Murder in a mill town (6 page)

Oftentimes I wonder if you even open these letters, since you have never written one back to me. But I will keep on writing them in the earnist hope that some day you will find it in your heart to write back to me.

I do not expeckt you to forgive me for how I hurt you but I beg you to believe that I have changed. I was a diffrent man then. I was angrey and I did not even no why. Father Beals says 8 yrs. in this place have humbled me, and it is a good thing I got bagged because humilty is good for the soul and I believe that is true. I believe I am closer to Jesus because I am in this place. Did you ever think you woud hear me talk about Jesus?

He is a Piscopal chaplan Father Beals but he is a good man, as good as any of our preists I say. Any way he is all we got here so he will have to do. And I reckon it is not his falt he was born Piscopal.

I have missed you so much these past 8 years. I do not no any fancy way to say it. I just miss you. I do not no how I will make it threw the rest of my time here without seeing you. That is some thing I cannot bear to think about.

It is no surprise to me that you do not want to write to me after what I did to you the last time we were to gether. I do not blame you one bit. I am more sorry than I can say but you no that if you have been reading my letters. You also no that I need to say it to you’re face like a man, the new man I am now not the old angrey one. Please I no you do not want to write back but please Nell come visit me here just once. I will not keep you long. It will be so good just to rest my eyes upon your face once more. And tell you how sorry I am.

I no you must want me to stop writing to you, that is why you do not write back. Nell, I swear to God that I will stop writing to you if you only will come see me once and let me say how sorry I am. Just once for a few minutes so I can say what I would have said long ago were I a better man.

I never thought I was the kind of man to beg but I am humble now and I am begging you. Please come to me Nell. Just once.

I remain, truly and devotedly,

Your faithfull and loving

Duncan

Nell touched a finger to the little scar near her left eyebrow, feeling the half-inch ridge even through the knotted threads of her glove. A knife scar, the least of those Duncan had dealt her the last time she’d seen him.

“You want to leave?” he’d growled as he kicked her to the floor, then kept kicking her, pausing only to unbutton his trousers. “You can leave when I’m done with you.” He pummeled her as she thrashed, tore her basque open from collar to peplum, yanked at her stays.
He’s scratching me,
she thought...on her face, her chest...

Then she saw the flash of a blade, the droplets of blood spattering his face, and she realized she might very well be dead before this was over—or wish she was.

Now, eight years later, Nell was still quite alive, and Duncan was serving a thirty year prison sentence—but not for what he’d done to her. His conviction was for the crimes of armed robbery and aggravated assault, committed the day before his attack on her.

His first letter, dated May 15
^th
, had left her stunned and shaken. Why, after all these years, had he decided to reestablish contact with her? And how on earth had he found out that she had moved to Boston and was living at 148 Tremont Street? How did he know she was a governess, and that she worked for the Hewitts?

The tone of the letter—so sincere, so penitent—did little to comfort her. Hadn’t he always known how to act and what to say to make her forget, or overlook, what he really was? Uneducated he might be. Unintelligent? Hardly. Oh, he could play dumb when it suited him, but a stupid man could never have taken such effortless command of Nell’s heart and soul, could never have talked her into the things he’d talked her into, could never have made her—pragmatic creature that she was, and no fool herself, even in her adolescence—love him beyond all reason.

As contrite and affectionate as his first letter was, Nell had felt not the slightest temptation to answer it. He’d gotten his claws around her once; she wasn’t about to step into his cage and let him try it again. The second letter, which had arrived three weeks later, unnerved her even more than the first.
If you coud find it in your heart to come visit me, I could say these things out loud like a man instead of just scraching them onto this paper like a coward. Please, Nell...

Please, Nell...Please, Nell...Please...

That had been his tormented refrain over the past four months. Come see me once, just once, and then you’ll never have to hear from me again.

She’d gotten into the habit of listening for the postman so that she could be the first to sort through the newly arrived mail stacked on the Hewitts’ monumental, mirrored hallstand. God forbid one of the family—or Mrs. Mott!—were to notice a letter addressed to her with
Massachusetts State Prison
on the back.

She thought she’d have a reprieve when she left Boston in mid-July to spend six weeks with the Hewitts at Falconwood, their Cape Cod summer home, as she did every year. A week after arriving there, she was appalled to receive a letter from Duncan bearing the address of Falconwood. It was as if he was an all-seeing, all-knowing god...or wanted her to think of him that way.

The carriage rattled to a halt outside a tall iron gate manned by two uniformed guards. Nell showed them Viola’s letter and explained that she was here to see the warden. They waved the coach through the gate, directing Brady to a courtyard anchored by a fort-like building that bore an uncanny resemblance to the Hewitt wool factory. It was the prison’s administrative building where, according to the guards, the warden’s office would be located. To the left was another large building, even more forbidding in appearance, with iron bars on the windows; to the right, two big barnlike structures from which came a cacophony of hammering and clanging.

“You want me to go in with you?” Brady asked as he helped her down from the coach.

She shook her head. “No, I’m fine.”

“You sure, miss?”

No.
“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Virgil Hines?” The warden, a florid, jowly fellow named Clarence Whitcomb, leaned back heavily in his chair, which groaned under his weight. “He hadn’t been what you’d call a model prisoner, certainly, but not as irredeemable as some. Of rather...limited intellect, I should say, but not altogether dim. Likeable, in his way. Rather, er, glib in temperament—more talkative than most. You’d hear him laughing when he ought not to have. Silence is highly prized here.”

“Is it?” asked Nell from across what seemed like an acre of polished walnut. With the heavy curtains drawn and only a single desk lamp to dispel the gloom in the oak-paneled office, it might have been midnight rather than the midst of a sunny afternoon. 

“Silence gives them an opportunity to reflect and repent,” Whitcomb said. “Reflection, hard work, prayer, and instruction—those are the cornerstones of prisoner life here. They’re a grossly undisciplined breed when they come to us. Our objective is not so much punitive as restorative. By inculcating in these men a sense of order, we’re preparing them to reenter an orderly world.”

Nell almost laughed out loud at the notion of the world being “orderly.” Schooling her expression, she said, “An ambitious goal.”

“But one which we pride ourselves on attaining.” Mr. Whitcomb lifted Viola’s open letter from the desk in front of him, rubbing the thick vellum between his thumb and fingertips as if assessing its quality. “Mrs. Hewitt is trying to locate him, you say?”

Nell nodded. “He disappeared Sunday, along with a young woman from this area named Bridie Sullivan. It’s really Miss Sullivan we’re trying to locate—her mother is beside herself—but we suspect that if we find Mr. Hines, we’ll find her.”

“I see.”

“Was he the type of man to...do harm to a female, do you think?” Nell asked.

“There’s nothing in his history to suggest it,” Whitcomb said. “No arrests for, er, such crimes as such a character flaw would suggest.”

“What did he do to get sent here?”

“Stole a lady’s reticule from a coat peg in a tea shop. He was a sneak thief—strictly crimes of opportunity. He’d take whatever was lying about unattended, pick the occasional pocket, do a little confidence work...”

“Confidence?”

“Swindles, humbugs—small time, of course. It takes real brains to carry out a complicated bunco scheme. Never used a weapon, that I know of. He was sentenced to three years, but only served one. You’re familiar with the concept of parole, yes?”

“Oh, yes.” Some thirty years ago, the Commonwealth of Massachusetts instituted a novel new form of clemency—still, to Nell’s knowledge, the only one of its kind in the nation. After serving one-third of his term, an inmate was eligible to be released into society, under supervision and with the threat of revocation should he revert to his former habits. Nell’s disapproval of the parole system stemmed from entirely selfish motives. God help society—but most of all, her—should Duncan ever reenter it! In theory, parole was only granted to the most harmless and well-behaved of prisoners. Nell prayed—literally, and at regular intervals—that the Massachusetts Board of Parole would be savvy enough to keep Duncan under lock and key for the full thirty years of his term.

“Mr. Hines was released in May?” she asked.

“That’s right. I don’t recall the date offhand, but it was early in the month, I believe. It’s no surprise to me that he found a lady friend so quickly. He wasn’t a bad looking fellow—if a bit on the scrawny side when he first came here. I put him to work in the stone shops, and that turned him into a man right quick. Nothing builds muscle like stone-cutting.”

“I wondered what was going on in those buildings,” she said.

“We take shelves of granite from a local quarry and split them into paving stones and building blocks. Fine work the men do, and for a competitive price. I’m proud to say we’ve got contracts from as far away as...” Whitcomb’s gaze strayed toward the open door behind her. “Ah, Father Beals.”

Nell turned to find a man standing in the doorway. Were it not for his garb—a plain black coat and trousers, with one of those new Anglican clerical collars—she would never have guessed that this was the “Piscopal chaplan” mentioned in Duncan’s letter. He wasn’t nearly as old as she had envisioned, mid-thirties by her guess, with longish brown hair worn with a side part, so that a great swath of it fell over his forehead. He had striking eyes, dark and mournful, in contrast to his otherwise fair coloring.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Whitcomb,” Beals said, stepping back. “I didn’t realize you were with—”

“Not at all.” The warden waved him into the office. “Come on in, old man, and let me introduce you.”

The priest entered with a slightly awkward gait—not a true limp, just a bit of asymmetry, as if one leg weren’t doing quite its fair share of the work.

“Miss Nell Sweeney, this is the Reverend Adam Beals, our chaplain. Father Beals is the fellow you should be talking to, Miss Sweeney. You’re lucky to have caught him in, though. He’s only here Sundays and Wednesdays.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss...” Father Beals paused in mid-bow, looked up at her with recognition in his eyes. “...Sweeney.”

“Father.” Nell inclined her head and looked away quickly, knowing he’d connected the name “Nell Sweeney” with Duncan, who must have mentioned her, and praying he didn’t bring it up in front of the warden.
Please, St. Dismas, please please please let him keep his mouth shut.
Of all the ghosts of her disreputable past, Duncan was potentially the most devastating.

“Have a seat, Father.” Whitcomb gestured Beals into the leather chair next to Nell’s and handed him Viola’s letter, grunting with the effort of leaniing across the table. “You knew Virgil Hines fairly well, as I recall. Seems he and a young lady disappeared from this area recently. Miss Sweeney is looking into the matter for her employer, Mrs. August Hewitt, at the request of the young lady’s mother.”

Beals frowned in concentration as he read the letter.

“Did Mr. Hines happen to tell you what he planned to do after his release?” Nell asked.

“Yes, of course,” the priest said. “I always discuss a parolee’s intentions with him, so that I can share them with his parole officer. In Virgil’s case, he knew exactly what he wanted to do, which is why I’m somewhat mystified that he chose to remain in the Charlestown area. He was from Salem originally. Always said he’d go back there the instant he was released. His plan was to use his stone-cutting experience to find a job in the Cape Ann quarries so that he could save enough money to buy a farm he had his eye on.”

“Really?”

“That was what he told me. All the men in his family had been fishermen for generations. He loved being at sea—he enlisted in the Navy during the war—but he said it was too brutal a life, fishing, that you had to be away from your family too much.”

“I understand he came out of the Navy with quite an unusual tattoo.”

“He served aboard the U.S.S. Kearsage when they sank the Alabama in June of sixty-four. The crew and officers all got stars on their foreheads to commemorate the victory.”