Gannett inviting the mourners to join him in the Lord’s Prayer.
Will said, “You seem to have an awfully delicate constitution for a lady who claims she’s not prone to fainting.”
“I’m not.”
“What’s this all about, then?”
Still bent over double, Nell rummaged in her open chatelaine for the little prize she’d gone to such trouble to attain.
“What’s this?” Will asked as she handed it to him.
“Virginia Kimball’s key ring. I just pinched it off Detective Skinner.”
Will released her neck; she sat up. He gaped at the ornate silver ring in his hand, from which three or four brass keys dangled, amusement warring with astonishment in his eyes. “You
are
joking.”
She shook her head, gratified to have drawn such a reaction from the unflappable William Hewitt, although, in truth, she was almost as shocked as he at her audacity—appalled, even, but also perversely proud. After all these years of honest living, “Cornelia Cutpurse” still had the touch.
“You picked the pocket of a police detective?” he asked.
“Not so loud,” she whispered, darting a glance toward the church. “It was the only way I could get my hands on Mrs. Kimball’s house key.”
“One hardly knows where to begin,” Will muttered as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “All right, leaving aside for the moment the question of...well, all the many questions that come to mind, aren’t you at all concerned about Skinner’s reaction when he discovers you stole this?”
“He’ll never suspect it was me,” she said as she took it from Will’s hand. “It was in his vest pocket, and I rebuttoned his coat after I snagged it. When he finally discovers it’s gone, he probably won’t even realize it was stolen, and certainly not by—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Will cocked his head as if he hadn’t heard quite right. “You rebuttoned his coat.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Which suggests that you first
un
buttoned it, after which you swiped the key ring and stowed it in your chatelaine. Then you buttoned him back up, all while feigning a swooning attack.”
She smiled. “I was very good once.” Will was the only person in Boston who knew about the life she’d once led, the things she’d once done—the person she’d been. If anyone else were to find out, it would ruin her.
“It would appear,” he said as he fetched a tin of
Turkish Oriental
s from inside his coat, “that you’re still...well, I’m not sure ‘good’ is quite the word. ‘Talented.’ Rather unnervingly brilliant, actually. Do you mind?” he asked as he flipped the tin open and withdrew a cigarette.
“No, go ahead. You must be wondering what I want with this,” she said as she held up the key ring.
He struck a match. “You’re obviously poking about...
once again
,” he interjected gravely, “in very sticky matters that are none of your affair.”
Nell filled him in on her efforts, on Brady’s behalf, to clear his late niece’s name—briefly, because she could hear Dr. Gannett pronouncing the closing benediction. She emphasized the “Red Book,” possibly a diary or notebook of some sort, and the gunpowder burns on the mobcap and Fiona Gannon’s face, critical evidence never presented to the inquest jury. “They’re saying Fiona shot Virginia Kimball, who fell to the ground, apparently dead, but who then managed to grab the gun and shoot Fiona in the head. She presumably got off a shot from where she was lying in the doorway, but then how could Fiona’s cap and face have ended up in that condition?”
“That hardly proves Fiona Gannon was innocent of all wrongdoing,” Will said, echoing Detective Cook’s reservations.
“It
does
prove that it couldn’t have happened the way they say it did. I want to have a look around Mrs. Kimball’s house, see for myself the room where those two women died. I doubt it was ever thoroughly examined. Skinner didn’t care what really happened. He just wanted to pin it on Fiona
Will said, “You seem to have an awfully delicate constitution for a lady who claims she’s not prone to fainting.”
“I’m not.”
“What’s this all about, then?”
Still bent over double, Nell rummaged in her open chatelaine for the little prize she’d gone to such trouble to attain.
“What’s this?” Will asked as she handed it to him.
“Virginia Kimball’s key ring. I just pinched it off Detective Skinner.”
Will released her neck; she sat up. He gaped at the ornate silver ring in his hand, from which three or four brass keys dangled, amusement warring with astonishment in his eyes. “You
are
joking.”
She shook her head, gratified to have drawn such a reaction from the unflappable William Hewitt, although, in truth, she was almost as shocked as he at her audacity—appalled, even, but also perversely proud. After all these years of honest living, “Cornelia Cutpurse” still had the touch.
“You picked the pocket of a police detective?” he asked.
“Not so loud,” she whispered, darting a glance toward the church. “It was the only way I could get my hands on Mrs. Kimball’s house key.”
“One hardly knows where to begin,” Will muttered as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “All right, leaving aside for the moment the question of...well, all the many questions that come to mind, aren’t you at all concerned about Skinner’s reaction when he discovers you stole this?”
“He’ll never suspect it was me,” she said as she took it from Will’s hand. “It was in his vest pocket, and I rebuttoned his coat after I snagged it. When he finally discovers it’s gone, he probably won’t even realize it was stolen, and certainly not by—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Will cocked his head as if he hadn’t heard quite right. “You rebuttoned his coat.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Which suggests that you first
un
buttoned it, after which you swiped the key ring and stowed it in your chatelaine. Then you buttoned him back up, all while feigning a swooning attack.”
She smiled. “I was very good once.” Will was the only person in Boston who knew about the life she’d once led, the things she’d once done—the person she’d been. If anyone else were to find out, it would ruin her.
“It would appear,” he said as he fetched a tin of
Turkish Oriental
s from inside his coat, “that you’re still...well, I’m not sure ‘good’ is quite the word. ‘Talented.’ Rather unnervingly brilliant, actually. Do you mind?” he asked as he flipped the tin open and withdrew a cigarette.
“No, go ahead. You must be wondering what I want with this,” she said as she held up the key ring.
He struck a match. “You’re obviously poking about...
once again
,” he interjected gravely, “in very sticky matters that are none of your affair.”
Nell filled him in on her efforts, on Brady’s behalf, to clear his late niece’s name—briefly, because she could hear Dr. Gannett pronouncing the closing benediction. She emphasized the “Red Book,” possibly a diary or notebook of some sort, and the gunpowder burns on the mobcap and Fiona Gannon’s face, critical evidence never presented to the inquest jury. “They’re saying Fiona shot Virginia Kimball, who fell to the ground, apparently dead, but who then managed to grab the gun and shoot Fiona in the head. She presumably got off a shot from where she was lying in the doorway, but then how could Fiona’s cap and face have ended up in that condition?”
“That hardly proves Fiona Gannon was innocent of all wrongdoing,” Will said, echoing Detective Cook’s reservations.
“It
does
prove that it couldn’t have happened the way they say it did. I want to have a look around Mrs. Kimball’s house, see for myself the room where those two women died. I doubt it was ever thoroughly examined. Skinner didn’t care what really happened. He just wanted to pin it on Fiona
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