Grace and Disgrace (2 page)

Do with this information as you please, but I implore you to seriously consider it.

You were chosen for a reason.

I welcome you, in advance, to the chase.

Your Friend in Sympathy

Eldredge folded it up, following the original creases. “I have never seen anything quite like it. You are sure it is authentic and not a hoax?”

“That is my inclination, but truth be told, I am in the process of figuring that out right now, old boy.”

“Who has analyzed the letter so far?”

“Inspectors at the RIC in Belfast, who I shared it with. And a copy was furnished for Scotland Yard by the RIC.”

“Is there consensus on the existence of a code?”

“No. Simply a hunch on my part.”

Eldredge swelled with a look of importance. “I will take a closer look at it tonight. Is this why you are in search of Kip Crippen?”

“The primary reason, but we will speak of the details later,” said Tuohay. “For now, let’s focus on the interview.” He peered up an adjacent staircase. “Eliza’s telegram said to meet Miss Conall in the loft. That would be upstairs, I presume.”

“Ten years as a constable in Belfast has taught you much,” Eldredge said with a sidelong glance at Tuohay.

“District Inspector, 2
nd
class, to be specific,” Tuohay corrected.

“You could have been a doctor and avoided all of this, you know.”

“Yes, but medical school was not for me, as you should recall. And so here I am. To the top, then?” He motioned for Eldredge to lead the way.

The pine steps groaned as the men began their climb.

“Miss Conall,” Tuohay called, his voice rising up the stairs. They stopped for a moment to listen.

Eldredge shook his head. “No response. Odd.” He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Miss Conall, are you up there?”

Following Eldredge, Tuohay took his cane in hand and used the wall on his left to support his weight. Alighting onto the second level, the two looked upon a single hallway. It was crammed with offices, a framework of order constructed around the chaos of articles, files, and other odds and ends accumulated through lawyerly interests.

Eldredge led the way to an adjacent staircase. “This one must lead up to the loft.”

They ascended the stairs, at the crest of which a partial view of the gloom-ridden attic came into view. Open rafters hung threateningly low from the main joist, shadows hiding in the corners that the dying light could not reach. The fading breath of day entered through a broad window at the south of the room where an empty chair sat cockeyed from a neighboring desk. It was free of dust and appeared to be recently used. A scattering of papers littered the desk, a pair of wire rim glasses atop them. An open bottle of ginger beer stood stoically beside the papers.

Tuohay walked over to the desk with an unhurried step and raised the bottle to his nose. “Fresh. Recently opened.” He set the bottle down and inhaled slowly through his nose. “Do you…?”

“Smell the lingering scent of tobacco? Yes.”

“Spice tobacco. Perique.”

“A brand of pipe tobacco, yes,” Eldredge agreed.

Tuohay turned back to the desk. One of the papers revealed a title in eloquent cursive:
Essay for Admission. Adoration of the Magi in Religious Art: Restoration Practices of Oil on Canvas, Mural, and Stained Glass
.
Authored by Colin Allotrope
of
Great House, Trinitarians of Mary.

Several of the pages beneath it had edit marks over the original writing. Tuohay made a mental note of the author’s name.

“So, where is Miss Conall?” he inquired, his stare burning into room.

Eldredge bit his lip. “I cannot say. Do we have the correct time?”

As if in response to Eldredge’s question, the watery trickle of an out-of-key piano drifted from below.

“What is through there?” Tuohay asked, striding over to the center of the attic where a small, nearly hidden door stood ajar. The piano reverberated with surprising clarity beyond it.

“Storage, I believe,” Eldredge replied, stumbling after his tall companion. Despite his limp, Tuohay moved swiftly, his stiff leg orbiting from his hip fluidly for its condition. The thin tune grew louder as the door was pushed aside. Shadowed and strange shapes stood end upon end before the two men: old flower vases upon boxes upon desks without drawers, dusty cloth bags reduced to cheesecloth by hungry moths, old ice skates with rusty blades, faded portraits where only the artist’s signature could clearly be made out. All of this clutter Tuohay passed by until he came to a vent at the north end of the room. The ballad rose in volume and texture from the vent as if from the trumpet horn of a phonograph.

“Strange,” Tuohay remarked, peering at the dark vent. He turned to Eldredge. “Back down, I suppose. Let us see who our mysterious player is.”

Several minutes later the two men were on the first floor again, the melody pulling them along like a current. Tuohay led the march, his eyes riveted on the small doorway leading into an apparent drawing room. A plaque at the doorway displayed, “The Seymore M. Left Room” in brass lettering.

Stepping through, Tuohay immediately focused on the musician in the corner of the room. “Miss Conall?” he said.

The music died away as the young woman playing the piano turned on the stool to face the two men. “I did not think you were coming. It is a quarter past the hour.” Her voice was soft, the Celtic accent pronounced.

“Yes. Well, we decided to do some exploring first,” Tuohay replied.

She cocked an eyebrow. “Northern Ireland? Ardoyne?”

“Remarkable,” Tuohay said, his eyes widening with surprise. “Did you glean that from my accent?”

The woman laughed. “You were born and raised in Ardoyne as a young child, but sent to America by your mother for schooling. Spent most of your formidable years in Boston. Returned to Belfast to serve your homeland in the Royal Irish Constabulary for the last decade. Drawn to where the trouble is, it seems.” She smiled softly. “No, it was not your accent that gave you away. My uncle Aiden told me about you before he died. You are Jack Tuohay.”

“Yes,” said Tuohay, comprehension crossing his face, “of course. How very foolish me. Father Kearney was your uncle. He was a remarkable man, if I may be so bold.”

“A father figure?” she ventured. “Do not be surprised by my remark,” she continued softly, the smile fading. “He was a father figure to many.”

Silence spilled past her comment, and Eldredge made a small show of removing his hat. “Did you not hear us calling your name when we entered, Miss?”

“Sorry, no,” she said, her thoughts seeming to rush to the present. “I was in the back courtyard waiting for the bell to ring. I see you took the liberty of letting yourselves in.”

“Ah, yes.” Eldredge’s blushed as he bowed. “That was my fault.” Eldredge gathered himself. “I am Mr. John Eldredge, associate to this fine gentleman beside me. He recently returned from solving crimes in the darker sections of Belfast. We are at your service.”

The young woman sat unmoving. “Darker sections of Belfast, you say? And where may they be, pray tell?”

“Wherever you like them to be,” said Tuohay, “for the darkness exists in the hearts of men, not the streets they inhabit.” He took a moment to visually collect Sara Conall. She bore her age well enough, which was mid-thirties by all accounts. A delicate countenance with sharp features and a slim neck were the most admirable qualities. Dark auburn hair was pulled into a tight knot at the back of her head with a few strays dangling in slim curls about her eyes. They were tired eyes, emerald green with more moss than gemstone. She wore a fitted bodice of plain white, the front skirt hovering dangerously just above the ankles. Slender hands rested on her lap, fingers tapping lightly, no ring or other jewelry visible.

“Miss Conall, did you perchance leave anything in the attic before your flight downstairs?” Tuohay asked.

Sara shot Tuohay a curious look. “I was not upstairs. To be clear, I am not overly familiar with this building. My late uncle’s lawyers, Mr. McBarron and Mr. Thayer, generously suggested that I use it for this interview today, as it could afford privacy. They of course have been fully briefed in advance of this meeting.”

Tuohay looked closely at Sara. “So, you are alone here?”

“I let myself in with the key and have only been to this room and the back courtyard.”

“I see. The two lawyers, Mr. McBarron and Mr. Thayer, do they formally represent your interests?”

“With the recent death of my uncle, their representation has ceased save for certain kindnesses. They were
his
representatives.”

“Certain kindnesses, you say. Such as?”

“Such as guidance regarding this interview. They still have an interest in information pertaining to their late client.”

“Then why are they not present?”

“Mr. McBarron is both a very devout and very busy man, and despite his personal interest in the affair, it is no longer a professional concern. Mr. Thayer has actually stepped away from the practice, and only has a personal interest at this point as well.” She looked down at her hands. “I hear the name of the firm is to be changed to McBarron and Associates, after nearly a century as McBarronThayer. I do not believe there is any love lost among the two men.”

She raised her head. “Nonetheless, as I recall, your letter stated that you preferred to interview me unaccompanied about my late uncle. And so here we are.”

Eldredge cleared his throat. “My lady, was that John Paine’s
In Spring
that you were playing when we entered?”

“You know it?”

Eldredge chuckled with satisfaction. “The first American symphony? Of course I know it.”

“Eldredge here is quite the source of knowledge for the finer melodic achievements of the century,” Tuohay added.

“Is that so? Then perhaps you know this.”

Turning, she held her hands rigidly above the instrument as if waiting for the perfect moment to make contact, and then gently, almost invisibly, allowed her fingers to fall into a slow but beautifully flowing dance upon the thin keys. The lonesome melody filled the room like a weeping ghost, its cold arms shrouding the men with melancholy, transfixing them until its final refrain.

Sara set her hands upon her lap and regarded them patiently.

“
Easter Snow
,” said Eldredge. His voice was soft with reverence. “You play it very well.”

“From where I come, it is known as
While the Shepherd Watched His Flock
,” she said, smiling quietly.

“So it is,” said Tuohay.

The room grew dark, the last shred of day slipping from the windowpane into oblivion. Eldredge broke from his reverie to attend to it. A colorless light popped on, followed by a second, and Tuohay looked at the lamps Eldredge had ignited with distaste.

“You prefer the darkness?” Eldredge asked. “Truly you are not in opposition of such a wondrous device as a lamp that runs on electricity.”

“They say the world will run on electricity someday,” Sara remarked. “It is quite an astonishing thought.”

Tuohay shook his head. “Indeed it is. Electricity will run the world, but what will run the electricity?” He procured a slim metal case from his pocket, tapped it once on his palm, and caught the black cigarette. Sliding the canister back into his pocket, he looked about and frowned. “Usually there is a live flame available at these late hours. Another inconvenience of the great electric light.” Reaching into his back pocket, he retrieved a British match case and with deft fingers opened it, removed a match, and struck it. The cleft of his chin glowed orange as he raised the match to the cigarette in his lips. The aroma of cloves rose into the air.

“Medicinal or recreational?” Sara asked.

Tuohay gave Sara a sidelong glance. “Both, though I wonder at your interest.”

“I think it is a fair question,” she replied, a warm flicker in her eye.

“Indeed, Miss Conall. The mythical art of smoking, like many of the forbidden fruits of our society that appear fashionably continental, in reality becomes quite commonplace after a spell. Nothing intrigues a man more than that which is taboo, and nothing is more inadequate than finally experiencing the forbidden fruit and realizing it tastes no different than any other.”

Sara was unimpressed. “You seem to be an overly opinionated man.”

“A lame leg and defunct lungs force a necessity of careful thought upon me, which I occasionally delight in sharing with others.” He took a drag on the cigarette. “I cannot fancy my pain away, Miss Conall. So I talk. Does it displease you?”

“No.” Sara smoothed her dress with her hands. “But perhaps we should get to it.”

“Of course.” Tuohay motioned to Eldredge. “Three chairs, my good man. I am more than willing to assist you, of course.”

“No need,” Eldredge replied, sliding three chairs over from the unlit fireplace. They settled in, Tuohay turning his head with a slight groan. “John, please turn out at least one of those forsaken electric lights, if you will.”