Murder in the North End (18 page)

“No,” Will said, “but it’s a matter of some importance.”

“Sorry,” said the bartender as he stepped back to shut the door. “He’s busy.”

Pressing a hand to the door to keep it from closing, Nell said, “Tell him it has to do with an old friend of his, Colin Cook. Please. I think he’ll want to speak to us if he knows that.”

The bartender hesitated a moment, then shut and relocked the door. From inside came the sound of his retreating footsteps, then silence. Nell and Will waited. An ice cart rumbled past, and another cart bearing kegs bound for one of the many local saloons. From the next street over came the competing cries of a newsboy and a woman hawking fresh fish.

Just when Will was fixing to pound on the door again, it opened. “This way,” said the bartender as he ushered them inside. They followed him toward the rear of the pub, which was long and narrow, a clubby little haven lit by a row of pendant lamps over the bar. Nell breathed in the aromas of tobacco, bacon, and linseed oil.

The rear of the bar opened into a hallway, at the end of which, near a closed door, sat a strapping blond fellow reading a newspaper, a cup of coffee on a little table next to him.
A Viking in the big city
, Nell thought. He stood as they approached, his head nearly touching the ceiling, and appraised Nell and Will with the frankness of a cop—or a bodyguard. On his coat collar was a small gold and enamel badge featuring a shamrock overlaid with crossed swords and a little banner reading F.O.S.E.
Fraternal Order of the Sons of Erie.
Beneath his wool coat, Nell saw a bulge that could only have been a holstered pistol.

“This is them, Cormac,” the bartender said, and left.

“Off with your coat, then,” Cormac told Will. His accent was even denser than the bartender’s.

The command stunned Nell, but Will took it in stride, almost as if he’d expected it. He set his hat on the table, after displaying its interior to show it was empty, shucked his coat, and handed it over for inspection. Without being asked, he turned to show that there were no weapons hidden behind him, then propped each foot on the chair to raise his trouser legs. Cormac patted him down, returned the coat, and turned to Nell.

“He’ll want to see your reticule,” Will told her, “and the contents of your pockets, if you have any.” To the guard, he said, in a tone that brooked no argument, “And that’s all you get to see.”

Cormac searched Will’s eyes for about a second, sizing him up the way a man does when he’s trying to determine how much fight there might be in a potential adversay. Will met his gaze unflinchingly, with that predatory thrust to his jaw, his arms—much longer than Cormac’s despite the guard’s height and bulk—held in soldier-like readiness at his sides.

The guard nodded once and reached for Nell’s little needlepoint reticule, in which he poked around for a bit before handing it back. Nell had one hidden pocket in her voluminous skirt; she turned it inside out to show that it was empty.

“This door stays open,” Cormac said as he gave it a soft rap. “Your callers, sir.”

“Show them in, then,” came a deep-chested command that bore a subtle Irish lilt.

The guard ushered them into a darkly masculine enclave furnished in leather and mahogany that reminded Nell of August Hewitt’s private upstairs library, right down to the globe and the books. A polished banker’s desk stood near the back wall before a damask-draped window, but its chair was empty. The man they came to see, handsomely attired but for a napkin tucked under his chin, was seated instead at a marble-topped table laid out with the remains of a morning repast of eggs, bacon, scones, strawberries, jam, and tea. He had a massive head, not unlike Detective Cook’s, with neatly pomaded salt and pepper hair. 

O’Donagh stood as his gaze lit on Nell, pulling away the napkin and ducking his head with a genial smile she wouldn’t have expected, given what they’d had to go through to gain entrance to his private sanctum. She was immediately struck by the sheer, squared-off bulk of the man—not that he was heavyset, although he must have carried half again as much weight as Will. He was broad and thick-boned, with colossal shoulders housed in an exquisitely tailored coat, the lapel of which sported a little green and gold F.O.S.E. badge like that of his bodyguard.

“Miss Sweeney, is it?” O’Donagh said, wiping his hands on the napkin as he gestured for Nell and Will to join him at the table. “Any relation to Terence Sweeney from Oliver Street?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” Nell said as she lowered herself into the chair Will pulled out for her. “I’m from Cape Cod originally.”

“But you weren’t born there,” he said as he retook his seat, smoothing down his coat.

She shook her head. “I was born in Falcarragh in County Donegal. But I only lived there for a year before—”

“Aha!” He slapped the table, rattling the dishes and silverware. “I knew it. I can always tell a blossom that sprouted in the old country. There’s that intoxicating sparkle in the eyes, that blush of dawn upon the cheeks. Where on Cape Cod?”

“Oh. Um, Falmouth, mostly.”

“Falmouth. Falmouth... There’s a fella called...” He squinted across the room, drumming his giant fingers on the table. “Duncan. Duncan Sweeney. An associate of mine met him up at Charlestown State Prison a while back. He hails from Falmouth. You wouldn’t be kin to him, by any chance?”

Nell stared at O’Donagh, astounded that he’d so swiftly made the connection to her estranged husband—her very secret estranged husband—and at a loss as to how to respond.

Will came to her rescue. “Miss Sweeney was quite young when she left Falmouth.”

O’Donagh turned to Will, regarding him with a cool, assessing smile. “Doctor...” He slid a pair of spectacles onto his nose, lifted Will’s card from the table, and slid the spectacles off. “Hewitt. Of
the
Hewitts, I take it.”

“That is correct.”

The big man sat back to appraise them, the smile frozen in place, speculating, no doubt, on the relationship between the Irish-born Miss Sweeney and the scion of one of Boston’s most venerable old families.

“I serve as governess to the Hewitts,” Nell said. “Dr. Hewitt and I are looking into a situation involving a man whom we’re told is an old acquaintance of yours—Detective Colin Cook of the State Constabulary.”

“Cormac!” O’Donagh called.

The door swung open. “Yes, sir.”

“Have Paddy bring a pot of tea and a plate of scones for our guests.”

“Right away, sir.”

“Do you know Detective Cook?” O’Donagh asked.

“He’s a friend of mine,” Nell said. “Three nights ago, there was a murder at—”

“Yes,” O’Donagh said with a wave of his hand. “Johnny Cassidy. And now Colin has disappeared with Cassidy’s woman. Mary...”

“Molloy,” Nell said.

“Molloy.” O’Donagh nodded. “Not much happens in this neck of the woods that I don’t hear about, Miss Sweeney. And, of course, I’ve had a good many personal dealings with Johnny Cassidy, given that he acted as liaison between Mother Nabby and those with whom she had business arrangements, so his killing is of particular interest to me.”

As casually as she could, Nell said, “May I ask the nature of those business arrangements, Mr. O’Donagh?”

The big man gave her a forbearing smile. “A pretty lass may ask all sorts of things that others wouldn’t dare to, Miss Sweeney, but I’m afraid you shan’t find me very forthcoming on the subject. The activities of the Brotherhood are varied and complicated—and more importantly, prone to misinterpretation by those who think it a simple matter to see to the interests of the Irish in a hostile Brahmin enclave like Boston. Suffice it to say Mother and I share some ventures of mutual interest. Johnny facilitated those for her. He was her ‘legs,’ so to speak.” Turning to Will, he asked, “You ever seen his brother box?”

“Never had the opportunity, no. I understand he’s very good.”

“I wouldn’t bet against him, that’s for sure.”

Paddy, the red-headed bartender, delivered a tea tray and a plate of scones and left.

“I’m not responsible,” said O’Donagh as he poured tea for Nell and Will, and a refill for himself.

“I’m sorry?” Nell said.

“For Johnny’s death. I didn’t do it, and I didn’t order it done.” He stirred a dollop of honey into his tea and reached for a wedge of lemon. “Just wanted to get that out of the way.”

“Of course. So—”

“‘Looking into it,’” O’Donagh said as he squeezed the lemon into his cup. “What does that mean, precisely? You tryin’ to prove Colin didn’t do it?”

“Yes,” said Will.

“Who do you think did?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Nell said, “so that Detective Cook doesn’t end up hanging for a murder he didn’t commit.”

Will said, “Your friendship with Cook goes back to the old country, yes?”

O’Donagh nodded. “We were both Young Irelanders, fought side by side till they started rounding us up for deportation, then we took ship for Boston.”

Will said, “We know that Cook mined coal in Pennsylvania for a few years while you established the Sons of Erie here, and that when Cook came back to Boston, he worked for you.”

“He was my righthand man, saw to various aspects of the Brotherhood’s dealings.”

“Such as?” Nell asked. Will glanced at her, looking amused, but also perhaps a little impressed by her persistence.

O’Donagh’s smile was a bit tighter this time, a bit less indulgent. “Once again, Miss Sweeney, the Brotherhood’s interests are many and complex.”

She nodded and sat back, waiting. Will, bless him, knew better than to puncture the increasingly weighty silence.

O’Donagh smiled knowingly. “You learned this tactic from Colin, didn’t you? He used to say, ‘Ask a question, then keep your mouth shut and wait for the other fellow to give in and start talking. Most folks can’t bear to sit and look at each other with no words to fill the air.’ Well, I’m not most folks, Miss Sweeney, so I’m afraid you’ll have a long wait ahead of you if you choose to employ that strategy.”

She said, “Let me ask a simpler question, then, on the understanding that your answer will go no further than this room. The things Detective Cook did for you, were they by and large legal, or...?”

“If you know Colin, I think you know the answer to that question. Yes, Miss Sweeney, they were by and large legal—getting urchins off the streets, finding wharf jobs for the men and maidservice jobs for the women, feeding starving widows. The closest he ever came to the edge of the law was bracing the occasional landlord or boss.”

“Do you mind telling us why he left the Brotherhood to join the Police Department?” she asked.
I know he was disgusted with the road they were taking,
Shute had said,
the tactics, the payoffs.

“If you ask me, it all came down to Chloe.”

“His wife?” Will said.

“She wasn’t his wife then,” O’Donagh said. “She was Daniel Duffy’s wife.”

Nell and Will glanced at each other. “Daniel Duffy?” Nell said.

“He was in the Brotherhood, one of the original members who formed my inner circle—my ‘cabinet,’ you might say. Danny was smart as a whip, and the most likeable fellow you ever met—when he was sober. But he had a real love affair with the bottle, and it changed him, made him surly.”

“A mean drunk?” Will said.

“The meanest.” O’Donagh shook his head, looking genuinely somber. “Anyway, the long and the short of it is that Colin went to Danny’s place on Brotherhood business one evening and caught him beating up on Chloe. He knew it wasn’t the first time—we’d all seen the marks on her—but Danny was in a particularly vicious mood that night. I saw her afterward, and, well...it’s a wonder she lived through it, is all I can say. She might not have if Colin hadn’t put a bullet in Danny.”

“He killed him?” Will asked.

“Shot him, didn’t kill him. He hit him in the chest, but missed the heart. Said it was the only way to stop him. Soon as Danny could travel, we put him on a steamer headed for the west coast. Chloe petitioned for a divorce on the grounds of desertion. It was a legal nightmare, took years and cost her everything she had, but—”

“Years?”
Nell said. “It takes
years
to...?”

Will turned to look at her.

“Well, sure,” said O’Donagh. “Divorces are hard to come by in this state. This is a subject I know something about. Several times over the years, I’ve been called upon to...exercise my connections with certain judges on behalf of local Irishwomen whose husbands abused them and their children—or, in one case, left the wife for another woman.”

“These were Irish
Catholic
wives?” Nell asked.

“They knew they would never be able to remarry in the Church,” O’Donagh said, “and they knew they’d have to live with the stigma afterwards, but at least they’d have the legal right to keep these bastards...” He glanced contritely at Nell. “Sorry.”

“Not at all.”

“They’d have the right to keep their former husbands out of their homes. But it’s a long, torturous process, getting a Massachusetts court to grant a divorce decree—unless you’re a Lowell or an Abbot, I suppose, and have plenty of cash and influence to throw around. Otherwise, it’s hard enough even if both parties are agreeable, but if one of them fights it, or isn’t around to fight it, ‘specially the husband, it’s nigh unto impossible. Few of those women I tried to help were able to get a divorce decree.”