Deadlier Than the Pen (13 page)

"Mother," Ben objected, "it would have been one thing to ask for her help, but -- "
"If she'd known there was no danger, she'd not have acted the same way."
Having voiced this irrefutable logic, Maggie turned her attention back to Diana. Her eerily cat-like eyes gleamed. "Did you scream? Did your breathing change?"
As Maggie peppered her with questions, Diana found she could no longer doubt the other woman's motive, even if she didn't approve of what she'd done. She supposed a good deal could be excused on the grounds of excessive zeal. Certainly there was genuine enthusiasm in the way the older woman talked about her work in progress. The writer in Diana responded to that. She did not entirely abandon her doubts about Maggie's sanity, but she did end up cooperating.
Wouldn't it have been easier to lock yourself in?" she asked, interrupting the flow of questions.
"I tried that. It didn't help. I suppose I was already too familiar with the place."
"You'd spent time in the crypt before?"
"Only once. That was a great disappointment, too. At the end of October, just before Ben left on tour, I was in there for hours one night, trying to evoke a spirit. Of course, I left the door open. I wanted the effect of the wind, but I quite lost my temper when my candles kept blowing out."
"Do you often rely upon real experiences?"
"Oh, dear me, no! I use legend and history for my inspiration. And I have an excellent imagination." Maggie tapped the side of her head. "On the other hand, I am not one to overlook the opportunity for first-hand observation when it walks in my door."
Diana's uneasiness returned. "I see."
Maggie's laugh had a surprisingly girlish lilt. "And I do love dreaming up new ways to kill people, and clever places to hide the bodies."

*Chapter Fourteen*
Ben had come home for luncheon. Belatedly, he and Diana sat down to a rushed meal. "I have to leave again soon. I have patients scheduled."
Diana barely listened to the excuse. She felt more comfortable about Maggie now, but she'd remembered an unsettling contradiction to do with Aaron. "Is Ernest gatekeeper?" she asked. "Does he stand by to open and close it?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Because he locked it after you brought me in, and he was nowhere in sight when I wanted to get out."
Ben finished his soup before he replied. "The day you arrived, Ernest's very presence meant Aaron had already returned. I told him to wait by the gate and lock up after everyone was in for the night." He glanced at his pocket watch and rose in haste. "I'm late. I have to go."
"Take me back with you. I'd like to see your office."
He shook his head, a rueful expression on his face. "This morning a lake is covering the pavement from Center Street to Essex Street. The snow machines have been out scraping the roads where there's just ice, but mud and water are another matter. Wait until tomorrow. I'd like you to see the city when she glistens like the queen she is."
"Logic works better than sorcery," she remarked.
His puzzled look made her wonder if he realized just how potent his brand of charm could be. Did he know women saw him on first acquaintance as an engaging rogue, even without the dark and mysterious aura he'd had as Damon Bathory?
She could only hope that the man she was now coming to know was the genuine Ben Northcote and not just another creation of a clever charlatan. That she'd once fallen for the false front presented by Evan Spaulding gave her reason to fear she might still be vulnerable to such tricks.
"I'll try to be back early," he said, stopping to kiss her cheek on his way out.
She caught his arm and tugged. When he halted, she reached up with both hands, seized his beard, and tugged until his lips were level with hers. Her kiss was a lover's, meant to last him through the afternoon and speed his journey back to her.
Once Ben had gone, Diana spent the rest of the afternoon working on her story for Horatio Foxe. At four, she gathered up a half-dozen sheets of foolscap covered with small, neat handwriting. To her surprise, writing the piece on Damon Bathory had gone well.
Because it was an account of an interview with a writer, she realized, not an expose. It was, in fact, exactly the sort of thing she'd told Foxe she wanted to write. Had it only been two weeks since that meeting in his office? Diana shook her head in amazement. So much had happened. There were times lately when her life in Manhattan seemed a distant memory.
"Diana? Are you there?" Maggie rapped loudly on Diana's door. Without waiting for an invitation, she invaded the bedroom, carrying Cedric the cat draped like a black shawl over one arm and a sheaf of papers in the other hand.
"Well," said Diana a half hour later. Words failed her. "Well."
Maggie had written a story about a runaway camel. She'd added vice and skullduggery and a touch of her trademark horror. It was a compelling, startling piece. Diana knew she could not have produced its like, not in a single day. Not, most likely, in a lifetime.
"You write well, too," Maggie told her, turning the last page of Diana's article. She had made herself comfortable on the bed, lying on her stomach, her chin propped on her fists and the cat curled up beside her. "I suppose this means you will be leaving us soon."
"I do have a job to go back to."
Maggie gave a short bark of laughter. "You might sound more enthusiastic about it!"
"The truth is that I do not like what my column has become."
"Then write something else."
"Easier said than done. There are nearly forty women who supply stories to New York newspapers. Only four -- Fannie Merrill, Viola Roseboro, Nell Nelson, and most recently and notably, Nellie Bly -- do anything but the women's pages and reviews, except for Middy Morgan, who writes livestock reports for the New York _Times_."
"Stunt girls," Maggie said with distaste.
"Yes. The four I mentioned are all employed by the _World_ and all four take dangerous risks to get their stories. You may have heard of Nellie Bly's adventures. She had herself committed to a mental institution in order to land her present position." Diana shuddered at the thought. At the other extreme was Elizabeth Bisland, also employed by the _World_. Miss Bisland, a young woman who'd left impeccable social connections behind in New Orleans, seemed content to write nothing but book reviews.
Diana and Maggie talked shop through supper. They had plenty of time for it. Once again Ben did not come home. Maggie received a message saying that he had another medical crisis but he sent no private word to Diana.
The evening passed with interminable slowness. Maggie had invited several friends to call. Diana supposed she meant to reveal her secret to them. She could not say for certain, since she was not asked to join them. She went to bed early and slept until the sound of a door closing woke her.
Ben. She was certain of it. His room was located just down the hall from her own. Feeling greatly daring, she got up and lit a lamp.
As penance for locking Diana in the crypt, Maggie had sent to town for a dressmaker. She'd taken measurements for new clothes and provided ready-made undergarments and a new nightgown to augment what Diana had purchased in New Haven. A scandalous amount of flesh showed through the filmy fabric.
Catching sight of herself in the mirror, Diana hesitated. She was wavering between reaching for the doorknob and returning to her bed when she heard a soft rapping sound. Curious, she pulled on a newly-acquired warm wool robe, opened her door a crack, and peered out into the hall.
Old Ernest stood in front of Ben's room. His whisper sounded eerie in the still darkness. "Miss Jenny's sent for you."
"Wake Joseph," Ben ordered.
"Already there," Ernest said.
"Is something wrong?" Clutching the lapels of the robe tighter, Diana stepped boldly out into the hall.
"Nothing that need concern you," Ben said bluntly. "It's after midnight. Go back to bed."
She stiffened. He ought to know by now that she did not take orders well. Since he was exerting not an iota of charm, she found it easy to defy him.
Unaware of her chagrin, or ignoring it, Ben hurried towards the stairwell. Maggie's door opened just after he'd passed by. Clad in a startling red-velvet wrapper that had been fashioned to resemble a monk's robe, she noted her son's rapid retreat, then turned to Diana. "Another emergency?"
"Something about a Miss Jenny?"
"Hmmm," said Maggie.
"Who is Miss Jenny?"
"Are you sure you want to know?" Maggie studied Diana's face so intently that the younger woman felt herself flush. "Well, why not? You're already privy to most of the rest of our secrets. When Ernest comes back inside, tell him I said to take you there." She retreated into her room.
Uncertainly, Diana stared at Maggie Northcote's closed door. No one in this family seemed capable of giving a direct answer to a simple question.
Maggie poked her head back out. "I've rung for Annie. She'll help you dress and go with you."
Prodded into action, Diana went in search of clothing. It was possible Maggie was using her for "research" again, but that concern was overshadowed by her own curiosity. What was Ben up to? She hadn't a doubt in the world that he was trying to hide something from her. Better to discover the worst, she decided, before she became any more involved with the man.
A short time later, Old Ernest settled Diana and Annie under a fur lap robe in the buggy. Blinking sleepily, Annie looked wary. When questioned, she claimed she had no idea who the mysterious "Miss Jenny" might be.
Ernest drove straight into Bangor, never slowing until he brought the horse to a halt in front of a large, white corner house set on a bank in a narrow lot. The pale beams of a gaslight showed Diana that it had a long ell connecting it to a shed and barn, outside of which sat a buckboard.
"That belongs to the Northcotes," Annie said.
Ernest spoke in a laconic drawl, the most garrulous Diana had ever heard him. "Miss Jenny's place. Second best whorehouse in Bangor."
"We shouldn't be here!" Annie grasped Diana's arm and tried to tug her back into the buggy.
Diana shook free. "Come along, Annie," she ordered. "Obviously, Ben does not intend to stay here long. If he did, he'd not have left the horses hitched to the wagon."
Hoping she was right, she marched up a long set of steps leading to a big front door and boldly used the knocker.
The woman who let them in was small and graceful, her hair coiled high on top of her head and a pair of gold bobs in her ears. Instead of the daring, garish costume Diana had expected to see, she wore a simple, tasteful evening gown. Before either of them could speak, a horrendous crash sounded overhead, followed by a shout of anger. The woman turned and ran towards the sound, leaving Diana and Annie to follow.
In spite of her concern for Ben, Diana could not help but be curious about the establishment. The first thing she noticed was that her surroundings were rather shabby. The second was the pervasive smell. Cigar smoke mingled with a variety of strong, clashing perfumes.
Diana passed an empty parlor on the left and a closed door to the right before getting a glimpse of the dining room. Each chair grouped around the table appeared to have a woman's name lettered across the back.
On the upper floor, where the stench of perfume was even stronger, one narrow hallway ran the length of the house. Six doors opened off it on each side. Diana found both Northcote brothers in the second room on the left.
"Joseph!" Annie gasped, just as Ben broke the hold Aaron had on a young man's throat. A woman dressed in nothing but her corset and drawers crouched in a corner, arms held protectively over her head. She was weeping piteously.
"Lord save us!" Annie ran to the gasping Joseph, adding to the confusion by flinging herself into his embrace.
Aaron stood still as a statue, a bewildered look on his face. Slowly, he turned to look at the crying woman. As if in sympathy, tears began to stream down his face. His sobs were more wrenching than hers.
Ben stared at Annie, then caught sight of Diana hovering in the doorway. "Clear everyone out, Jenny," he ordered in a chilling voice. "Everyone."
"Excitement's over," said the woman who'd admitted them. Her voice was pleasant but firm, and for such a dainty, diminutive person she had an air of command nearly as forceful as Ben's.
Diana took a closer look at her. Jenny was older than she'd first appeared, nearly Maggie's age. In a matter of minutes, she'd herded everyone but Ben and Aaron downstairs and into the kitchen.
"Coffee, Clarissa," Jenny said to the stout woman already there. Then the madam was gone again, taking the sobbing, half-dressed girl with her.
Diana accepted a cup of the hot, strong brew and studied Clarissa over its rim while Annie took Joseph off to the washroom in the adjoining ell to tend to his minor cuts and scrapes. The cook? Another prostitute? Both? "Does Dr. Northcote come here often?" she asked.
Clarissa's amused smile did not reassure Diana in the least. "Seen a lot of him over the years."
Trying not to stare, Diana studied the woman's profile. She had the oddest feeling that she'd met Clarissa before. Now past her prime, Clarissa must once have had a buxom sort of beauty. Suddenly Diana's impression of familiarity jelled. She _had_ seen that face before, or rather a younger version of it. Clarissa had posed for one of Aaron Northcote's paintings.
"You know Aaron, too," she said as Jenny returned to the kitchen. "Will you tell me -- "
Jenny cut her off in mid-question. "We don't discuss our gentlemen callers here. Not ever."
Annie reappeared, with Joseph behind her, just in time to hear this exchange. Indignant, she marched right up to the madam and stared her down. "That gentleman caller is mad as a March hare and ought to be locked up before he kills somebody."
"What are you talking about, Annie?" Diana demanded.
"Mr. Aaron's a madman. Everyone knows it."
"Sometimes he hears voices that ain't there," Clarissa said matter-of-factly. "They tell him to do things."
"Lord help us!" Annie gave a squeal. "He's possessed!"
"He's _sick._" As Diana stressed the word, she felt her stomach clench. She'd seen for herself that Aaron not only heard voices but answered them.
What Ben had told her in New York came back to her with haunting poignancy. Those who heard voices, he'd said, were locked up, kept away from all contact with sanity. That, he'd claimed, was the real path to madness, and he'd argued that physicians must search for a better solution, even for those individuals too deranged to be let loose on an unsuspecting community.
"He's dangerous," Annie insisted. "Why else would Dr. Northcote have Joseph watching him?"
"Is that your job, Joseph?" Diana asked the young man. He was a tall, lean, well-muscled fellow with a shock of yellow hair.
"Mostly, mum. At least since Mr. Aaron came back from Philadelphia."
"Don't you mean New York?"
"No, mum. That was later. It was last fall that Mr. Aaron followed his brother to Philadelphia. He got away from me twice after that, too, while Dr. Northcote was away. Gives his old mother fits, he does, him always flitting off somewhere on his own. But it wasn't till he jumped me and tied me up so he could go meet you at the Bangor House that Dr. Northcote insisted on keeping the gate locked."

Diana's heart sank. Something else Ben had kept from her. Aaron had not only been in New York, but Philadelphia, too. Where else? "Was he missing in January?"
"Yes, mum. Don't know where he got to that time. Dr. Northcote never saw him."
"He was in San Francisco," Diana said.
"He never was!" Everyone turned to look at Clarissa.
"How can you be so sure of that?" Diana asked.
Looking as if she regretted the outburst, Clarissa refused to meet Diana's eyes. "Don't like to say how I know, but you take my word for it -- Aaron Northcote weren't nowhere near San Francisco anytime in January."
A confused and uneasy silence settled over them all. Before it could be broken, they were joined by the girl from the upstairs room, her tears dried and her lush curves hidden by a loose pink wrapper. "I was wanting a cup of tea," she said in a shy whisper.
"Dr. Northcote needs your help, Joseph." Jenny announced as she followed the young woman into the kitchen. "He's sedated Mr. Aaron and is ready to load him into the wagon." She gave Diana a pointed look. "You'll want to be leaving too, ma'am, if you value your reputation."
* * * *
Diana and Annie were back in the buggy in time to watch Ben settle his brother in the back of the buckboard, then return to the front door where Jenny stood waiting and pass over a handful of bills. As nonchalantly as if she were in her own bedroom, the madam pulled up her skirt and added the money to the sizeable roll already tucked into her garter.
"Take us home, Ernest," Diana ordered.
Once there, she built up the fire in the front parlor and settled in to wait. It was nearly dawn before she heard heavy footsteps in the hallway. With equal parts reluctance and impatience, Diana waylaid Ben at the foot of the stairs. "How is Aaron?"
"I don't know." The agonized expression in his eyes and the defeated slump to his broad shoulders told their own story.
Diana's heart went out to him. "Please, Ben. Talk to me. I want to understand."
"So you can write about it?"
"That was uncalled for. Besides, there was a time when you wanted the plight of the insane publicized."
He stared at her long and hard before he spoke. "You're right. I'm sorry. It's not you I'm angry with but all the so-called experts." He sagged against the carved newel post. "Not one of them understands exactly what it is that causes a person to hear voices, or prevents him from knowing right from wrong. Most doctors simply lock troubled patients away and abandon all hope of a cure."
Diana moved closer in the dimly-lit hallway. They were not quite touching, but their images shared the frame in the mirror that hung at the foot of the staircase. "Most doctors, but not you."
"I don't know what to do for him either. Nothing I've tried yet has helped." His fists clenched at his sides. "But I wouldn't commit an animal to any insane hospital, let alone my own brother. The one here in Maine has 578 patients. There are three physicians to care for them. They desperately need a fourth, and a new building to ease overcrowding, but above all they need to do more than confine victims. You've seen Aaron's paintings, Diana. No matter what anyone thinks of the subject matter, he's a talented artist. Can you imagine what being locked up in an institution would do to him?"
"So you try to keep him a prisoner in his own home."
Watching his face as intently as she was, Diana saw Ben's torment clearly. "It isn't always necessary. There are long periods when he's as normal as anyone ... any creative artist, anyway." He managed a faint smile. "And even when he's been listening to those damned voices, he's rarely out of control. If he hadn't gotten drunk and decided he had to explain to his last model what her shortcomings were, there'd have been no trouble." He dragged his hands over a face pale with worry. "I shouldn't have brought you here, Diana."
She thought of the crying girl. "You think he's a threat to me?"
"No. He's not a danger to anyone. Not really."
But she could see he was no longer certain of it. "You've wondered if he was the one who attacked me in New York."
"I ... I've wondered, yes. It doesn't seem likely, and yet...."
She waited, hoping he'd confide in her. She couldn't help him if he didn't trust her with his fears.
"There is a chance my brother was the man in the alley. He might still have been in New York Saturday night, even though I put him on a train north on Friday afternoon."
"Have you asked him if he left New York?"
"He says he can't remember. Then he babbles about his voices and says he just does as they command." Ben hesitated, then added, "He was in Philadelphia when that woman was murdered."
She heard the torment in his voice, but she knew something he did not. "Aaron wasn't in San Francisco when the other woman died."
"How can you possibly know that?"
She told him what Clarissa had said.
"The word of a whore?"
"She had no reason to lie. I don't believe Aaron is a murderer, Ben, or that he's any threat to me." She managed a crooked smile. "Not even you can think of a way he could have been stranded on the train with us and contrived to push me off."
"I should not have brought you here," he said again.
She glared at him, wondering why he had, especially since he'd avoided her once she'd moved into his house. After all, she was not some simpering virgin whose virtue had to be guarded. She was a widow. She'd expected him to visit her bedroom, at least to talk. She'd not have been averse to more. She opened her mouth to demand answers, then closed it again. Ben was swaying with exhaustion. This was not the time to take him to task for behaving like a gentleman towards a guest in his home.
"You need sleep."
He blinked and managed to focus on her face. "So do you."
* * * *
He'd handled things badly, Ben thought for the hundredth time as he sat by the window in his bedroom and watched dawn break. He hadn't slept.
What if it turned out that Aaron had killed those women? What if he'd killed others? What if he tried again? What if he tried to kill Diana?
Ben had been the one who'd prevented the authorities from locking his brother away. He'd been certain he knew the worst that Aaron was capable of when he was not in his right mind. But what if he was wrong?
Too restless to stay still, he began to pace. He needed sleep, but there was no sense in lying down. His racing mind would keep him awake.
When Diana had believed he had a darker side to his personality, a side which wrote horror stories, she'd shied away from him. Ben found it far too easy to imagine her disgust if she learned the terrible secret he was still keeping from her.
He scrubbed his hands over his face, despair adding to his burdens. The truth haunted him every time he looked into his brother's eyes, but he could not share it with anyone, not even Diana. Not now. Maybe not ever.
And if it turned out that Aaron _was_ a murderer, he could not expect her to forgive him.
* * * *
It was late morning before Diana woke. No one was in the breakfast room. She assumed Maggie was writing and Ben had gone to his office. With a sigh, she picked up the newspaper.
She'd just turned to the ads, noting that oranges all the way from Florida were available at Thompson and Kellogg's in West Market Square, when Ben appeared in the doorway. From his haggard look, he'd slept as badly as she had. Or perhaps he had not slept at all.
"Do you still want to go into town?"
She forced a smile. "I'd like to send a wire to Horatio Foxe before he decides I've been kidnapped."
As he served himself ham from the sideboard, she could not help noticing that he seemed bigger. Bulkier. "What on earth are you wearing?"
"I have a pair of chamois skin drawers under my trousers for extra protection from the cold. When I got up, I planned to walk to my office. I keep a sleigh in town. That will leave the buggy for you. To take you to a hotel. Or to the train station." He kept his back to her. "I don't want you to go, but -- "
"I'm not going anywhere. Not yet." Bad as the night had been, this was a new day. With the sunrise, Diana's natural optimism had returned. She'd fallen in love with this man and she believed he loved her in return. There had to be a way to find happiness together.
Neither of them said anything for a few minutes. He brought his plate to the table and began to eat. She sipped her coffee and thought about a dozen things at once. No topic seemed safe to broach.
"How is Aaron this morning?"
"Chipper." Ben's clipped reply discouraged discussion but Diana persisted.
"Back to himself, you mean?"
"Whatever _that_ is, yes."
"Well enough for you to leave his side, obviously." There was a hint of asperity in her tone, too.
"I do have other patients. A good many of them seem to have put off seeing a doctor until I returned from my travels."
"I've noticed how busy you've been."
He paused in the act of slicing ham to give her a sharp look. "Did you think I was avoiding you?"
"The idea occurred to me, but I dismissed it. Right now I suspect you're baiting me, hoping I'll give up and go away. I don't intend to. Not until I can send my piece on Damon Bathory to Horatio Foxe."
She knew at once that had been the wrong thing to say. Ben's face closed up, shielding his thoughts. He put down his coffee cup with a thump and stood.
"I need to get to the office."
"I'll go with you. Who knows? Perhaps I can be of some help to you."
His laugh was deliberately rude. "I doubt you're cut out to be a nurse, Diana. Medicine is not a pretty profession, and when I have to go out to see patients, it's no pleasant sleigh ride."
"I'll have you know that one of my distant ancestors, back in England in the 16th century, was a healer as well as a famous herbalist. She wrote a book to warn housewives which plants could be poisonous if eaten."
"Herbalist? Or witch?" The sardonic tone was back, the one she'd heard him use in New York. "Perhaps she knew the Blood Countess," he added. "Elizabeth Bathory lived in the 16th century, too."
"Not unless your famous ancestor visited England. And the proper term for an herbalist who also heals is cunning woman."
"Ah. Well, you are that, Diana."
Apparently resigned to her company, Ben waited while Diana got her coat, then escorted her to what he called "the doctor's wagon," a four-wheeled buggy painted black with green trim and silver markings. It had a folding top that offered some small protection from the biting cold. In the back a special compartment held medical supplies, with room for Ben's brown leather satchel.
"You carry that doctor's bag everywhere," Diana remarked. "What's inside?"
"Splints and forceps, rolls of homemade bandages, a large piece of rubber sheeting, and a pair of white muslin obstetrical pants to use during deliveries, among other things."
"Who wears the pants," she asked, "the doctor or the patient?"
He laughed, as she'd hoped he would, and relaxed a little. "The mother-to-be."
"And what's in this box?" She indicated a black case in the back.
"See for yourself." He flipped it open, revealing rows of small, corked bottles, all carefully labeled. They contained medications as diverse as quinine and ipecac, digitalis and spirits of ammonia, ground cannabis sativa and calomel.
Diana picked one at random. "What is betony used for?"
"It is a popular cure-all." He clucked to the horse. "It's even said to cure insanity if boiled in a quart of strong ale and drunk."
His words came out as huge white puffs, quick-frozen in the frigid air. Diana shivered and tugged the fur collar of her coat up to shield her cold cheeks. For once even Ben wore a hat -- a fur cap with earflaps -- together with a heavy wolfskin coat and fleece-lined gloves.
When they reached the downtown area, Ben abandoned talk of a medical nature to take on the role of tour guide. "Over there is C. L. Dakin's art store." He pointed to the oversized oil painting in the window. "That's supposed to show the 1605 discovery of Monhegan."
"Does Aaron show his work locally?"
Ben nodded. "The Bangor Art Association has a gallery. They also sponsor lectures at the Bangor Opera House." He nodded towards that impressive-looking building. "Six years ago, Oscar Wilde visited Bangor at their invitation. Before he spoke, he visited the gallery and singled out one of Aaron's paintings for praise."
Diana did not doubt Ben's word, but she found it impossible to imagine the effete Oscar Wilde, that self-styled "apostle of aestheticism," prancing along Bangor's elm-lined streets in his customary black velvet knickers and silk stockings, his trademark lily in one hand and an oversized boutonniere in his lapel. "Did he scandalize the sober residents of Bangor?" she asked.
"They thought him a trifle eccentric."
* * * *
They made one stop before Ben's office, to send Diana's telegram to Horatio Foxe. Diana had only to put him off until Monday, when Maggie planned to travel to Boston in order to tell her publisher face to face that she was going to announce her identity as Damon Bathory. When she'd broken the news to a few close friends, in confidence, she'd been gratified by their response. Although they'd been shocked, she'd told Diana, they'd not been appalled.
The message Diana sent was brief: "B NOT MAN IN ALLEY. PLEASE APPROVE EXPENSE OF EXCLUSIVE." She signed it and included her current address, in care of Dr. Benjamin Northcote.
Ben pointed out more landmarks when they resumed their journey. Just north of Norumbega Hall and the Windsor Hotel, he turned right into Spring Street and brought the buggy to a halt in front of a small, plain wooden house. His office was in a neighborhood that contained a mixture of boarding houses, stores, homes, and restaurants. It was also quite close to Miss Jenny's establishment.