She broke her biscuit with her fingertips, quick squirrel-like gestures. He watched the light flashing in the trillion garnet and waited until she nodded. "I shall think of it as an opportunity to observe an investigation in progress," she said. "Surely the sort of thing a novelist should cultivate."
* * *
Sebastien returned a letter in the midmorning post, and Abigail Irene presented herself at Mrs. Smith's door slightly before tea time. She was
exquisitely starched and pressed, all the lace on her navy corduroy falling perfectly. As presentation was never a strength, Sebastien surmised both
a degree of nervousness and the capable hand of Mary behind the outbreak of tidiness.
Jack took her coat, and Sebastien introduced her to Phoebe, and everyone ignored the profusion of garnet and silver bands with a correctness as exquisite as Abby Irene's dress. When they were all seated stiffly in the parlor, Phoebe fetched tea and sandwiches for everyone who dined. Jack refused cream in his tea, eyeing the chicken sandwiches, and meanwhile Abigail Irene wasted no time in sliding a slender isinglass portfolio from the depths of the omnipresent blue velvet carpet bag and laying it before Sebastien.
"More than you ever cared to know about the illicit trade in young men and women in Boston," she said, and dryly continued, "I detect a certain unevenness to my welcome from the Metropolitan Police that leads me to speculate on the existence of a political struggle within the department."
Boston, for all its age—as America's young cities went, one of the oldest—had been English since its inception. Unlike New Amsterdam's jury-rigged system, the police authority here operated on the London model, with patrol and investigative units reporting to sergeants, lieutenants, and eventually the chief. An orderly system, with authority and responsibility clearly delineated and its exercisers ranked like tiers of angels.
"There always is," Sebastien said, and only became aware of the patent irritation in his own voice when Jack grinned fondly. Sebastien tipped his head, acknowledging just mockery, and some of the tension left him.
Jack would forgive.
He cleared his throat and continued, "It affects the investigation, I take it?"
"Indubitably." Abby Irene fussed with the silver sugar tongs, a sapphire glittering in her lobe, behind her hair. "The victims are not common tavern prostitutes. They were comfortably maintained."
"So someone is providing that maintenance," Jack said.
"Someone of money. And influence. Yes."
"Somebody who would have friends in the police department," Sebastien finished, not too shy to state the obvious. "You think the higher echelons of police are protecting the clients?"
"Or the killer," Abby Irene said. "There's a detective inspector—a Byron Pyle, of all the unlikely names—who's grateful for my help. But I'm not sure how well he'll resist pressure from above, if that's where it's coming from." She shrugged, but Sebastien saw the lines of bitterness around her mouth. "There are a number of political appointees at the top of the organization, as you might expect. Including the Colonial Governor's son. Imaginatively named Michael Penfold, Jr." She laughed unhappily. "And one of Richard's brothers-in-law, if you can imagine. His sister married into Boston money."
"Not everyone has your devotion to duty," Jack said.
Abby Irene glanced at him, surprised by his kindness. And paused, her cup to her lips. "Boston is an Irish stronghold in the Americas, is it not?"
Phoebe leaned forward to speak. "Famous for it."
Sebastien nodded. "Are both the boys Irish? You're thinking of the
paddereen."
"Yes," Jack said. "According to the newspaper. Although I wish you wouldn't call them boys. They were my age, near enough."
"Young men," Phoebe corrected. Sebastien wished he could read the glance that passed between her and Abby Irene. "Are you thinking, gentlemen, that the victims were murdered to silence them?"
"Irishness could be a coincidence," Sebastien said. "There could be a dozen reasons they were killed. To silence them, yes; to punish their. . .protectors; because they were extorting those protectors; because they were the bait in a blackmail scheme. It could be a consortium of jealous wives. For all I know."
Phoebe set her cup down. Jack touched her arm lightly, and Abby Irene noticed, but her face gave away nothing. "I have a sense you could go on," the authoress said.
Sebastien smiled back. "Indefinitely."
"There's another prospect," Abby Irene said, when the silence had lingered a moment. "It's rare, but it happens. The possibility exists that somebody is hunting highly-paid male courtesans. For the thrill of it."
"I'll need to see the murder scenes," Sebastien said.
"We'll go tonight," Abby Irene answered, and neither of