Grace and Disgrace (17 page)

The Western Union Telegraph Company

RECEIVED at Medfield Station Depot   713 AM.

Eldredge returns tomorrow morning. He wires “Colin Allotrope born 1883. Parents unknown. Educated in Lowell convent. Graduated BC Highschool. Attends Boston College. Possible benefactor involved in upbringing.”

Eliza.
 

“Colin Allotrope is the illegitimate child,” Tuohay stated matter-of-factly.

“Yes, that’s him. I see you were following the same thread.” A smile curled around Frost’s pipe. “Interesting that the boy is the grand-nephew of the recently deceased Father Donnelly, yet he grew up in an orphanage not knowing his father or great uncle.”

“There is more of interest than just that.” Tuohay pocketed the telegram. “Tell me, how did you keep Sara quiet about your presence at the law firm? Surely she was aware.”

“She didn’t have a choice,” replied Frost. “This is an official inquiry by the Boston Police. We told her to keep her trap shut about my presence, or else she would be charged with hindering an investigation.”

Tuohay tapped his cane on the train floor. “You testified against Father Kearney, did you not?”

Frost groaned. “So now we’re gonna talk about
that
?”

“If you are going to
stay
, as you so convincingly have stated, I would like to know more about you as it relates to that case.”

“I was on the side of the
law
, Inspector Tuohay. Surely you understand that. At the time of the trial, Father Kearney was acting
against
the law, and so, I was
not
on his side. I am indifferent to the individual, as is any officer worth his salt. My concern is with the letter of the law.”

“Your belief was that Father Kearney was not in the right against the archbishop.”

“That, and more. He was not a perfect man or a perfect priest.”

“Do you care to elaborate?”

Frost frowned. “He was a whoremonger. There is
proof
of it—proof I discovered and brought to trial.”

Tuohay leaned back. “Proof, you say?”

“There were three prostitutes he was involved with—Miss Hart, who you are familiar with, Miss Dwyer, and Miss Lovelace. I do not mean to darken the halo you have placed above the late Father Kearney’s head, but that’s the truth. His character was flawed. Each of the young women testified on the stand against him, before God and man.”

“Worry not about darkening any so-called halo. My search, as you say, is for the truth. Where it takes me is where I will go.”

“Good. Then we have an understanding.”

“I suppose we do.” The conversation lapsed into silence for the remainder of the journey. Neither man attempted to rekindle it, and were lost in the depths of their own thoughts.

Upon arrival, Tuohay visited the telegram office as Frost smoked his pipe on the platform. A few minutes later the two departed together, finding themselves on the packed dirt of Bird Street. It was a widely traveled road budding with large, pleasantly-decorated buildings, increasingly fanciful towards the town common. A black hansom rested in wait nearby but Tuohay declined, saying he would prefer to walk. Picking up a local paper, he studied it for several minutes while Frost waited impatiently. The morning was brisk and cool, the sky a pale blue bespeaking of the cold spell the almanac had predicted.

“Shall we?” asked Tuohay, thrusting the paper under his arm.

“Where to, exactly?”

“To find Miss Hart. I would like to speak to her about Father Donnelly.”

“The late Father Donnelly.
Details
, Tuohay.”

Tuohay cast Frost a sidelong glance but said nothing. Continuing their sojourn, the men soon reached Foxboro common, the perimeter of which was dominated by two massive white churches.

“They drive like the devil’s on their tail,” remarked Frost, eyeing the traffic on the rotary before them. Carts thundered past with a clattering of hooves and rattling of wheels; more than one horse-and-buggy rounded the common at a break-neck pace.

“Silly trivialities for the less keen of mind,” remarked Tuohay.

“Keen or not, let’s make sure to give ‘em a wide berth,” said Frost, keeping a sharp eye on the road. “So where are we headin’?”

“I would say
that
location looks promising.” Tuohay pointed at a two story establishment, its front terrace filled with idling men. A large sign atop the terrace read in bright yellow lettering:
L.E Gray, News Dealer and Variety Store
.

“Short on tobacco?”

“Hardly. An educated guess tells me our man is right up there.”

Frost squinted. “And who’s our man?”

“Sergeant Michael McNamara.”

“You don’t say! The old bloodhound. He could pick up a track better than any man in uniform. What’s he got to do with Mary Hart?”

“I was told he is her current guardian.”

“I’ll be,” murmured Frost.

Tuohay turned to Frost. “How well do you know him?”

“We crossed paths a few times when he was a copper in Boston. That was years ago at the twilight of his career. Tough as nails, even then.” Frost squinted at the porch. “How do you know he’s up there?”

Tuohay stopped at the edge of the common where a well-traveled road ran between them and the variety store. “I do not
know
, inspector, I have
deduced
. The front porch of a popular variety store is declared the best spot for discussions of town importance among retired veterans, or so I am aware. And if McNamara is anything like I imagine him, his opinion is greatly valued by his peers and therefore his presence requested at such unofficial gatherings.”

“You are putting me on.” Frost pointed at Tuohay’s pocket. “The location of where to meet him is in the telegram you just received at the station.”

“Very good, Inspector Frost,” said Tuohay, a glint in his eye. “You are not so easily fooled.”

“A test?”

“A measurement.”

“Humph. Gotta get up earlier than that to pull one over on me,” said Frost.

The two men ascended the steps of the crowded porch, brushing past youths idling on the stairs. The smell of tobacco was thick in the air, and in the far corner a group of well-established men sat in lively conversation.

“I’ll be buggered,” said Frost, peering at the group. “There’s the old gunner himself. Still looks the same.”

“Care to introduce me?”

Frost frowned. “Not particularly.”

“Then I will save you the trouble.” Tuohay’s cane clapped against the porch floorboards as he approached the group of men.

Frost crossed his arms from where he watched, murmuring under his breath. “Might be you know something, McNamara. You’re always on the scent. And if anyone can get it out of you, it will be this here Inspector Tuohay. He’s a promis’n sort of fella, he is.” Frost’s gaze narrowed. “Promising indeed.”
 

Tuohay cut through the crowd briskly, his cane rattling against the floor. By the time he reached the group, the men on the porch had stilled to a quiet murmur.

“Forgive my interruption,” Tuohay began, bowing slightly. “I am looking for Mr. McNamara?”

“I am he,” a man with a grainy voice replied. The speaker was seated in a wicker chair, a long-stemmed pipe grasped in his thick fingers. A shock of white hair sprung from the top of a large, perfectly round head. A heavy white moustache and beard filled the man’s jaw, and his yellow teeth and wrinkled skin marked his age. But despite his advancement in years, he appeared surprisingly strong. Standing, his muscular frame was to be marveled at. “Who are you?”

“Inspector Jack Tuohay. Did you receive a telegram from my colleague this morning?”

“I did.” He looked Tuohay over appraisingly. “Scotland Yard, is it?”

“No, sir. Royal Irish Constabulary, out of Belfast. District Inspector, 2
nd
class.”

“Belfast? You don’t say.”

“If we could speak in private?”

McNamara nodded and led the way into the variety store. He had a considerable limp but did not use a cane. Tuohay and Frost followed, curious stares at their backs. McNamara brought them through the cramped aisles to a doorway. They entered a back room, wading through piles of old newspapers to a small table at the center.

“A recent injury?” Tuohay inquired to McNamara.

“Hmm? Oh, this damnable thing?” He stared at his leg in disdain. “An old war wound. You?”

“I have had mine nearly all my life,” Tuohay remarked. “Accident as a boy.”

McNamara grunted in response but made no further comment.

“Does he know what this is about?” Frost hissed to Tuohay.

“If he read the telegram from Eliza, yes.”

McNamara sat with his arms crossed. He peered at Frost for several moments.

“My name is Inspector Dennis Frost,” Frost said by way of introduction, “from the Boston police force. It’s me, Mac. Do you remember?”

“Hell, I remember!” McNamara said, a slight frown creasing his cracked lips. “Inspector Frost. So this is official business between the RIC and the Boston Police?”

Frost nodded. “That’s why I’m here. It’s on the up and up.”

“With you involved? I know how you forced those girls to lie on the stand.” McNamara stared at Frost and an uncomfortable silence fell between the two men.

“I apologize for the inconvenience,” Tuohay broke in, eyeing the exchange warily, “but we’re here to discuss a matter of some importance—”

“Are you a Catholic, Mr. Tuohay?”

Tuohay took a moment to answer. “Yes.”

“Practicing?”

“When I can.”

“When you can.” McNamara considered the words for a moment. “What side were you on in Northern Ireland? The Catholics? Or did you sympathize with the Orangemen?”

Tuohay frowned. “I was on the side of sanity. Reason. Law and order, simply put.”

McNamara stared at Tuohay with an even gaze. 

“We are here to speak with Miss Hart, who we have been told is in your care. Our questions involve the recent death of a priest named Father Robert Donnelly, and related matters.”

McNamara’s tone grew somber. “Aye, I heard about the death of the priest from Plymouth.” He leaned forward. “You here to ask questions about Father Aiden Kearney as well?”

“We are,” replied Tuohay. “You knew him?”

“Of course I knew him,” McNamara replied. He glanced at Frost and back again. “He served as pastor here in Foxboro for a period. He Christened my grandson. Best priest we ever had in this town, though his time here was short enough. He came back often to give his Irish Land League speeches, and I got to know ‘im well—in fact, I was his bodyguard up until a few months ago.” The last phrase was spoken with an edge of challenge to it.

Tuohay exhaled softly. “
Bodyguard
? Forgive me—providing protection at your age?” 

“Aye,” McNamara said, turning his glare to Frost. “From the likes of
him
.”

Frost coughed in surprise. “What do you mean, from the likes of me?”

McNamara glowered broadly. “Before the trial I took the job, mainly when Aiden travelled in public. And especially
during
the trial, once people knew who he was. He even had me up at Boston for a time. Father Aiden was a despised man, taking the archbishop to court.”

“But to the point of needing a bodyguard?” Tuohay’s doubt still lingered.

“I don’t think you rightly understand the devotion of the Catholic following in Boston,” said McNamara. “Bringing an archbishop to trial here is like putting King Edward on the stand in Britain. It ain’t done. It ain’t tolerated. As soon as word of the upcoming trial leaked, Aiden Kearney’s life was in danger, very
real
danger.”

“Not from me,” Frost protested.

“No, you were just a tool used to damage his character,” McNamara spat. “Bringing those poor young women to the stand, tellin’ ‘em to lie. I’ve got yer scent, Frost.”

Frost’s face flushed. “
Inspector
Frost, if it pleases you. And you overstep your bounds, Mac. Everything I did during that trial was legitimate. Those streetwalkers warmed Kearney’s bed, and when the time came, they sang their tunes. Weren’t no fault of mine that I was put on the job to get them to sing.”

“It was a setup,” McNamara growled. “I known your type, Frost. I known you did it for the money—”

“
Inspector
Frost, if you please. And that is a bold-faced lie—”

“
Enough
,” Tuohay interrupted. “Civility is necessary for us to proceed. Rest assured that the truth of the matter, whatever it may be, will come to light soon.”

“Not soon enough,” grumbled McNamara. “Not for Aiden Kearney, rest his soul.”

“Mr. McNamara, if I may,” Tuohay continued, “can we speak with Miss Hart?”

McNamara leaned back and crossed his arms. “You’re too late, inspector.”

“Too late?” Tuohay and Frost spoke at the same time.

“I was speaking to the
inspector
,” McNamara said to Frost. He turned to Tuohay. “She’s not here.”

Tuohay propped himself up with his cane. “Where is she, pray tell?”

“On a train to Plymouth for Father Donnelly’s wake and funeral. She was all broke up, poor lass.”

Frost shook his head, muttering, “A bloody wild goose chase, this is.”

Tuohay stood with a grimace. “When did she leave?”

“The better of an hour ago,” the old man answered, a rough humor in his voice. “Don’t fret, inspector. I already purchased us tickets.”

“You were supposed to look after her,” Frost said, accusation in his voice. “Just decided to let her go out on her own, is that the way of it? You realize she may be in danger?”

“I’m no fool,” McNamara replied darkly. “I sent Mr. Thayer with her. He’ll take care that nothing untoward happens.” McNamara eyed Frost closely. “Can’t say the same about you.”

“Who is this man, Thayer?” demanded Frost.

“He was one of Father Kearney’s lawyers during the trial,” said Tuohay. “He may not have the fondest memories of the alleged role you played with the prostitutes.”

“
Right
. That old sot.”

“Not McBarron,” McNamara growled, “the younger lawyer.”

“Ah, yes. The blonde one.” Frost shrugged. “I was just do’n my job, gentlemen. Aiden Kearney was in the wrong, and I proved it. I’m not out to make friends, just to expose the truth and see that justice is done.”

McNamara snorted with derision. “If you say so.” He pulled a faded-gold watch from the pocket of his breeches. “Our train departs in twenty minutes.” He looked up. “You may want to get yourself a ticket, Frost.”

“
Inspector
Frost, if it pleases you,” Frost said. “And I thought you bought us tickets.”

“
Us,
yes.” McNamara pulled two tickets from the same pocket as the watch. “Two tickets for Plymouth. Inspector Tuohay and I.”

“Bloody hell,” Frost growled, standing. He stalked off, muttering.

“After what I heard from Sara, I didn’t expect you to be working with the likes of him,” McNamara said, eyeing Tuohay with distrust.

“I cannot control another man’s actions,” Tuohay replied, “nor those of the Boston authorities, who have been graceful enough to assist in this endeavor.”

“Say it however you like, that man’s as crooked as they come.”

“You believe he paid the streetwalkers to lie on the stand, then. That Miss Hart and the others were forced to fabricate relations with Father Aiden Kearney in order to destroy his reputation during the trial, thereby ensuring the archbishop’s innocence.”

McNamara answered unhurriedly, his voice deliberate. “I knew Father Aiden Kearney for a long time, and would swear on my mother’s grave in favor of his integrity.” He walked to a nearby closet and pulled out a long, black trench coat and bowler cap. Sliding into the garments, he transformed from a surly shopkeeper to a rough-and-tumble gentleman. “But that man Frost, he’s another story. Done far worse than what you just mentioned. He’s as crooked as a dog’s hind leg, and smells the part too. Don’t get too cozy in the kennel with that one, inspector. I’ve tracked the likes of him my entire career.”

With that he stalked past Tuohay, his heavy gait reverberating off the thin floorboards.

*

The parish bell tolled under Plymouth’s gray sky, carrying the lonely call along the broken shoreline of marsh and silt to where Tuohay and his three companions toiled up a winding path. They paused at the resonating clang, eyeing the parish upon its desolate hill above.

“Not much of a church,” Frost announced, his words being carried away by the ocean wind as soon as they left his lips.

“A church need not be judged by its size,” McNamara returned gruffly. “God isn’t impressed by riches.”

“But I am sure He would appreciate
proximity
,” Frost muttered. “This parish is a mile out of town. We’ve been walking for nearly thirty minutes since disembarking from the train.”

“Not quite,” said Tuohay, gritting his teeth against the bitter wind. “More like a quarter mile.” Judging by the lack of pain, the walk was actually doing his leg some good.

Tuohay pulled the telegram he had sent to Eliza from his pocket, and her response. He had gotten word from her mere minutes before the train had left Foxboro station, and spent the last hour contemplating the words. The train itself had been a quiet business, with Frost purchasing a third class ticket and joining them in the carriage. The silent tension between Frost and McNamara had been enough to prevent the three of them from sitting together, and each had taken a separate seat and was left with his own thoughts until arrival.

The Western Union Telegraph Company

RECEIVED at Carriage House, Plymouth  922 AM.

Hope you pick up at 930. M.H. not in Foxboro. 934 train for Plymouth, arrive 1030. Destination is wake for the deceased priest. Meet. Be discreet.

Jack.

The Western Union Telegraph Company

RECEIVED at Foxboro Station Depot   933 AM.

I spotted a distraught M.H. disembarking from train with a gentleman five minutes ago. They hired a carriage.

Also. Stomach contents were empty.

Also. John sent telegram. He says.
“
Over the first obstacle. The hidden message was on the handkerchief. Second obstacle is a code. What is the significance of 52 or 53?” It has him stumped.

Eliza.

“What is the significance of fifty-two or fifty-three?” Tuohay murmured under his breath.

A one-horse carriage rattled past, startling him from his thoughts. The red curtains were drawn, concealing the passengers. The driver sat on his berth at the front, reigns in hand and a pipe jutting from his mouth. Tuohay’s gaze followed the progression of the carriage up the rising knoll.

At the top the church awaited, a lean and jagged affair of irregular slate and stone. The gray slabs of its frame rose like intertwined fingers, pressing together at the crest from which a lone bell tower projected.

The old parish overlooked a wide expanse of bogs to the west, a thin shore and steel-gray ocean to the east, and the distant rooftops of Plymouth to the north. The property itself was marked by undulating walls of moss-covered stone, the far end of which broke apart into gray specks. The fragments were revealed to be a collection of crooked tombstones, jutting like rotted teeth at various angles from the earth.

Leading to the summit was a well-worn cart track, peppered with sand and crabgrass. There were other pilgrims on foot as well, men and women draped in the black coats, capes, and gowns of mourning. Every few minutes a carriage rattled by on its way to the parish, adding to the mill of early attendees tramping across the grounds.