Death on Beacon Hill by P.B. RYAN Read Free Book Online

his arms and gave her a look that said he knew precisely what she was getting at. “And how do you suppose Skinner would take it if I let some little miss—some little
Irish
miss—root about in his evidence?”
    “Who’s to say he’ll ever find out? Besides, it seems to me it’s only ‘evidence’ if it’s going to be used in prosecuting a case, which it clearly isn’t, since this case is considered solved and will never go to trial. And doesn’t Skinner himself think the police should rely on citizens to solve the city’s murders?” She spread her arms. “I’m a citizen, and I’m more than happy to help.”
    Cook carried the cartons into his own well-lit office, setting them on the only section of floor not heaped with books, folders, and old newspapers. She knelt and uncovered the box marked
V. Kimball
, set aside the gloves and hat, and withdrew a small mesh reticule. It contained a folded handkerchief, a silver powder compact, a tiny enameled one for rouge, a mother of pearl card case with several calling cards in it, and an embossed leather change purse, which was empty.
    “Looks as if Skinner helped himself to whatever money was in here,” she said.
    “Maybe she’d spent it all on her shopping trip,” suggested Cook as he sat perched on the edge of his desk, watching her. “Or maybe she didn’t have any, and she’d been running up bills.”
    “Detective Skinner has her house key, I assume.”
    Cook nodded. “It’s on this fancy silver key ring. I seen it sticking out of his vest pocket.”
    Next came two white lisle stockings, a pair of garters, lace-edged drawers, two petticoats, and a crumpled-up spring-steel crinoline. Nell drew in a steadying breath when she came upon the rest of Mrs. Kimball’s wadded-up underpinnings—chemise, stays and corset cover—all stiff with dried blood and punctured with one neat hole on the left side of the chest. The bodice of the fashionable blue-striped silk walking dress was in the same condition. At the bottom of the box Nell found a fringed silk parasol, a pair of black satin boots with silver heels and appliquéd stars, and a tangle of diamond necklaces.
    She lifted the necklaces, squinting at the glittering little stones. “These are paste?”
    “Must be,” Cook said. “I wouldn’t know the difference, myself.”
    “Neither would I.”
    “Neither, I imagine, would Fiona Gannon.”
    Ignoring that observation, Nell opened the box labeled
F. Gannon,
which held a plain dress of black worsted, a white cotton apron speckled with blood, a rather shabby assortment of underpinnings, scuffed black lace-up boots, and, at the very bottom, the shredded and bloodied remains of a maid’s ruffled mobcap. Nell lifted it gingerly by the bit that was still white and undamaged, the greater part of it being black with soot.
    “Powder burns,” Nell murmured as she studied it. “Very heavy powder burns. And it’s been blown to ribbons.”
    Cook reached out to take it from her.
    “You know what this means,” she said.
    He sighed as he inspected the ravaged cap.
    “It means,” Nell said, “that the muzzle of the gun that killed Fiona Gannon must have been—”
    “Pressed right up against her head,” Cook finished. “And where would a nice young lady like yourself have learned a thing like that?”
    “From books,” she lied, not wanting him to guess how familiar she’d once been with guns and knives—and the damage they could do. “Tell me I’m wrong,” she challenged. “Tell me this shot could have been fired from a distance.”
    Cook glowered as he examined the cap.
    “Baldwin didn’t mention these powder burns in his statement at the inquest,” Nell said. “If he had, it would have called the official theory into question.”
    Cook looked as if he was going to say something, but changed his mind. He crouched down next to Nell, returned the cap to the box, and started gathering up the other items. “Let’s get this stuff packed back up just