Murder in the North End Read Free Page B

leave here immediately.”
    Glaring at Nell, Skinner said, “I know you know where he is.”
    Nell said, “I have no idea what you’re talking ab—”
    “Cook.” Skinner wiped his hand across his face, smearing it with blood; there was a livid scrape on his cheek, as well. “He disappeared last night, after shooting Cassidy. If anyone knows where he lit off to—”
    “I haven’t seen nor heard from Detective Cook in weeks,” Nell said.
    “You lying little—”
    “Bridget,” Viola said to one of the kitchen girls. “Would you fetch Peter and Dennis? I believe they’re outside loading the—”
    “I’m leaving,” Skinner said, adding, to Nell, “Tell Cook we’ll catch up with him sooner or later, and make no mistake, he
will
hang—I mean to make sure of it. As for you, don’t you ever forget there are eyes out there, watching your every move. One of these days, Miss
Sweeney,
you’re gonna get the lesson you’ve been begging for.”
    After he left, Viola nodded toward the brass horn still clutched tight in Nell’s fist. “It’s about time that hideous thing came in good for something.”
    Nell let out her breath in a tremulous chuckle. Viola cocked her head in the direction of the door, which Nell closed.
    “Have a seat, my dear,” said Viola as she wheeled further into the room. “You’re white as chalk.”
    Nell sat on a sheet-swathed chair and rubbed her left arm, which was sore where Skinner had grabbed it.
    “I realize I should have made my presence known,” Viola said, “but curiosity overcame propriety when I caught on to the nature of the conversation, so I hid behind the curio cabinet. This Detective Cook, he’s the one you’re so fond of, yes?”
    Nell sat back, nodding. “He’s a good man, Mrs. Hewitt. I can’t believe he’d murder someone. I
don’t
believe it.”
    “Are you quite certain? Given the right situation, you might be surprised how brutal the nicest person can be.”
    Viola wouldn’t be offering little insights on brutality if she knew what Nell’s life had been like until about ten years ago. Choosing her words carefully, so as not to sound too conversant on the subject, Nell said, “It would seem to me that, to actually kill someone—not for just cause, but in anger, say—is to cross a line that most of us are incapable of crossing, no matter how enraged we become. It’s as if God has equipped us with a sort of...moral brake that won’t allow us to take a life unless there’s an exceptionally good reason.”
    “Is it possible, do you suppose, that your Detective Cook might have felt that he had an exceptionally good reason to kill this...what was his name? Cassidy?”
    “Johnny Cassidy. Something like self-defense, you mean? If that were the case, it must not be obvious, or else they wouldn’t be hunting him down as a murderer.”
    “Nor,” Viola pointed out gently, “would it be likely that he would have fled in the first place.”
    Nell closed her eyes and shook her head. “If you knew him as I know him...”
    “Was it true, what you told Constable Skinner—that you haven’t been in touch with Detective Cook?”
    Nodding, Nell said, “The last time I saw him was two or three weeks ago. I’d taken Gracie for one of her afternoon outings in the Commons, and he passed by. We chatted for a while about the new house he’d just bought, and his work with the State Constabulary.”
    “He didn’t mention anything about problems in the North End, or...”
    “He did say he’d been spending quite a bit of time up there, in his professional capacity, which would stand to reason, given his current responsibilities. Fort Hill, too. The Irish slums are where most of the gaming dens and taverns and and...other such places are located.”
    “Brothels,” Viola added with a smile. “You can say it—it’s just us.”
    Nell returned her smile. One of the most Viola’s most endearing qualities was her candor about such matters, a holdover from her early