ‘I want to see the tavern and the people there for myself.’
It was half-past three when they left the house and just after four when they reached the tavern. By then, the sun was setting, and the streets were dim with shadows. When Rees stepped inside the taproom, it was half full. Mostly men, but a few women sitting with their husbands. The proprietor stood behind the bar. He nodded in greeting, his china-blue eyes flicking toward Lydia before returning to Rees.
‘Back again,’ the tavern-keeper said as Rees approached him.
‘I’m looking for two men,’ he said. ‘I’m wondering if you know either one.’
The barkeep eyed Rees. ‘I didn’t look at the fellow that was shot. I told you that.’
‘I was wondering about an older man, probably older than you by ten years or so. Slim, reddish hair. Expensively dressed.’
Rees knew even before he finished speaking that the other man did not recognize the description.
‘Doesn’t sound familiar. He’s probably not a regular. And if he were well-dressed, he’d stick out like a sore thumb. Look around you.’
Rees glanced about. Every man in here was a working man, exactly as Julian had said. Bricklayers filmed with brick dust, a carpenter still in his leather apron, a minor clerk with grubby cuffs, even a few seamen.
‘What about a younger man?’ Lydia asked, leaning forward. ‘Yellow coat?’
The barkeep pondered. ‘I do remember seeing a yellow jacket. Tanned? Spanish-looking?’
‘Yes,’ Rees said. ‘He looks as though he might have some Spanish blood.’
‘Maybe,’ the tavern-keeper said slowly. ‘Wait a minute.’ He called over his wife and daughter. They closely resembled one another; both with dark hair and a slight build. Lydia quickly repeated the description.
‘Maybe,’ the wife said. ‘I do not recall a yellow jacket.’
‘He has blue eyes,’ Rees added.
Now the woman shook her head. ‘No, he does not sound like a regular.’
But the daughter, the young maid Rees had first met, blushed scarlet and nodded.
‘He’s been in a few times,’ she admitted, blushing more furiously still. ‘He was nice.’ Her parents stared at her, aghast. Rees guessed she had found the young man attractive.
‘Did you speak with him?’ Lydia asked.
‘Some.’
‘Did he tell you anything about himself?’
