Silent Witnesses Read online

  I pushed my notes back into my briefcase. 'He doesn't need provocation. He will kill again very soon. He's hungry for it.'

  The Fourth Victim

  21

  For three weeks, we made very little progress. McCurley’s men completed the list of Ms Munro’s clients, but none of the names rang a bell. Georgie helped identify most of the tenants of the boathouses by the Glass Works, but they were all fishermen, or members of a small rower’s club. Not one of all those people had a connection to Harvard Medical School.

  And I spent my time investigating the disappearance of Hattie’s diary, because we couldn’t be sure that Uriel had indeed taken my portraits. Neither McCurley nor I thought it a good idea to travel to Cape Cod, because that would reveal that he and I were cooperating, that the police knew more about the murderer than they should.

  It would foil our plans for a trap.

  McCurley should be able to masquerade as a client and visit Uriel in his office without the murderer’s notice — if, in fact, the murderer wasn’t Uriel — but he would have to wait for Uriel’s return from Cape Cod. Until then, we had to explore all the other possibilities.

  Every day I anxiously awaited the morning mail — one part of me dreading a message from McCurley telling me about a new victim, and the other — a small and dark part of me — hoping a strangled body would be found before Uriel returned.

  But there was no victim and no Uriel.

  McCurley had contacted the Cape Cod police and was able to confirm that Uriel arrived with his wife and two children for an extended holiday. His brother-in-law had accompanied them with his wife and child. Warren had also confirmed all this with Uriel’s housekeeper.

  Waiting was maddening. I wanted to take a train to Uriel, shake him, and demand answers. Unfortunately, that wasn’t how an investigation worked.

  ‘You can’t wear this!’ Hattie squeaked, pulling me from my thoughts.

  ‘My goal is not to socialise or be seen.’ I hung the black gown back into the wardrobe.

  ‘Well, I don’t care. You’ll be among my people, as my friend and physician, and I don’t want half the town talking about you. I’ll send over my tailor with one of my gowns. It won’t be the latest fashion, but at least it won’t be that.’ She waved at the shut wardrobe with horror.

  ‘I’m not at home tonight, as you well remember. In fact, you and I have to leave soon.’

  A grin spread across her face. ‘Even better! We’ll ask mother’s tailor to fit a gown for you.’

  * * *

  I survived the gown fitting without so much as a small dent to my patience, and trailed Hattie down to the kitchens where the first deliveries for the ball were being made. I’d already met and talked to the coachmen Peck and Howe, as well as to Ms Brophy, who seemed eager to help because I was privy to her secret affair with Mr Towers. Regrettably, she knew nothing beyond the daily gossip that Miss Trattles and Miss Sowerby shared. The gap-toothed boys Billo and Alfie, who polished boots, honed kitchen knives and hatchets, and shovelled horse manure, were an entirely different matter. They’d read a well-thumbed detective novel once, and were eager to catch the culprit singlehandedly. Their wild speculations (‘Deductions, Ma’am! They are deductions!’) were amusing. The only bit of useful information they’d managed to provide was the correct name of the fruit grocer — a Mr Crow, not Cow. But I could have learned that from any of the maids.

  Mr Crow was just retreating through the backdoor when Hattie marched into the kitchens and called him back. Pretending not to eavesdrop as she asked him about fresh strawberries, I scanned his face for any familiarities, but found none. I hadn’t expected much else. A man who’d worked at Harvard Medical School wouldn’t end up a grocer, would he?

  Cold poured down my neck. Why had I not thought of it earlier? Had McCurley? The murderer didn’t necessarily have to be a medical man. He could as well be a janitor.

  ‘Are you quite all right, Liz? You are pale as a cheese.’ Concerned, Hattie touched my elbow.

  Shaking off the chill, I pulled myself together. ‘I need to send a message.’

  ‘You could use the telephone.’

  And have half the house hear what I would be yelling at it? No. ‘Billo or Alfie will do. And I need an envelope that I can seal.’

  Hattie raised her eyebrows, but complied with my wishes. A few moments later, my note was on its way to McCurley.

  * * *

  I kept wiping my hands on my gown, and Hattie kept frowning at me from wherever she stood. Only minutes ago, she’d instructed me how a lady had to hold her fan so as to not accidentally signal to all the men in the room that she was feeling flirtatious. But I couldn’t remember what precisely was supposed to attract male attention. The rapid opening and closing of the fan…or chucking it into one of the large vases by the windows? I let it dangle limply on my wrist until I found a statue in a far corner of the hall, and stuffed it between the wall and the marble buttocks of a mildly amused Adonis.

  One of the servants would surely find it and return it to Hattie.

  The place made me nervous. It felt like everything there was a museum piece. The corridors alone were so richly appointed, I dared not skid my shoes on the carpets. The walls were panelled with wood that shimmered a warm golden yellow. The stucco on the gently vaulted ceiling was gold leaf on turquoise. The many paintings went back to the 16th century. The people seemed to as well.

  But the great hall was…a picture of arrogance. I found no other word for it. The walls were covered with either gold leaf or silk tapestries. Several crystal chandeliers, each half as large as a horse carriage, were hung from the ceiling. I felt sorry for the maid who had to keep them dust free.

  As I made my way through the crowd, I caught snatches of conversations. One man with greying temples attempted to pull me into a discussion about the weather. ‘Isn’t Boston rain like a hundred shower baths? All the Englishmen I know insist they’d never seen real rain until they came to Boston.’

  ‘Probably,’ I replied, and pretended someone across the room wanted me. Which, in fact, was only half a lie.

  Warren was leaning against a pillar, arms crossed over his chest, and nodding at the three ladies who surrounded him. When he spotted me, his expression lit up. He excused himself and took me aside. ‘Please put a hole in my head. I can’t stand the torture,’ he groaned.

  ‘But it’s just started.’

  ‘As if I don’t know that.’ He exhaled loudly, then bumped my side with his elbow. ‘That’s my intended over there. What do you think?’

  A radiant girl of perhaps sixteen stared at us from the centre of the room. She was accompanied by an older woman. Probably her mother. ‘Hum. Pretty, I guess.’

  Warren guffawed. ‘Beautiful, rich, and the daughter of a very influential family. And very traditional family. You won’t find a women reformer among them. All they do is talk about raising money for furnishing newsboys with an extra pair of Sunday trousers, without ever donating anything themselves. The most progressive among them are board managers of charitable institutions. Which translates to Saturday afternoon tea spent with other rich women, who have nothing to do but gossip. Shall we dance?’

  ‘There’s no music. And I didn’t come to dance.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I remember. But look who honours us with his presence.’ Warren nodded to a young man strutting toward us.

  ‘Is that…’ Margaret? In men’s clothes again?

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good evening, my dear fellows.’ Margaret dipped her chin, and theatrically twirled a fake moustache.

  ‘Outrageous!’ Warren whispered, grinning. ‘I’m so glad you could sneak in. Be a good chap and lift my mod. Liz here has only one thing on her mind.’

  ‘Oh? And what might that thing be?’ She eyed me from head to toe, then proceeded to run her gaze over Warren’s attire. ‘Oh, I know what it is. It has crossed my mind once or twice. Its perfect shape…rather hard to come by these days.’

  Warren bl
inked. ‘What the deuce are you talking about?’

  She bent forward and whispered, ‘Your perfect behind of course. If I weren’t so interested in the fairer sex, I would have taken you to bed long ago.’

  Laughing, he boxed her chest. ‘That’s my boy!’

  Coughing, Margaret grabbed her ribcage.

  The two began to banter about the varying physical qualities of the men and women present, while I scanned the room for the Wray brothers. Warren — who knew what I was looking for — bent close to my ear and said, ‘You won’t miss them. They’ll be announced when they arrive.’

  Hattie pushed through the throng, beaming. ‘I’ve decided to write pieces for the Pud!’

  ‘The what?’ I asked.

  ‘The Hasty Pudding Club of Harvard College. It’s a literary club. They accept papers on the changing role of women in society. And I’m going to interview you first.’ She poked her fan at me.

  I shook my head. ‘I prefer privacy.’

  ‘No problem. I won’t publish your name.’ She winked with both eyes and grinned expectantly.

  ‘All right. As long as you keep my name out of it.’

  She produced a happy nod, and then caressed her stomach absentmindedly.

  My gaze dropped to her hands. ‘Is your uterus contracting?’

  ‘Elizabeth Arlington!’ she hissed. ‘Your manners are unbelievable! You can’t say that word in society!’

  ‘Dear God, my intended is approaching. Can someone please tell a joke? Or stage a kidnapping?’ Warren said.

  ‘You want me to kidnap your bride?’ Margaret perked up.

  ‘No. I want to be kidnapped,’ he said, keeping his voice low. And then to the approaching girl and her mother, ‘Dorothy, Mrs Auston, it is a pure pleasure to see you.’ He inclined his head, slipped his fingers around Dorothy’s and pulled her knuckles in for a kiss.

  Margaret, Hattie and I stared mutely at each other as Warren began to sweet-talk the two women. After a moment, he sauntered off with Dorothy. Mrs Auston remained and joined the staring contest.

  Everyone else seemed perfectly comfortable, but I felt like a foreign object. Sometimes I couldn’t help wondering why the Freaks wanted me for a friend. I didn’t fit into their social circles.

  Perhaps it was because I was a physician? Despite the progressiveness of the Bostonians, women doctors were still a curiosity, and hotly discussed in newspapers and drinking halls. Women like me even inspired stage plays and divorces.

  But then, Eliza and Margaret didn’t fit in either. They were performers, hot-blooded suffragettes, secretly married to each other, and partners in crime. The contrast between each and every one of us was stark. Where Margaret was dark and rather ill-mannered, Eliza was a fairy sprung directly from the woods with curly chestnut hair and grey-green eyes and a sprinkling of freckles perching high on her cheekbones. No one would suspect that she and her wife were flouting social conventions and getting away with it.

  Uriel was the Freaks’ cool mind, and Jerome our brute force. Margaret and Eliza were our passion, and Hattie was our heart. She poured affection over us like a hummingbird over a tulip tree. And perhaps all this was what made us the Freaks. Our differences brought us together.

  ‘Uhmpf.’ Warren sidled up to me. ‘I got rid of her. By the by, Uriel has returned.’

  ‘Is he here?’ I had a thousand questions for him.

  Warren shook his head. ‘Of course not. His housekeeper sent a boy over this evening with the message. Before the ball opened. I forgot to mention it. Gods, could someone please tell a joke? This…thing…is boring me to death.’ He threw out his arm, motioning at the hall and all his guests.

  ‘Ugh. Warren’s jokes. That’s where real boredom starts,’ muttered Margaret and strolled off to talk to a pretty lady who’d kept smiling at her from beneath a flower garland.

  ‘I’ll start. Then it’s your turn,’ Warren said, and sucked in a breath. ‘A newspaper reporter asks a woman: “Excuse me, Miss, do you believe that the American woman has any sense of humour?” She answers, “Your question has horribly tragic implications! Any woman attempting to answer it would suffer an immediate attack of nervous prostration. Ask me something easier.’”

  Hattie snickered.

  ‘Did that really happen?’ I asked, and got a nonplussed stare in return.

  ‘Err…’ Warren scratched his neck. ‘In fact, it did. But it doesn’t seem to be your kind of humour. Which is acceptable, I guess. Anyway. I have another one, about Germans. Shall I? All right. Here it is: A German roundsman says to an English policeman: “Why don’t you run in that man who’s creating the disturbance?” The policeman answers, “I’m afraid it could be the emperor travelling incognito.”

  I waited a few moments longer, but it seemed Warren was finished. ‘Was it supposed to be funny?’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘I admit, I never found it amusing, but I’ve been told that Germans find it hilarious. You grew up in Germany, so I assumed…’ He shrugged, and then his eyes lit up. ‘But here’s a really good one. Listen: Jasper says to Jumpuppe, “Nothing exceeds the insolence of the average German soldier. One time when I was in Berlin I saw a civilian riding a bicycle, and he bumped into an officer. The officer promptly drew his sword—“ Jumpuppe interrupts, “And killed him?” “No,” Jasper answers, “He punctured his bicycle tire.”’

  Hattie giggled. For Warren’s sake, I smile a bit.

  He threw up his hands. ‘Aw, dammit, Liz! You have no humour whatsoever.’

  ‘I do, but you wouldn’t understand it. People who work in the medical field have a very…dark sense of humour. Besides, one joke is all I know.’

  ‘Well,’ an elderly man pushed between Hattie and Warren. ‘Everyone knows the American people are noted for their keen sense of humour. But the women of our nation,’ he clicked his tongue, ‘…are entirely wanting.’ Grinning, he stuck his pipe between his teeth, and sauntered off.

  ‘That was funny,’ I said, pointing at the man’s back.

  ‘Let’s hear your dark medical-establishment joke,’ Warren said.

  I shook my head. ‘You would hate it. And I swear someone is going to be sick if I tell it.’

  That piqued Hattie’s interest. She smiled expectantly. Warren leant close to me and pressed through the side of his mouth, ‘I have to announce my engagement tonight. I need a good laugh. Don’t you see how desperate I am?’ He wiggled his fingers at his face.

  Hattie nodded until her perfectly coiffed curls bounced.

  I groaned. ‘You have all been warned. All right, here we go: Two lady post-mortem surgeons—’

  Warren nearly choked. Wide-eyed, he filled his lungs with two hasty gulps, and then burst out braying with laughter.

  ‘That’s a good one!’ Hattie squeaked with delight.

  ‘Actually, I was just getting at the funny part,’ I said, a little discomfited. ‘May I continue?’

  Hattie wiped away the tears that leaked from her eyes, and flapped a hand at me to go on.

  ‘Two lady post-mortem surgeons are performing an autopsy.’

  Subdued laughter ensued.

  ‘The first post-mortem surgeon says, “Do you remember that fellow from yesterday?” “Of course I do,” says the second. “Strangely enough,” the first post-mortem surgeon says, “His prick reminded me of a gherkin.” “Oh, really? Because it was greenish and wrinkly?” “No — because it was sour.”’

  As soon as the word “prick” fell, Hattie blushed a fiery red. But when I got to “sour” she turned several shades of green and white. She clapped a hand to her mouth and burped softly.

  Shrugging, I looked up at Warren in an I told you so fashion.

  He stared at me. ‘That was disgusting, Liz.’

  ‘Did I miss something?’ Margaret had reappeared, her expression alight with curiosity.

  ‘No, you did not!’ hissed Hattie.

  Warren bumped my shoulder, and nodded toward Margaret, ‘There’s someone who’d enjoy that particular
joke.’ He looked up at the ceiling, and began to snicker. ‘Gherkin,’ he muttered, and then his shoulders shook. ‘Ew!’

  ‘I’ve had enough.’ Hattie turned and disappeared among the guests.

  ‘Now I have to hear it!’ Margaret said.

  ‘You tell her.’ I waved at Warren and followed Hattie. I hoped she wasn’t too upset with me.

  Behind me, Margaret and Warren guffawed. I looked back. He was grinning and wiping his eyes. She was covering her face with both hands, and rocking with laughter. I wasn’t sure if they were laughing about the joke, or about me believing it was hilarious. When I first heard it, I’d nearly died with laughter.

  I drifted through the crowd, not quite sure what I was looking for. A familiar face? A man who looked like he wanted to choke me, or one with a sign saying “I am the Railroad Strangler” attached to his back? The more time passed, the less certain I was about the usefulness of my endeavour.

  When, finally, Warren came up to me to tell me that the Lords Wray had arrived and would be announced shortly, I breathed a sigh of relief. I would take a look at them, and then go home.

  Warren moved us a little closer to his parents, near the entrance to the hall. His father was an imposing figure with a booming voice. A man who believed the world was his for the taking. His wife was a slender and beautiful woman. A mother who lived solely through her children, according to Hattie.

  ‘Is your mum happy you are actually attending your own bachelor’s ball?’ I asked.

  ‘My mom is completely beside herself. As you can well see.’

  I looked over at Mrs Amaury, who slid a hand through her husband’s elbow bend. ‘She looks rather…stone faced.’

  ‘She’s nervous. There is so much to go wrong with a son like me.’ Warren clicked his tongue.