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EVERY SIDE OF MURDER
A Maxwell Graham Mystery Thriller

Lawrence Falcetano
Every Side of Murder
A Maxwell Graham Mystery Thriller

Copyright © 2021 Lawrence Falcetano

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including
photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods
without prior written permission from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,

events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s
imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

First Edition
This book is dedicated to my high school English teacher
who gave me an “A” and urged me to become a writer
because I had a good imagination.
(Sorry, I forgot your name.
 TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
 CHAPTER 1

My partner Danny Nolan had been shot in the abdomen, not a

good place to catch two .45 caliber bullets. I followed the ambulance
to St. Luke’s Hospital on 59th Street; pushing my Chevy Nova to its
limits to keep up and maneuvering through red traffic signals. At the
emergency entrance, I watched them slide Danny out of the
ambulance onto a gurney. They wouldn’t let me get close to him, but
I was near enough to see he was unconscious and very pale. I
walked with the medical team as they rolled the gurney through the
automatic doors. A young security guard followed behind me and
told me I couldn’t be there.
I told him I could.
He told me I couldn’t.
I flipped him my shield and told him to “Piss Off.”
He did.
I waited until they wheeled Danny into the OR and then rode an
elevator up to the admittance area. When I got there, Chief Briggs
had already arrived.
“He doesn’t look good,” I said.
“Neither do you,” Briggs said.
He handed me a bottle of spring water. I took it with a shaky
hand. We moved to a pair of green leather chairs in a remote corner
of the room and sat. I guzzled half the bottle.
During my twelve years as a homicide detective, I had witnessed
every form of people killing people, death in its most morbid manner.
I had encountered impending death many times, fearing for my
mortality more times than I care to remember. I had experienced the
ugliness of having to kill another human being, had guns pointed at
me, and knives held to my throat. I’d been shot at, strangled, and
held hostage under the threat of losing my life. But nothing I had
encountered could have prepared me for the personal tragedy of
seeing my partner being shot and the prospect of him losing his life.
 Briggs waited until I finished drinking before he said, “Who did
this, Max?”
I was sure that would be Briggs’ first question. He wasn’t being
impatient or hard-hearted. He knew good police work dictated the
events of an incident in one’s mind were more vivid sooner than
later after they occur. Briggs knew what I was feeling. A veteran cop
with thirty-six years on the job, he’d experienced the “roller-coaster”
ride of emotions that came with everyday police work.
I said, “Lester Perry. He works for Armando Cruz.”
“Doing what?”
“Whatever Cruz wants him to do. His specialty is killing people.”
“For Money?”
“And sometimes for pleasure.”
“For Cruz?”
“If that’s what Cruz wants.”
“We’ve had a file on Cruz for some time?” Briggs said.
“Yeah but, we could never gather enough evidence against him
to secure charges. But now we’ve got Perry on attempted murder of
a police officer. If we tie him to Cruz, it’ll bring them both down.”
“What’s Cruz’s connection here?”
“There had been an ongoing rivalry between Cruz and another
drug peddler. We think Cruz hired Perry to snuff out his competition,
once and for all. The tip came from a reliable informant.”
“How did this go down?” Briggs said.
I drank some more water, then leaned back in my chair and
rubbed my temples. A headache was brewing. When I was ready, I
sat up and said, “Detective Nolan and I went to Cruz’s place of
business on 14th Street to question him. His front is real estate, but
his actual enterprise is drug peddling. The profit margin is greater.
“When we got there, the lights were on, but no one was in the
place. Soft music was playing from a computer on a desk. There was
no one at the desk. Another desk across the room was unoccupied. I
called out, but no one answered. We moved to a door leading to a
back room. I knocked, but there was no response. Danny turned the
knob. The door opened. We took out our weapons and held them at
the ready. Danny pushed the door back the rest of the way. When
we stepped into the room, Perry was standing behind a desk,
pointing a .45 at us. He surprised us, but he wasn’t surprised. Before
we knew it, he let loose a barrage of rounds. It happened so fast we
couldn’t get a shot off. I hit the floor; Danny took the hit. I saw him
grab his stomach and drop to the floor. On the way down, his head
struck the corner of Cruz’s desk. My concern was for Danny, but I
couldn’t let Perry get away.
“Perry turned and climbed out an opened window. I followed
him. He ran into an ally, around to the front of the building, and out
to the main street. People were shoulder to shoulder on the
sidewalk, and I couldn’t risk a shot. I stayed close to Perry for
almost a full block until I lost him. He’s quicker and younger than
me. When I couldn’t catch up to him, I stopped, holstered my
weapon, and watched him disappear around a corner. On my way
back, I called for backup and an ambulance. Danny was unconscious
and bleeding. His breathing was shallow, but he had a pulse. I took
off my jacket and held it against his wounds and waited for the
ambulance.”
“Why the hell did Perry blast away like that?”
“Desperation. He saw us before we saw him, and couldn’t get out
of the building fast enough. He knows he’s been on our radar.”
Briggs took the water bottle from me, wiped the mouthpiece, and
downed what I left of the water. “We know who this guy is,” he said.
“We’ll get the sonofabitch. Right now, our concern is for Detective
Nolan. Go home and get some rest. I’ll keep you posted.”
I shook my head. “I’m staying here until I find out how Danny
is.”
Briggs knew he couldn’t dissuade me. He put his hand on my
shoulder as a gesture of empathy and support. “We’ll get this guy,
Max,” he said. “I’ll put an APB out right away. No matter where he is,
we’ll find him.”
“No matter where he is, I’ll find him,” I said.
Briggs knew I would.
An hour after Briggs left, a Doctor came to the admittance area
and apprised me of Danny’s condition. He said Danny was
undergoing surgery. I asked him how serious his condition was and
what were his chances. He said fifty-fifty; someone would keep me
updated.
Not good odds as far as I was concerned.
I was worried about Danny, tired, hungry, and in need of a
shower. My head was pounding. I called Sandy on her cell and told
her what had happened. She asked me if I was okay. I told her yes
and not to worry. She said she’d come to the hospital as soon as
court adjourned. I asked her to bring aspirin. An hour later, she
showed up with a bag of burgers, two cans of soda, a bottle of
aspirin, and a change of clothes for me.
Sandra Sullivan grew up in a small town just outside of Danbury,
Connecticut; her father had been a prominent judge and her mother,
a rich wife. Being an only child, she confesses to having been
pampered by both parents until her father’s death brought a falling
out between her mother and herself over the distribution of her
father’s will. The animus between them grew to where Sandy viewed
it as a blessing when she was accepted at Harvard Law school and
able to live away. I think things have since cooled somewhat
between her and her mother. But Sandy doesn’t talk much about it.
A major court appearance we were both a part of brought Sandy
and me together. As a defense attorney, she had grilled me to toast
more than once on the witness stand. I often wondered how a
Harvard Law graduate with her temperament could fall for an
“average joe” like me. I suppose love is blind and opposites attract. I
only knew we were good for each other and I didn’t want to screw
up things. I wasn’t about to make the same mistakes I had made
with my ex-wife.
After I’d washed down two aspirin with the soda, we sat in the
armchairs and ate. I explained to Sandy how Danny wound up with
two bullets in his belly. She leaned closer to me, kissed me, then
rubbed my cheek with the back of her hand. I knew what she was
saying. After we ate, I took a shower using the hospital facilities and
changed into the fresh clothes Sandy had brought me. I felt clean,
but not much better. I inquired at the desk about Danny’s condition.
The nurse checked her computer screen and said he was still in
surgery. Three hours had passed since they had brought him to the
hospital. I sat down with Sandy and waited.
“Do you want to spend the night at my apartment?” she said. “I
don’t think you should be alone.”
“Thanks,” I said, “but I can’t leave here until I find out how my
partner is.”
“Then, I’ll stay with you,” Sandy said.
“You don’t have to,” I said.
“Yes, I do,” she said.
I stroked her cheek as she had done with mine. She smiled.
Sandy was exhibiting her selfless concern for my well-being. In
the years we had been together, my respect for her had been
exceeded only by my love for her. For an experienced attorney with
a reputation of being quick and as tough as nails, she could be soft
and understanding toward me, and at times, maternal.
“I have to call Danny’s parents in Florida,” I said. “They need to
know.”
“Of course,” Sandy said, “but I wouldn’t want that job.”
I checked the time on my cell phone. It was 6:00 p.m. We made
ourselves comfortable back at the armchairs. Sandy removed a
paperback book from her purse and read. I slouched down and
closed my eyes.

***

Someone was shaking my shoulder. “Detective Graham,” a voice

said. When my eyes opened, I saw the nurse from the admittance
desk standing over me.
“Doctor Wingate is here for you,” the nurse said.
I stood and shook the cobwebs from my head. Sandy was still in
her chair, asleep, with her open book on her chest. The time on my
cell phone read: 8:05 p.m. I pushed my hair back and massaged my
face to bring life back to it as I walked toward the admittance desk.
Dr. Wingate was a tall, slender woman. She wore a light blue
pants suit over a white turtle-neck sweater that contrasted against
her dark skin. Her black hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She
was leaning against the admittance desk, writing on a clipboard as I
approached her.
“Detective Graham?” she said without looking up.
“I am,” I said. I showed her my shield as an affirmation. She
didn’t bother to look at it, but continued writing, then put the
clipboard down and look at me. “Your partner is out of surgery,” she
said. “It went well.”
I felt the weight of worry melt off me.
“He’s suffered a four-inch hematoma and a fracture of his parietal
bone.”
I said, “His what?”
She said, “I’m sorry. He’s got a nasty bruise, and a fractured
skull. Sustained when his head hit the desk as he fell.” “That can’t be
good,” I said.
“He’s suffered internal organ damage from the bullet wounds and
lost a lot of blood. He’ll need time to heal.”
“Can I see him?”
She shook her head. “He’s in a coma. MRI showed some brain
swelling. That’s what induced the coma.”
I felt my throat tighten at that bad news, and said, “What are his
chances?”
“He is in the best of care and everything is being done for him.
Time will give us a clearer picture.” Then she said, “You look like
hell, detective. Go home and get some sleep.”
As she walked toward the door, she said, “Take care of yourself.
Your partner might need you.”
I thanked her, but I don’t think she heard me.
I didn’t want to leave Danny, but there was nothing I could do
for him. I took Sandy’s advice and followed her back to her
apartment in my Chevy Nova. She was right; I didn’t want to be
alone.
Sandy lived in a three-story apartment building close to where I
lived. Her apartment was well kept: a large living room, a kitchen, a
long hallway, and a bathroom, and one bedroom at the rear. By the
time we arrived, it was almost eleven. My body felt like someone
had been pounding on it all day. I stripped down to my skivvies and
sat on Sandy’s sofa. She turned on the TV to check the news and sat
beside me. The story of an NYPD detective having been shot had
spread across the media like jam on a slice of white bread. Danny’s
name had been mentioned several times. It made me sick to think
this was happening. Sandy took my hand and squeezed it. On the
television screen, Dr. Wingate was updating the press on Danny’s
condition. She wasn’t telling them anything she hadn’t already told
me. She was standing beside an inserted photograph of Lester Perry.
Beneath the photo were the words: “Alleged shooter.”
“Alleged shooter!” I shouted. The designation made my temper
explode. I picked up a pillow from the sofa and threw it across the
room. It knocked over a table lamp.
“Hey! Take it easy,” Sandy said. She up righted the lamp, then
snapped off the TV with the remote. “We know what happened
better than they do,” she said. “You know they have to use that
terminology.”
She retrieved the pillow from the floor and threw it back at me. I
deflected it from my head and let it land on the sofa cushion.
I was dealing with the situation as best I could and having a hard
time with it. I couldn’t shake the anger, the hatred, or the injustice. I
wondered if I had done something differently Danny wouldn’t have
been shot. Maybe if I’d planned things out a little better, before we
went into that room, the situation might not have ended as it did. I
leaned back against the sofa and closed my eyes. I was feeling
unwarranted guilt. I was blaming myself for what happened to
Danny.
Sandy sat beside me and ran her fingers through my hair. She
was sharing my frustration and knew what I was going through. She
was perceptive enough to see the self-imposed guilt on my face.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t blame yourself for what’s happened,” she said.
“You didn’t know what was on the other side of that door.”
“I should have been more cautious.”
“If you want to blame yourself for something you didn’t do, then
Danny is just as blameful for making the same mistake. He walked
through that doorway with you.”
 She kissed my cheek. “You did everything right. It happened so
fast.”
I gave her half a smile and said, “Thanks.”
“Let’s try to get a night’s sleep,” she said. “We’ll see what
tomorrow holds.”
Tomorrow was what I was afraid of.
 CHAPTER 2

I awoke just before dawn. As I had expected, I hadn’t slept very

well. Images of Danny lying on the floor in Cruz’s backroom flickered
through my subconscious memory like an old-time movie. What little
sleep I got was hindered by nightmares of Danny lying on the floor
begging for me to help him while I stood by watching him die. I
woke up in a cold sweat.
Beside me, Sandy was sleeping. My cell phone clock read 6:20
a.m. I slid out of bed and went to the kitchen to call the hospital.
Danny’s condition hadn’t changed. I suppose that could have been
construed as good news.
I took a shower and shaved and searched Sandy’s dresser for
clothes I kept in the bottom drawer for mornings just like this one. I
found a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, a pair of socks, and my old pair
of Reeboks. After I dressed, I went into the kitchen to make myself
some breakfast. I scrambled three eggs and seared two sausage
links and made a large pot of coffee. Enough for my usual two cups
and Sandy’s one, or “maybe just another half.”
It was pleasant sitting at the kitchen table in the morning silence.
But the tranquility brought back my concerns for Danny. I feared for
the worst, but I hoped for the best. As I ate, I recapped the previous
afternoon’s event. It hadn’t occurred to me until then. I might have
been the one to have taken the hit instead of Danny, or maybe both
of us could have gone down together. The possibilities evoked my
anger for Lester Perry. But I felt more than anger; I felt rage, mania,
hatred, vengeance, and a desire to destroy him for what he had
done to Danny. All these feelings welled inside me as I thought of
Perry, a smile on his face, gloating with a sense of achievement that
he had wasted a New York City cop. But Danny Nolan wasn’t just a
New York City cop. He was my partner, my friend. Someone I had
relied on for years; and someone who had relied on me.
 Danny was far from nondescript: tall, handsome, thirty-one, an
NYU grad living the carefree bachelor life in an apartment in Queens.
He was the epitome of professionalism on the job, always dressed in
a tailored suit, and never without a tie unless a special assignment
required casual clothing. His black hair was always trimmed and
combed to perfection.
Danny’s parents retired and moved to Florida to open a retail fish
store. Danny stayed behind, search for a wife, and pursue a police
career. Although he was younger than me, we’d hit it off and in time
became friends and partners; I think out of mutual respect, he for
my age and experience, and me for his youthful exuberance and
dedication to his profession. Under my auspices, Danny had become
a competent detective I was comfortable working with and knew I
could trust.
I wasn’t hungry anymore. I scraped my plate into the trash bin
and placed it in the sink, just as Sandy appeared in the doorway,
rubbing sleep from her eyes. She looked lovely in the early morning
light. Her auburn hair glittered as she passed through a ray of
sunlight.
“The kitchen is still open,” I said. “Today’s special is coffee,
scrambled eggs, sausage, or two stale cannoli.”
She put her arms around me and kissed me, a sweet morning
kiss. I needed the recharge.
“How’s Danny?” she said.
“The same,” I said.
“That’s good news,” she said.
Sandy was optimistic under any circumstance, which was
contrary to my life’s views. I’m unbothered by what other people’s
opinions are of me. And, although my cynicism has become an
intrinsic part of my psyche, I know how to love those I love and
cherish the love given me by those who love me. Police work can
make you cynical—if you let it.
Sandy rubbed my cheek with the back of her hand. “Just coffee
and toast for me,” she said. “You can have the cannoli.” She offered
me a curt smile, then turned and headed for the bathroom for her
morning shower.
 While Sandy showered, I called headquarters and got the phone
number for Danny’s parents in Florida. I had been putting off the
call, trying to figure the best choice of words to use in breaking the
bad news to them. I saved the number on my phone, then punched
in the numbers. I had to be subtle yet honest. They were elderly and
not in the best of health, Mrs. Nolan, whom I knew had a history of
angina. Mr. Nolan picked up on the first ring. I explained the
situation as delicately as I knew how. I didn’t want to panic him, yet
I didn’t want to sugarcoat the truth. Danny’s father reacted like one
would expect: at first denial, then fear, and then reason. He said he
and his wife would fly up from Florida at once to be with their son. I
suggested that wouldn’t be necessary and that I would keep a close
watch on Danny and keep them abreast of any changes. It didn’t
feel right, he said, being away from his son at a time like this, but it
was for the best because of his wife’s ill health. He agreed to stay
put for now and leave things “in God’s hands.” I gave him my home
phone and cell phone number and told him to call if he needed to
ask me anything or if he just wanted to check on Danny’s condition.
Before we ended the call, he thanked me for my unselfish kindness.
I reassured him his son was a tough young man and would be okay.
But such words during a crisis like this are inadequate.
I sat with Sandy while she had her coffee and toast. When she
was through, she placed her cup in the kitchen sink. I came up
behind her and put my arms around her. She said, “We’re going to
be late.”
I said, “I have no timetable today.”
She said. “Well, I do.”
I settled for a quick kiss before we left the apartment.
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
I was on my way to see Chief Briggs. I was sure he had ideas on
how to handle the Lester Perry case. I had some ideas of my own I
knew he’d like and some I was sure he wouldn’t. The ones I knew
he wouldn’t like; I’d keep to myself.
The cool air of the squad room hit me as I pushed open the
double doors and stepped inside. It was a welcomed relief since the
AC in my Chevy Nova had been lifeless for almost two years. After
sweltering almost daily during those New York City summer days,
you would think, by now, I would have gotten the unit repaired or
replaced, but the cost was outrageous, and the time wasn’t right—it
never was.
I made my way to my desk and checked my messages — nothing
pressing. I stopped by my mailbox to check my mail, but the box
was empty, so I headed for Brigg’s office.
Mike Briggs ran the detective bureau on his own terms. He was
as tough as nails and by the book, yet he maintained an
understanding and compassion few in the profession possessed.
Despite his reputation for toughness, any cop that was a part of his
team considered himself fortunate. Through the years, I found Mike
Briggs to be a friend when I needed one. This morning he was
wearing a two-piece gray suit over a white shirt with a pastel pink
tie, loose at the collar. His gray hair and mustache appeared even
whiter in the early morning sunlight. He was reading something at
his desk when I knocked on the glass of his office door. He looked
up and waved me in. I said, “Morning, Chief.” His reply was to slide a
manila folder across his desk to me as I approached. Even reading it
upside down, I could see it was a departmental dossier on Lester
Perry.
Briggs said, “According to this file, Perry is a suspect in
connection with a dozen murders in less than five years. Yet, he’s
never been arrested. Why isn’t he off the streets?”
“He’s elusive,” I said, “hard to find. And there’s never enough
evidence at the murder scene to secure an arrest.”
“You found him yesterday afternoon,” Briggs said.
“Dumb luck, if you can call it that,” I said. “And it may cost us a
life.”
“How do we know for sure he is connected to these murders?”
“By his MO,” I said. “There aren’t many murderers who garrote
their victims to death with a thin metal wire. He likes the hands-on
experience.”
“Is money his motive?”
“He’s for hire, but the thrill of the kill is his reward.”
 Briggs picked up the dossier and looked it over again. “There’s no
record of a driver’s license, no bank accounts or social security
number, not even a birth certificate. It’s like this guy doesn’t exist.
How the hell can we make an arrest?
“Perry was picked up a few years back on suspicion of murder. It
was the only time we even got close to him. He was questioned and
released due to a lack of evidence. Other than his name,
investigators could not find out any background information on him.
There just wasn’t any.”
“How was he connected to the murder?”
“Somebody dropped his name. Probably a rival drug peddler.
Officers were able to pick him up at his favorite bar in Midtown.
When they printed him, his prints didn’t match those found at the
murder scene, and he walked.” “And he’s been walking since,” Briggs
said.
“A lot of suspicion with little evidence,” I said.
“We can’t bring suspicion to a jury,” Briggs said.
“We need to build a profile on Perry; fatten up his dossier,” I said.
“We’ve got his prints, but that’s not enough. This guy’s been getting
away with murder for too long. He murders with impunity. Every
investigation into him has ended in a dead-end. But that’s going to
stop now. I’ll find him and make him pay for what he did to Danny.”
“You mean, make him pay for his crimes,” Briggs said.
“Yeah, that’s what I mean,” I said.
Briggs studied the small mug shot photograph that was paper-
clipped to the upper corner of the dossier’s first page. “This photo
isn’t recent,” he said. “He may look different, but it’s all we’ve got.
Make copies and distribute them to the proper units.”
He removed the photo and handed it to me. When I looked at it,
I was seeing the personification of evil, a face devoid of the graces
of humanity. I could find no commendable adjectives to the human
psyche in the hard, self-serving face staring back at me. Piercing,
deep-set eyes as black as coal exhibited greed. Thick loose lips
hanging beneath a beaklike nose, black hair slicked back against the
scalp, and a set of pointed ears were reminiscent of the tempter of
humankind—Satan!
 Evil looks as evil does.
“How involved is this guy with Cruz?” Briggs said.
I slid the photo into my jacket pocket and said, “Whenever Cruz
needs him, he’s there. But we have no hard evidence that Cruz ever
hired him to kill anyone.”
“Well, what the hell else would he do for Cruz, wash windows?”
“Cruz claims Perry delivers legal papers and contracts to
prospective clients, but we’re sure he’s transporting drugs.”
Briggs took time to read more of the dossier, then leaned back in
his chair. “This guy is a suspect in the killings of both men and
women, young and old. Christ, there’s even one here that possibly
ties him to the murder of a fifteen-year-old girl.” “There are many
sides to murder,” I said.
“What does that mean?” Briggs said.
I said, “People kill for a variety of reasons: greed, hatred, profit,
power, revenge, lust, and sometimes for the sheer pleasure of it.
Perry fits into every one of those categories, every side of murder.”
Briggs closed the dossier and looked at me straight. “This guy’s a
murder machine,” he said. “He has to be stopped.”
“He will be.”
“If we can find him.”
“I’ll find him.”
“What are your intentions?”
“I want to question Cruz. That’s the place to start. I think I can
squeeze something out of him about Perry.”
Briggs was silent for a moment, his face contemplative. I thought
he was evaluating my intentions until he said, “You’re too close to
this thing. Someone else should take the lead.”
“That would be a mistake,” I said. “This guy shot my partner. I’ll
find him.”
Briggs saw the determination on my face. He took a half-minute
to think about it, then said, “Okay, but I don’t want you working
alone. I’ll give you Garcia.”
“I’d rather work alone,” I said.
“Not a good idea.”
“But I can—”
 “We’ll do it my way,” Briggs said.
Miguel Garcia, Detective-2, was a good cop with a lot of
experience on the job, but he wasn’t as reliable or trustworthy as
Danny Nolan. Miguel liked to drink a bit too much on weekends, and
sometimes it took him until Monday, midday, to put himself back on
track. He was proficient at his job with a record of clean arrests and
convictions to prove it. Most people have challenges they need to
overcome. Garcia had excepted his challenge and was working to
overcome it before it got too far out of hand. Briggs had been aware
of Garcia’s weekend habit and had admonished him. As a
precaution, he had assigned Garcia to desk duty.
Allowing Garcia to work the streets again might’ve given him the
discipline he needed to change his behavior. I wouldn’t be as
comfortable working with him as I had working with Danny, but I
could rely on his experience just the same.
Garcia slid into the passenger seat of my Chevy Nova. He looked
better than he had in a long time. He wore a two-piece brown suit
over a soft yellow shirt and a dark brown tie. His black hair was
combed back against his head, and his mustache was trimmed
above the corners of his mouth. I could detect the faint fragrance of
“Aqua Velva” aftershave.
“It feels good to get back on the road,” he said. “I’m glad for the
opportunity.” Then he added, “I mean, not like this, but—”
I knew what he meant and said, “It’s like riding a bike. When you
get back on after a long absence, it comes right back to you.”
He said, “Thanks for getting me off that desk.”
“It was Briggs’ idea,” I said.
He wasn’t sure how to take that and said, “Any word on Danny?”
“He’s holding his own,” I said.
Garcia nodded and said, “Where’re we headed?”
“We’re going back to Armando Cruz’s place. I want to see what
he can tell us about Lester Perry.”
“Isn’t that where you and Danny—?”
I didn’t answer him, but started the Chevy and pulled out into
traffic.
 CHAPTER 3

When we got to 14th Street, I parked a few storefronts down and

we walked to Cruz’s place of business. Through the plate-glass
window, I could see the inside was brightly lit and people were
occupying their respective desks. A far cry from how it had looked
the afternoon Danny and I arrived. The lights weren’t on then, and
there was no activity inside. I should have taken that as an ominous
sign.
We opened the door and went in. A young woman behind a desk
looked up at us without a smile. “Can I help you?” she said. She
didn’t look like she wanted to help us. “We’re here to see Mr. Cruz,” I
said.
“Is he expecting you?”
I flipped her my shield.
She picked up her phone, spoke into it, then hung up and said,
“Follow me, please.”
We followed her to the door on the back wall. The door to Hell
that Danny and I had opened the previous afternoon. She opened
the door without knocking, and we went in. I was not unfamiliar
with the office. Although now I was seeing it in a different light. It
was furnished with lots of warm wood. Framed prints and
documents were hung strategically about the walls, and there was a
large fish tank on a wrought-iron stand against the wall to our left.
In front of us was the desk. The one Perry was standing behind
when he unloaded on Danny and me. Armando Cruz sat behind the
desk in a large beige leather armchair. He didn’t get up when we
entered but said, “How can I help you?”
I held up my shield. “Detectives Graham and Garcia,” I said.
Cruz was a short, wiry looking guy. His skin was dark, and his
hair was darker. He was wearing a tan two-piece suit over a white
shirt and a pastel green tie. His face was smooth-shaven but
displayed an unhealthy hue. He was chewing a cigar and spoke
through a veil of light gray smoke, which he exhaled through thick
lips.
“I’m looking for Lester Perry,” I said. “I know he works for you.”
“I have employed, Mr. Perry,” he said. “Why is he of interest to
you?”
“He’s a suspect in a murder,” I said.
Cruz didn’t comment, but took the time to draw on his cigar and
let the smoke out.
“I haven’t seen Mr. Perry in more than a month,” he said. “I only
use his service when I need to.”
“What service is that?” Garcia said.
“We are a small real estate business,” he said, “but sometimes
we get more clients than we can handle. I use Mr. Perry as a leg
man. He saves me enormous time by delivering contracts and
affidavits to lawyers and various departments at City hall.” “What
qualifies him to do that?” Garcia said.
“What qualifications are required to transport folders and
documents to prospective clients?” Cruz said. “Is that all he does for
you?” I said.
“What are you getting at, detective?”
“That maybe he does more for you than you’re telling me.” “Are
you suggesting something unlawful?” he said.
He stood and placed his cigar in an ashtray on his desk. “I am an
honest business owner,” he said. “I keep a tight ship. I’ve never been
arrested and have no criminal record.”
“If I find out you’re not telling me the truth, I’ll sink you and your
ship,” I said.
“I’ve told you what I know,” he said. “If you want to know more
about Mr. Perry, you’ll have to ask him.”
“Do you have an address where we can find him?” I said.
Cruz furrowed his brow and thought for a moment. “He moves
about a lot,” he said. “I may have an address, but it might not be
current.”
“What about a phone number?”
“He’s never given me one.”
“How do you contact him?”
 “I don’t. He contacts me.”
“By phone?”
“No, he shows up here.”
“Whenever he needs work?”
“Yes.”
Cruz didn’t like my line of questioning. He was making up
answers as we went along.
I didn’t like being lied to.
“I’ll take whatever you have,” I said.
Cruz wrote on his notepad, tore off the top sheet, and handed it
to me.
“Our conversation is over,” he said.
Inside the Chevy, I read the notepaper. It seemed strange that
Cruz could jot down Perry’s info from memory since he claimed he
only worked with him occasionally. The notes contained two
addresses where we might find Lester Perry. Both addresses were in
Brooklyn. I handed the paper to Garcia. “Who do you know in
Brooklyn?” I said.
“An old girlfriend,” he said.
“How old?” I said.
“Old enough,” he said.
Garcia smiled. I smiled back and started the Chevy.
We took the Williamsburg Bridge to the Brooklyn Queens
Expressway until we found the off-ramp for Jackson Street. We
drove for several blocks until we found the number 417 on the front
of an older two-story colonial house. The neighborhood was seedy. I
parked a few houses down and we got out. I didn’t expect to find
Perry waiting for us, but I cautioned Garcia just the same. “We’re
going to ring the bell and see who answers. Watch yourself.”
Garcia felt for the gun he had clipped to his belt under his suit
jacket.
We walked down the sidewalk and up a brick walkway. Several
wooden steps were leading up to the front door. The house was
quiet; no light showing through the front windows on the first floor.
The doorbell was hanging by one wire, so I knocked.
 A guy who looked in his fifties opened the door. He was
unshaven, overweight, and smelled of stale tobacco smoke. He was
wearing jean shorts and a dirty tank top. He sipped from the can of
beer he was holding before he said, “I’m not buying.”
I showed him my shield and said, “Is this where Lester
Perry lives?”
“Used to,” he said.
“What does that mean?”
“Haven’t seen him in months.”
“Why not?”
“He left one day and never came back. His rent’s paid, so it
doesn’t matter to me.”
“How did he pay his rent?”
“Cash.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
He shook his head and said, “Don’t care.”
“I didn’t ask you if you cared,” I said. “I asked you if you knew
where he is now?”
“How would I know?” he said.
“Have you rented his room?”
“Not yet.”
“Can we look?”
“Don’t you need a warrant?”
“Not if you let me look.”
“Why should I?” he said. He took another sip of beer.
“And harboring a criminal,” Garcia said.
The guy almost choked on his beer. “Damn, I knew that guy was
strange,” he said, “but didn’t think he was a criminal.”
I handed him my card. “If he shows up, call me. Let’s see the
room.”
“Sure, I don’t want to get into no trouble with the cops,” he said.
He opened the door for us and lead us down a dimly lit hallway
to a door at the rear of the house. He took out his key ring and
unlocked the door for us. We stepped inside and I thanked him and
closed the door behind us.
 When I flipped on the light switch, it didn’t surprise me to see
the room in disarray. It smelled of stale smoke and whiskey. There
was an unmade twin bed against one wall, a bedside table, a four
draw dresser, and a small writing desk beneath a window at the rear.
Garcia opened the door to a closet in a corner. It was empty but for
some wooden hangers. Perry had abandoned the room.
At a two drawer bedside table, I pulled open the top drawer. It
was empty. The bottom drawer held a porn magazine and a dirty
hairbrush. While Garcia pulled back the drawers in the dresser, I
searched the desk. There was nothing in the side drawers, but inside
the top drawer, I found a ceramic ashtray. It had a single crushed
cigarette butt in it. Beside the ashtray was a matchbook with the
inscription: “Durango Lounge”. The address was on 10th Avenue in
Manhattan. I dropped the matchbook in my pocket and took out my
handkerchief. I wrapped the cigarette butt inside it and placed it in
the breast pocket of my jacket. It would contain Perry’s DNA. The
first step in building a valid case against him.
 CHAPTER 4

We left Perry’s room and drove to the other side of the borough.
I was satisfied we had at least gotten a DNA sample out of the trip.
The second address was a well-kept Garden type apartment on
East 38th Street. It had four floors and a flat roof. I parked in the lot
and walked to the front office while Garcia waited by the Chevy. A
heavy-set woman was sitting behind a counter, watching a small-
screen TV and munching Macadamia nuts from a wooden bowl. She
was wearing a bathrobe, and her gray hair was in curlers. She had
been watching a small-screen TV and was adjusting the rabbit ears
antenna as I approached her.
“I’m looking for Lester Perry,” I said. “He’s lives here.” “I flipped
open my shield. She looked at it with indifference.
She glanced down at a printed blotter on the desk and said,
“Room 214.”
I said, “Is he in?”
She said, “Do you see a pair of binoculars hanging around my
neck?”
She reached over to a board of hanging keys, lifted one off a
hook, and handed it to me.
Perry’s apartment was on the second floor. Garcia and I climbed
the stairs to a metal balcony and walked down an open-air hallway.
We followed it until we came to apartment number 214. There were
no sounds in the hallway or behind the apartment door.
I knocked.
We waited.
I knocked again.
Garcia put his hand on his gun as I slid the key into the door
lock. I said to him, “Step back.” Garcia gave me a confused look. I
said, again, “Step back.” I had no intention of making the same
mistake I had made with Danny. As Garcia took a step back, I
pushed the door open. We walked into a large living room. I was hit
by the pungent fragrance of lavender.
“This guy likes expensive cologne,” Garcia said.
I looked around but saw no bouquets or flower arrangements. I
wrinkled my nose and said, “Too feminine for me.”
The room was lit by the sun streaming through a large picture
window. We walked in and closed the door behind us. The floor was
carpeted in a slate gray color. The walls were a soft white. There
was a large three-piece sectional sofa with a glass coffee table in
front of it; several white ceramic elephants were placed on the
tabletop. Against one wall was a well-stocked glass and metal bar.
On the wall behind it hung a colorful framed print of a Bengal tiger.
Perry was living large, I thought. Murder must be a booming
business.
Garcia checked out the bathroom while I walked into the only
bedroom. The room was clean. The lavender fragrance lingered here
too. A king-sized bed was centered against a rear wall between two
bedside tables. Above the headboard hung a large color print of a
male lion staring menacingly into the camera. There was a huge
walk-in closet and a full-length mirror on the wall beside the bed. An
armoire that reached almost to the ceiling completed the furnishings.
I began with the armoire. It was stocked with suits, trousers, shoes,
and hats. There was nothing in it that didn’t belong there. The
drawers in the bedside tables held a few wildlife magazines, a
paperback book, and an opened box of condoms.
Garcia came into the bedroom. He was holding a plastic bag out
for me to see. Inside was a toothbrush. “DNA,” he said.
He put the bag in his pocket as he followed me into the closet.
The closet was stocked fuller than the armoire. Every piece of men’s
clothing was hanging or resting on shelves, pressed and arranged
according to color. A haberdasher would have been proud.
As I walked deeper into the closet, I moved some hanging suits
away from a corner wall. Garcia saw it at the same time I did. In a
corner on the floor, half-hidden by the suits, was a large spool of
metal wire. The label read: 20 MILL: SHEET METAL WIRE.
Garcia said, “Perry’s keeping himself well-stocked.”
 Satisfied we had uncovered nothing of significance, we walked to
the door to leave. I’d request a CSI team to come to the apartment
to see what they can get on Perry. With the prints we already had in
his record, and DNA from that cigarette butt and toothbrush, we
could begin adding vital info into Perry’s scanty dossier.
When I opened the door, I was met by a woman standing in the
doorway. It surprised her to see me. I could tell by the way she
jumped a bit and her eyes widened. She looked in her late-twenties
with blonde shoulder-length hair. She was wearing tight jeans, a low
neck long sleeve flowered blouse, and a pair of Sketcher casual
shoes. Silver hoop earrings hung from her ears. Despite an
overabundance of makeup, she was inherently beautiful.
“Can I help you?” I said.
“I’m looking for Lester,” she said.
“Lester Perry?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m supposed to meet him here.”
“He’s not here,” I said.
“Are you looking for him, too?” she said.
“Do you know where he is?
“Are you a cop?”
I showed her my shield, and said, “Join the search party.”
“Oh, crap,” she said.
She stepped inside and I closed the door.
“What’s your business with Lester?” I said.
“He’s a friend.”
“Are you his girlfriend?”
“I guess,” she said. “Is Lester in trouble?”
“Can I see some ID?”
She fumbled through her purse. Her hands were trembling when
she handed me her driver’s license. García snapped a picture with
his cell phone, and I handed it back to her. Her name was Amanda
Dixon, and she lived in Park Slope, Brooklyn.
“Why did you do that?” she said,
I ignored her question and said, “How long have you lived in Park
Slope?”
“About a year, since I arrived here from L.A.”
 “How long have you known Lester?” Garcia said.
“I met him a few months after I got here,” she said.
“Why did you come here today?” I said.
“We’re going to the zoo,” she said. “Lester’s an animal lover.”
There was a juxtaposing I hadn’t expected. “Hence, your trip to
the zoo,” I said
“Hence?” she said.
“That’s why you’re going to the zoo.”
“Oh, yeah,” she said.
“Do you live alone?”
“Just me and my pussy,” she said. She giggled at that, then said,
“She’s a Persian longhair. Lester adores her.”
“When was the last time you heard from Perry?” Garcia said.
“A few days ago,” she said, “but that’s not unusual. Sometimes
he’s away on business.”
“What kind of business?” I said.
“He said he was in real estate.”
“Don’t you believe him?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
I handed her one of my cards. She looked at it and said, “Why
are you looking for Lester?”
“He may be a suspect in a crime.”
She seemed surprised when she said, “What kind of crime?”
I ignored her second question and said, “If you see him, call me
at that number.”
We left the apartment together. Garcia waited in the parking lot
while I returned the key to the woman at the front desk. She was
guzzling from a bottle of Diet Coke as I dropped the key on the
counter. She had moved the TV to the other side of the counter and
was adjusting the antenna again. I took out one of my cards and
dropped it on the counter. “If Perry shows up, call me,” I said.
She didn’t look at the card, but continued adjusting the antenna
with a degree of frustration. I thanked her and walked out.
We watched Amanda Dixon get into a green Subaru and drive
away before we got into the Chevy.
“Do you think she is telling the truth?” Garcia said.
 “She knows more about Perry than she’s told us,” I said.
“We can corroborate her credentials through her license plate,”
Garcia said.
I grimaced, and said, “Damn, I didn’t get her tag number.” “I
did,” Garcia said.
Good cop, that Garcia.
 CHAPTER 5
The first murder!

Mrs. Beatrice Farwell lived alone in the Benton Apartments, ever

since her husband of forty years died of a massive stroke two years
ago. Beatrice had adapted as best she could to her alternative
lifestyle. At age eighty-two, living alone with no children and no
surviving relatives made life more difficult than it needed to be. But
Beatrice was from the old school, intrepid and optimistic that her
eternal belief in the Lord would bring her the peace and comfort she
sought during her remaining years.
Her heart ached at the loss of her beloved Sidney, but life hadn’t
been as bad as she had expected. She still had the knitting club
every Wednesday night, and the book club on Saturday afternoons.
And, of course, there was Mildred, her best friend and neighbor who
lived next door. Their ritual breakfast at the “Old Glory” café was
something she looked forward to each morning.
It was 7:00 p.m. by the time Beatrice got back from her knitting
club. She had walked the three blocks from the rec center to her
apartment, as she usually did. She wasn’t comfortable using the
elevator when she was alone, so she walked up the three flights of
stairs. Her feet were aching by the time she reached her apartment
and put her key in the door. She hung her coat in the hall closet and
placed her knitting basket on the closet shelf. She went into her
bedroom and changed into her favorite nightgown, the one that
made her feel sexy, even at her age. She slid her tired feet into her
bedroom slippers, then went into the bathroom and washed with the
new flower fragrance soap she had purchased at Wal-Mart. In the
kitchen, she put a kettle over a flame for some chamomile tea.
When her tea was ready, she took the cup into the living room and
nestled into her favorite chair. She thought about watching TV but
decided to finish reading the book she had started for the book club.
The room was peaceful, warm, and comfortable.
She had read only a few pages when a knock came on her door.
She looked up and listened. Who would call at this time of night?
The knock came again.
Perhaps it was Mildred. She had better answer it.
She put her book down and walked to the door. She stood for a
moment and listened. There was no sound from the other side.
“Who’s there?” she said.
No response.
“Is that you, Mille?” she said, as she unlatched the security chain
and turned the doorknob.
The door was pushed open against her, causing her to lose
balance and take a step back. As she did,. the figure of a man
walked out of the dim light of the hallway and into her living room.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, with arms like knotted ropes that
hung almost to his knees. He was dressed in black, even to the black
rubber gloves he wore. A black knit cap covered his head and his
face was gaunt and hard. His dark eyes were set deep; when she
looked at them, they stirred fear in her. She detected a pleasant
scent of flowers as he stepped into the room, a strange association
considering the menacing figure he presented.
Her instinct was to scream, but before she could, he covered her
face with his huge hand. He lifted her into his arms as he kicked the
door shut with his foot and carried her into her bedroom. Fear of the
worst possibilities ran through her head. What did this intruder
want? She was an old woman with meager means who possessed
nothing of value. She could only think of the worst possibilities:
rape, torture, or even murder.
He laid her gently on her bed and stood looking down at her. She
was free to scream, but chose not to, for fear of angering him. She
was at his mercy. There was no way to defend herself against this
intruder. She waited to see what this man wanted. “What do you
want?” she said. “I have nothing of value.” He reached into the
inside pocket of his jacket and brought out what she saw as a coil of
thin wire. It reflected the room light as he straightened the wire into
a two-foot length. His movements were slow and methodical. He
was in no hurry. He lifted her into a sitting position.
“What are you doing?” she said. “Please, don’t hurt me.” The
wire felt cold around her throat as he positioned it under her chin.
She panicked as she realized what was about to happen. Why was
he doing this? She didn’t even know this man. If he wanted money,
she would give him what little money she had. But he hadn’t asked
for anything. He hadn’t spoken a word. She reached up and tried to
take hold of the wire, but it was impossible to find beneath the
fleshy folds of skin on her throat. She wanted to scream, she needed
to scream, but it was too late. She struggled to breathe as the wire
tightened around her throat . . . and tightened . . . and tightened.

***

I was about to make some breakfast when my cell phone rang. It

was 7:00 a.m. I said, “Who is this?” I never identify myself without
first finding out who is on the other end of the line. It’s a good habit
I had developed over the years and an unabashed display of my
cynicism.
“We’ve got a problem. Max.” It was Chief Briggs. He said, “I need
you right away.”
I thought of my partner. “Is it Danny?” I said.
“Danny’s still holding his own,” he said, “But I want you here
now.”
I had heard such urgency in Briggs’ voice. I was sure I was about
to get into something more than the everyday homicides I was
accustomed to.
“We’ve got one on East 29th Street,” he said. “The Benton
Apartments. There’s something you should see.”
I got to the Benton Apartments in less than an hour. Briggs was
waiting for me by the front entrance door. I said, “What do we
have?” He said, “Upstairs.” He offered no additional information as
we walked across the main lobby to the elevators.
 We took the elevator to the third floor and walked down a long
hallway to apartment number 36. The apartment was crowded with
uniforms and forensics. Briggs said, “Let’s get all unnecessary
personnel out of here, and remove those police vehicles from the
front of the building, now.”
Briggs was using minimal personnel on the Perry case. His
intention was to prevent leaks to the press. An exaggerated story
printed about a serial killer at large would cause pandemonium in
the city and become an impediment to solving an already difficult
case.
We were standing in a front room, modestly furnished, and well
maintained. I detected the slight fragrance of lavender. It was the
same fragrance I had picked up at Perry’s apartment. There were no
flower arrangements in the room.
In police work, there are no coincidences. The recurring
fragrance might’ve been a “tell” that investigators had missed in the
past. I made a mental note.
As the “unnecessary personnel” began filtering out, Briggs
indicated with his hand for me to follow him. We walked into a rear
bedroom.
Lavender again! No flowers!
The window curtains were drawn, leaving the room dark, but for
a small lamp on the bedside table illuminating the unmade bed.
Detectives were dusting for prints, and forensics was going over the
area with their usual proficiency. On the double bed, I saw the body
of an elderly woman. She was wearing a sheer nightgown. One
bedroom slipper was on her right foot, the other was on the floor
below her. She was hanging half off the bed, her eyes open, staring
up at the ceiling.
“Next-door neighbor found her this morning,” Briggs said. “They
were to have breakfast together. When she didn’t answer her phone
or come to the door, the neighbor called security.”
I stepped closer for a better look. There were no signs of a
struggle, and she didn’t appear to have been assaulted. Her face
was an ashen blue. Around her neck was a ring of dark red
coagulated blood. Almost concealed by the blood was a thin metal
wire embedded at least an inch into the loose flesh of her throat.
Death by asphyxiation can happen quickly, but it can seem like a
very long time when you’re struggling for your life. This woman had
suffered a slow, merciless death. The MO was Lester Perry’s. Perry
had been careful not to leave any clues to connect him to his past
crimes. It was unlikely forensics would find anything to connect him
to this one.
A young detective I didn’t know approached Briggs and said,
“She must have known the perp and let him in. There’re no signs of
a break-in. Her purse is on the kitchen table with thirty-seven dollars
in it. So far, it appears nothing was taken.”
Briggs said, “Thank you, detective.”
When the detective walked away, I said to Briggs, “He took one
thing.”
Briggs said, “What’s that?”
I said, “Her life.”
Another victim would be added to Lester Perry’s cavalcade of
murders, leaving NYPD clueless to bring him to justice.
“There’s more,” Briggs said. He pointed a finger, indicating for me
to look behind me. When I turned, I was looking into a mirror
mounted above a chest of drawers. Written in blood on the mirror
were the words: “How is your partner?” My throat tightened.
“Perry’s got a new game,” Briggs said. “And you’re his main
player.”
 CHAPTER 6

The detective bureau was comprised a large room with desks

placed in rows, one detective to one desk. I had been relegated to a
desk in a far corner of the room, in front of a set of windows that
looked out onto West 35th Street. Although I was out of the
mainstream, I preferred seclusion and privacy.
I was looking over Lester Perry’s dossier. There wasn’t much,
other than several investigations that had gone nowhere. This guy
was good at murder. He had left no evidence to link him to his dirty
work, other than his MO. After the shooting at Cruz’s office, Perry
knew I’d be on his ass after what he had done to Danny. The bloody
message he’d left on that mirror was there to taunt me. I wasn’t
sure what his game was at this point. Maybe he thought he could
scare me away. There is no such thing as infallibility, and although
this guy was a monster, he was still a man. If I applied if enough
pressure to him, he’d break, slip up, and be his own undoing. I was
a pressure expert at receiving and giving.
I got the okay from Briggs to set up a twenty-four-seven watch
on Perry’s 38th Street apartment. I had distributed the photo of Perry
to the uniforms and detective squads with instructions to contact me
directly if he or anyone tried to enter Perry’s apartment. I was
working on the premise that Perry had to return to his apartment at
some point, considering all his creature comforts were there.
I also verified Amanda Dixon’s credentials. She’d been born and
raised in Los Angeles and moved to New York City twelve months
ago, as she had told me. She had been arrested by the L.A. police,
once for soliciting, and twice for drunk and disorderly. She was the
only child of Harriet and Roger Dixon, both deceased. She had no
formal education other than a high school diplomat. She was
unemployed and collecting government subsidies. I wondered how
she got hooked up with Perry, and how much she knew about him
and was willing to talk about.
 It was almost noon when I phoned the hospital. I was keeping a
close watch on Danny and wanted to be available. I spoke with Dr.
Wingate. She had become the lead physician in Danny’s case. Danny
was still in the coma, but they were able to reduce the swelling
some.
“Should I consider that good news?” I said.
“He is resting and his vitals are stable.”
“When can I see him?”
“I’ll let you know,” she said.
“How long could he stay in the coma?”
“Hard to tell,” she said. “He might regain consciousness
tomorrow or remain in that state for a longer time.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Keep yourself available. When your partner wakes up, he’ll want
to see you.”
I thanked her and ended the call. There was nothing more she
could tell me about Danny’s condition. As far as I was concerned, he
wasn’t out of the woods. It was still “touch and go”.
I had promised the Nolan’s I would keep them informed, so I
punched up their number to give them the update. Mrs. Nolan
answered the phone on the first ring. Although we had never met,
she sounded like a decent, tender woman. The concern and worry
she had for her son were clear in her voice. I was trying to be as
diplomatic and honest as I could while I gave her the update. She
understood clearly and absorbed the information with courage that I
respected. She thanked me and I assured her I’d keep in touch.
When I ended the call, I felt as much compassion and concern for
the Nolan’s as I had for Danny.
It was almost noon. I skipped lunch. I wanted to check out the
Durango Lounge. It took almost forty minutes to get to 10th Avenue.
The Lounge was on 10th, near 18th Street. I parked the Chevy a half-
block away and walked up the crowded sidewalk.
The front of the lounge was painted a dull white. The entrance
door was painted red. There was a large picture window beside it.
The window had dirty vertical blinds behind it. I opened the door
and went in. In a darkened vestibule, a doorman confronted me.
The guy was scary big; well over six feet, with biceps like truck tires
and a chest layered with muscles. His hair was spiked down the
middle, and he had silver hoops in his ear. He looked at me but
didn’t say a word. As I walked passed him, I offered him a friendly
smile. He didn’t smile back.
The bar room was done up in a western motif. Country music
was playing from a jukebox in a dark corner. A mahogany bar,
against one wall, ran the length of the room. Men and women
occupied it, telling lies to each other and sharing their sorrows.
There were tables scattered about and a dance floor was in the
center of the room.
I stepped up to the bar. The bartender was a heavyset guy with
a doughy face and a white goatee. He was wearing a straw cowboy
hat. “What are ya having?” he said. I showed him my shield. He
looked at it and said again, “What are ya having?” I ordered a gingal
ale. When the bartender came back with my drink, I said, “I’m
looking for Lester Perry.”
“Don’t know him,” he said.
“I understand he hangs out here.”
“Don’t know him,” he said again.
“Is there anyone here who does?”
He pointed down the crowded bar. “Take your pick,” he said.
“Most of them are regulars here.”
I thanked him and carried my drink down the bar until I came to
a guy drinking alone. “Excuse me,” I said. “Do you know where I can
find Lester Perry?” The guy downed the last of his drink before he
said, “I got no idea, but you can ask his brother. He’s the guy at the
end of the bar in the three-piece suit.”
“I thought you said you didn’t know him?” I said.
“I don’t,” the guy said. “I know his brother.” He pointed again to
the guy in the suit.
I didn’t know Perry had a brother. But this might be a piece of
luck in creating a profile on Perry. A guy was sitting alone on the last
stool, sipping from a mug of beer. He was well-groomed and looked
to be in his thirties. His hair was buzz cut and his face clean-shaven.
He wore a gray suit and white shirt, open at the collar. A blue tie
was half hanging out of the pocket of his suit jacket where he’d
stuffed it.
As I approached him, I held open my shield for him to see.
“I’m looking for Lester Perry,” I said. “I’m told you’re his brother.”
“Is he dead or in jail?” the guy said.
“He’s a person of interest in a case concerning a friend of mine.”
He took a sip from his beer.
“Can I see some ID?” I said.
He opened his wallet and showed me his driver’s license. His
name was Dwight Perry, and he lived in Elmhurst, Queens, New
York. I handed him back his license.
“Are you looking for my brother to arrest him for a crime?”
“As I said, he’s a person of interest.”
“I haven’t seen my brother in almost a year,” he said.
“I understand he does his drinking here.”
“He used to. He’s never in one place long enough for anyone to
keep a tab on him. I gave up trying.” He turned on his stool to face
me. “I’d like to keep it that way,” he said. “You don’t get along?”
“We’re two different people,” he said. Then he stopped and said,
“Should I be talking to you?”
“Whatever you can tell me would be helpful,” I said, “and
appreciated.”
He took another sip of his beer and took his time thinking about
how much he wanted to tell me. “My brother’s always been a loner,
kept to himself. He was a strange kid.” “How so?”
“He did things that weren’t normal,” he said.
“Weren’t normal?”
He hesitated, then said, “He killed things. As a kid, he enjoyed
stepping on bugs. Once he set a squirrel on fire and drowned a
rabbit. When he hung our house cat from a tree in our yard, my
parents recognized there was a problem.”
“How did they handle it?”
“They didn’t know how to handle it. My Dad said Lester would
grow out of it. It put a constant strain on them. I think they were
almost glad when he ran away from home.”
 “When was that?”
“When he was fifteen. He’s been on his own ever since. Both my
parents died with a broken heart.”
This guy was keeping information from me or he was telling the
truth about his brother. It was a strange scenario, but not impossible
to believe.
“Listen, I live a different life from my brother,” he said. “I sell life
insurance for a major company. I have a wife and a nine-year-old
son. We live in a modest house in a modest neighborhood and live a
modest but happy life. I don’t want to get involved with my brother.”
I handed him my card and said, “If you hear from your brother,
call me.”
He took the card and said, “Sure, but it’s not likely.”
He turned on his stool and went back to his beer.
 CHAPTER 7

I lived in a three-room apartment in a two-story house on

Bigelow Street in the town of Green Ridge, New Jersey. The small
community sits amid the Watchung mountains, just East of Route
78. I had rented the second-floor rooms from Mrs. Jankowski, who
owns the building. She had given me the rooms at a better than
standard rate as a favor to my mother, whom she played bingo with
every Friday night at St. Michael’s Church.
My divorce left me with no place to live. Marlene and I had sold
our home of fifteen years, satisfied our debts, and split the
remaining cash. Marlene bought the house at the Jersey shore and I
took advantage of Mrs. Jankowski’s generosity.
My apartment comprised one large living room, a small kitchen,
one bedroom, and a bathroom at the rear. I had furnished it
according to my modest needs. Although after I’d met Sandy, she’d
added a few things she said would warm the place up: several
framed colorful prints, a menagerie of ceramic figurines, two
matching throw pillows for the sofa, and several flowered vases. She
assured me they would add ambiance to the place.
It was Saturday morning. I had slept later than I’d expected.
With the stress and worry over Danny that I’d been carrying; It
surprised me I’d slept a full, undisturbed night.
I sat up on the edge of my bed and punched in the numbers for
the hospital on my cell. Danny’s condition hadn’t changed. He was
still unconscious. I didn’t feel good about that. I took a quick shower
and ate a quick breakfast. I put on a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, and
my Adidas sneakers. I had called my ex-wife, Marlene, and asked if I
could visit with the girls.
Marlene and I had gone through a contentious divorce after
nineteen years of marriage. We had genuinely loved each other and
produced two beautiful girls: but the toll of living with a cop became
too much for Marlene. She had endured the years of weekend work
and shift work and the uncertainty of whether her husband would
come home in one piece, or come home at all. It wasn’t Marlene’s
fault that the marriage dissolved. She had the marriage, and I had
the career, and sometimes, it's difficult to balance both. Near the
end, the bickering and complaining took a toll on me as well, and I
conceded to the divorce.
The proceedings had been ugly, but we had come to the
understanding that a civil tolerance of each other was the right thing
to do for the sake of our girls. Christie and Justine were everything
to me, and I missed them since Marlene bought the house in South
Jersey. I tried to see the girls whenever it was practical.
I kept the Chevy Nova at a smooth fifty-five miles per hour as I
drove the Garden State Parkway, South. The Nova had been our
family car for years until we bought the Audie. When we divorced,
Marlene got the Audi. I got the Nova. I needed a new ride, but my
recent divorce and double child support payments extinguished that
idea. After ten years of loyal service and almost 100,00 miles, the
Nova had seen better days. Her color had faded, and her hubcaps
had lost their luster. You can only do so much with spray paint and
body filler. Nostalgia overtook me whenever I thought about trading
her in. So I kept her in as good a working order as I could. I figured
I owed her that much after all the years we’d been together. It was
ironic how I could keep my car, but not my wife. Anyway, we had a
mutual understanding; I treated her tenderly, and she took me
wherever I needed to go.
Meola Beach is a small community at the New Jersey shore, just
south of Asbury Park. After our divorce, Marlene bought a bungalow
there, within walking distance of the ocean. I was never a shore
person; all that salt air and sand gave me an all-over gritty feeling.
But the pleasure of spending time with my daughters far surpassed
any minor discomfort I was forced to endure.
The house was a cape cod style. Its clapboards were painted
white and red shutters adorned its windows.. A red brick chimney
rose from a gable end. A white picket fence surrounded the front
lawn area, which was a bed of white stones rather than green grass,
an application indigenous to the locale.
 I parked on the gravel driveway behind the Audie and walked up
the brick walkway to the front door. Before I could press the
doorbell, the door opened, and I was looking at the excited, smiling
faces of Christie and Justine.
“Daddy!” they shouted in unison. “We knew you’d come.” They
wrapped their arms around me in a bear hug. I squeezed their little
bodies against mine. As we stepped into the living room, Justine
said. “We have a new kitten.” She ran into her room and brought
back a gray ball of fur. She held it in front of me to see. I stroked the
kitten gently.
“We call her Floppy because her ears flop down,” Christie said.
“She’s a pretty kitten,” I said.
Justine looked like she had grown two inches since I had seen
her last. Her red hair had darkened some and the pattern of freckles
on her face seem to have lightened to a less noticeable degree,
much to her joy, I’m sure. She was wearing blue shorts, blue Keds
sneakers, and a white-flowered shirt. Her hair had been set in a
ponytail with a purple ribbon.
Christie looked more like her older sister each time I’d seen her.
Although she still had that tomboy nature, I could see the
womanhood developing within her. She was comfortable in her cut-
off jeans, gray sweatshirt and bare feet.
Marlene was at the kitchen sink rinsing dishes. I said, “Hello,
Marlene.”
She said, “How is Danny?” without turning.
“Not out of the woods, but holding his own.”
“I say a prayer for him every night,” she said.
“Prayer is good,” I said.
Although the house was small, Marlene kept it neat and
functional. There was a living room, a kitchen, one small bathroom,
Marline’s bedroom, and a bedroom for each of the girls. Marlene had
always had an eye for interior decorating. She had furnished the
living room was American colonial pieces: a large sofa in the room’s
center, two end tables, an overstuffed armchair, and a matching
loveseat situated under the front windows. A large screen TV rested
atop a metal and smoked glass TV stand. Multi patterned draperies
corresponded with the fabric color of the sofa, tying everything
together nicely.
I followed the girls to the living room sofa, where we frolicked
with the kitten. Marlene finished her work, then came in to join us.
“This thing with Danny is so tragic,” she said. I can imagine how you
feel.”
“I’m handling it,” I said as I rolled the kitten onto its back and
rubbed its belly.
“I got a hundred on my pop quiz at school,” Christie said.
“Good job,” I said, and high-fived her.
“How are his parents taking it?” Marlene said.
“I keep them informed,” I said. “They’re decent courageous
people and rely on their faith for strength.”
“I might take piano lessons,” Justine said. “If we can afford it.”
“We’ll see,” Marlene said.
I’d wanted to get my mind off Danny by visiting with Marlene and
the girls, but Marlene needed to say what she wanted, so I let her.
When she was through with her inquiry, she suggested we have
lunch on the backyard patio. The girls agreed. The opportunity to
chase their kitten through the high grass appealed to them more
than hotdogs and cheeseburgers on the grill.
The rear yard was an adequate size, surrounded by a chain-link
fence. A large Weeping Willow tree stood in one corner, shading that
part of the yard, its reaching limbs hovering above the fence and the
girl’s swing set. The patio, set close to the house, was made up of
brick pavers and bordered with small boxwoods. Marlene had
designed and planted the shrubs after she had the patio built. She
was good at that sort of thing. I had purchased a round outdoor
table and chairs and an outdoor umbrella. A gas-fired grill completed
my contribution.
The rest of the day was more than pleasurable. Marlene was
cordial but cautious, which had been her demeanor toward me since
our divorce. I was my usual, affable self. We ate lunch together and
watched the girls play with their new kitten in the backyard grass.
They tossed a ball about and teased the kitten until it was near
exhaustion. Marlene and I kept our conversation on family matters
Another random document with
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Loveday's history
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at
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located before using this eBook.

Title: Loveday's history

A tale of many changes

Author: Lucy Ellen Guernsey

Release date: January 15, 2024 [eBook #72722]

Most recently updated: March 26, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: London: John F. Shaw & Co, 1884

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVEDAY'S HISTORY ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[The Stanton-Corbet Chronicles.]

[Year 1529]

LOVEDAY'S HISTORY

A TALE OF MANY CHANGES

BY

LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY

Author of
"The Foster-Sisters," "Lady Betty's Governess," "Winifred,"
Etc., Etc.

NEW EDITION

LONDON:
 JOHN F. SHAW & CO.

48 PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. THE BEGINNING.

II. MORE REMEMBRANCES.

III. ANOTHER CHANGE.

IV. A NEW LIFE.

V. THE THUNDER STRIKES.

VI. THE LIGHTNING STRIKES AGAIN.

VII. OLD FRIENDS AND NEW.

VIII. HER GRACE'S GENTLEWOMAN.

IX. HER GRACE.

X. AT THE GREAT HOUSE.

XI. THE DUKE'S RING.

XII. THE OLD HALL.

XIII. "EXILED, AND YET AT HOME."

XIV. ANOTHER HOME.

XV. COOMBE ASHTON.

XVI. THE GREAT STORM.

XVII. THE WANDERERS.

XVIII. THE LAST.

 LOVEDAY'S HISTORY.

CHAPTER I.

THE BEGINNING.

I SHALL never forget that beginning. It was like the lightning flash, which always comes
suddenly, albeit one may have seen the clouds gathering for hours, and even have heard
distant growls and mutterings of thunder. Of such growls and mutterings there had indeed
been a plenty when I was quite a little maid, living with my kinswoman, Lady Peckham, in
Somersetshire. I remember well my lady's wrath and consternation at hearing that my
Lord Cardinal had put down some thirty or more of the small religious houses, especially
convents of nuns, and had confiscated their revenues to the endowment of his grand
college foundation at Oxford. There was no talk of pensions and sustenance for old or
young. The poor souls were turned adrift to shift as best they might. If my Lord Cardinal
were alive to see the havoc that hath been made since, he might bethink himself (if he
ever happened to hear it) of a certain pithy proverb about showing the cat the way to the
cream. The cat hath lapped the cream pretty clean in these days.

I had a personal interest in that same measure of my Lord Cardinal, seeing I was myself
destined for one of those very convents, a small, but reputable house of Gray Nuns, not far
from Bridgewater. I was the daughter of a kinsman of my Lady Peckham's first husband,
and being left an orphan of tender years and wholly without provision, my lady charitably
took me into her protection and care, and gave me a home, intending to bring me up till
such age as I should be fit to make a profession. But the convent was suppressed, as I
have said, and so that cake was dough. The sisters—there were not more than eighteen or
twenty in all—found places where they could. Some went to their friends, some to other
houses of the same order. One went to live in the family of a master baker in Bridgewater,
where she afterward married. I saw her not long since, a fine stately old dame, and a
great blessing to her own family as well as to the poor of the town. One—Sister Benedict—
came to stay with my lady till she could find suitable convoy to another house of
Bernardines not far from London.

I don't think that in her secret heart my lady was very sorry to have an excuse for keeping
me with her a while longer. I had grown a handy little maid, tall of my age, and having no
daughters of her own, it was but natural she should take to me, especially as I was very
fond of her. I liked nothing better than to follow her around like a little dog, carrying her
basket or her keys, and running with good will to do her errands about the house and
garden. I believe I might have done the same as long as I lived, only for Sister Benedict,
who came to stay with us, as I said, and who must needs put her finger in the pie.

My lady had a son by her first marriage—Walter Corbet by name—who was destined by his
mother for holy orders. He was several years older than I, and we were great friends, as
was but natural. He helped me in my lessons, specially in my Latin, which I learned with
him of Sir John Watson, our kind old parish priest and domestic chaplain, and fought my
battles and those of my pet cats against Randall Peckham who, though not a bad lad in the
main, was rather too fond of teasing.

Poor Randall was sent to Oxford, where he went altogether to the bad, ran away leaving
more than a hundred pounds of debt behind him, and (so we heard) was cast away on a
ship going to Holland. He was his mother's pride and darling, and her heart was almost
broken. I have always believed, ever since I was old enough to think about the matter,
that Sister Benedict persuaded my lady that her holding back Walter and myself from that
service to which we had been promised had brought this judgment upon her.

Walter declared that, though he might consent to be a parish priest, he would never be a
monk, and he was one not easy to be moved when once his mind was made up, though he
never stuck out about trifles—not like poor Randall, who could be coaxed or flattered out of
any principles he ever had, while he would be obstinate even to folly about the trimming of
a glove, or the management of a hawk. So my lady was fain to compromise the matter,
and Walter was sent to Bridgewater to study with Sir Richard Lambert, a very learned
priest with a great reputation for sanctity. (Of course I did not know all this at the time,
being but a child.)

I was sent away with Sister Benedict, to go to my father's brother, a rich merchant in
London, trading to the Low Countries. That was the story. Sir Edward had all along been
opposed to bestowing me in a convent, and after the suppression of the Gray Nuns' house,
he had spoken his mind freely to my lady, saying that he would not have me disposed of in
that way without my own consent, and that no more should be said about the matter till I
was of age to judge for myself. My lady seemed to acquiesce, as indeed she always did on
the rare occasions when Sir Edward asserted his will, and I suppose she might really be
glad of the excuse to keep me at home, for, as I have said, she liked to have me about her.

But Sir Edward went away, being sent to Scotland on public business by the King, and
Sister Benedict came, and the upshot of the matter was, that I was sent to London to see
my uncle and little cousins. As soon as Sister Benedict could make proper arrangements, I
was to be transferred to the convent of Bernardines at Dartford, a very rich and reputable
house. I don't think it was meant that I should know this, but my lady's woman let the cat
out of the bag, and my lady, finding I knew so much, told me the rest herself—so I knew
what to look for.

The journey to London was longer and harder then than now, and very dangerous withal.
But my Lord Abbot of Glastonbury, who was Sister Benedict's uncle, was going up to town
with a great following, and we traveled in his train; so we escaped the dangers of the road,
and met with far more consideration than we should otherwise have done. Nevertheless, I
remember that Sister Benedict was highly indignant at certain instances of disrespect
shown to her uncle by the gentry and others whom we met, and mourned over the
degeneracy of the times. The truth was, the thunder-cloud was even then lying low in the
sky, and men felt its influence as dumb creatures do that of a natural storm before it
comes.

Well, we reached London at last, and glad was I when our journey was done, though sorry
to part with Sister Benedict, who, her point once gained, was very kind to me. However, I
had so much to engage my attention that I did not feel the parting so deeply as might
perhaps have been expected.

Mine uncle lived in Portsoken ward, in a very fine house built by his grandfather, but
greatly enlarged and embellished by his father and himself. It had a large courtyard, and a
garden at the back, wherein were some huge apple trees and a great standard pear tree,
besides others for shade and beauty. All the Corbets are fond of gardening, and my Uncle
Gabriel was no exception to the rule. At that time (and I suppose the same is true now)
the great merchants of London lived very handsomely, and enjoyed many luxuries which
had not been so much as heard of in our remote corner of the world. I was met at the door
by a most lovely old lady, who kissed me on both cheeks, and informed me that she was
my great-aunt, my Grandfather Corbet's sister.

"And so you are poor Richard's child! I remember him well, a little lad no bigger than you,
if as big. You don't favor him greatly, and yet there is a Corbet look about you, too. What
was your mother's name?"

I managed to say that it was Loveday Carey.

"Yes, yes, I remember. And how old are you? But never mind now. You must need
refreshment after your long journey, but I suppose you have not come very far to-day."

She led me by the hand toward the foot of a grand staircase, far finer than that at
Peckham Hall; but as we reached it, I started back in utter dismay from what I conceived
to be no less than the devil himself—namely, the figure of a man black as ebony, and
rather fantastically dressed, who stood bowing and showing his white teeth in a manner
which seemed to me to warrant the conclusion that I was instantly to be devoured. I clung
to my aunt's arm, and uttered, I suppose, some exclamation of dismay. My terror seemed
greatly to amuse the creature, which now giggled outright.

"What is it?" said my aunt, as I let go of her hand and retreated behind her.

"The black man!" I faltered.

"Oh, poor Sambo? I suppose you never saw a blackamoor before. But don't be frightened,
child. He is a human creature like ourselves, and hath kind heart, and is a good Christian,
too; are you not, Sambo?"

Thereupon the negro made the sign of the cross, and showed me a crucifix which hung
about his neck.

"You will soon learn to like him as well as our children do," said my aunt. "Go, Sambo, and
bring up the young lady's mails."

Sambo grinned again wider than ever, and betook himself to the side door, where an
attendant of my Lord Abbot's was waiting with my baggage.

Thus reassured, I ventured to pass him, and followed my aunt up the stairs into the very
finest room I had ever seen. My uncle's house is built with the upper stories projecting
over the lower. I always had a fancy that it was leaning over to look down the street. There
was a great oriel window, with many panes of stained glass, which formed a deep recess.
On the floor of this recess lay a beautiful carpet, such an one as I had never seen before. I
could not conceive how such a beautiful fabric chanced to be in such a situation, for the
two or three Turkey rugs we possessed at Peckham house were used as coverings for
tables and beds. A great East country cabinet stood in this recess, and before it a carved
arm-chair. The walls of the room were hung with Spanish leather most curiously wrought
with gold and silver figures; the furniture was partly of damask and partly of Cordovan
leather. At the other end of the apartment was a second large window looking upon the
street, as the first did upon the garden. Here stood a low chair, and a basket piled up with
homely household work.

"This is my place!" said Aunt Joyce—so she bade me call her. "And now I will call your
cousins to take you to your own room, where you will find your mails, and they will help
you to change your traveling dress, that you may be neat when my nephew comes home
to dinner at eleven. We all dine together, though I doubt such late hours are not very good
for the health of the young ones. When I was young, I never dined later than nine o'clock,
nor thought of sitting at table with my parents. But times are changed—times are changed
—and my nephew hath a right to command in his own house."

I began to wonder when she was going to stop talking long enough to call my cousins, but
at last she blew her silver whistle, which hung with her keys at her girdle, and presently
two pretty little girls, some years older than myself, made their appearance, and were
introduced to me as my cousins, Avice and Katherine. They were twins, and more alike
than any two people I ever saw. They were wonderfully fair, with thick, soft, curling hair of
the color of new flax, or a thought yellower; clear, transparent gray eyes, and a lovely
bloom on their cheeks. I fell in love with them on the instant. They only courtesied when
presented to me, and, giving me each a hand, led me away.

As we passed a great Venice glass, I remember being struck with the difference in our
looks, for I was ever a true Corbet, with the great dark eyes, level black brows, and crisp
hair of my race—a regular black Corby, as poor Randall used to call me.

The twins led me up the staircase and into a room furnished with blue, where were two
little beds and a truckle for a servant. Out of this opened a large light closet, where I found
my mails. As soon as we were alone, the girls found their tongues.

"We are glad you have come to live with us!" said Avice, who was always the first speaker,
and indeed took the lead in every thing, as I found out afterward.

"Yes, we are very glad, because it will be like having our sister again!" said Katherine.

"A little like it!" said Avice. And then, seeming to feel she had hurt my feelings, she added
—

"You know nobody can be quite like one's own sister, but I am sure we shall love you,
Cousin Loveday!"

"And I am sure I shall love you!" I returned warmly. And then I ventured to ask: "Did you
have another sister, and is she dead?"

"Yes!" said Avice, with a quivering lip. "She was a beautiful little girl, and she looked a little
like you, for she had dark hair and eyes. But she fell into the chincough, and then into a
long waste, and died in spite of all that could be done."

"But she has gone to paradise—I am sure she has, and we shall see her again some day,"
added Katherine, her eyes shining with a kind of steadfast light. "I could not bear it, only
for thinking of that."

There was a little silence, and then Avice asked me how old I was.

"I shall be nine years old come Michaelmas—and you?"

"We shall be twelve on Midsummer day. Can you read, cousin?"

"Oh yes!" I answered, not without a little feeling of vain-glory, I dare say. "I can read and
write, and I have begun Latin."

"We can read and write a little, but not well;" and then followed a comparison of
accomplishments.

And soon I found I had nothing whereof to boast, since my cousins could play on the lute
and the virginals, embroider in all sorts of stitches, and even knit—an art which I had only
heard of at that time, as practiced in that same convent of Gray Nuns whose dissolution
had sent me to London. We grew excellent friends over all these inquiries and answers,
and when we were called down to dinner we descended the stairs, not hand in hand, but
with our arms round each other's waists.

We went down to the ground floor this time, and I was led into a great dining-room where
was a table splendidly set out—or so it seemed to my unaccustomed eyes—with snowy
napery, silver and fine colored ware, such as I had never seen. They were, in fact, china
dishes, then only beginning to be used by the wealthy merchants of London and the Low
Countries. Sambo and one or two 'prentice lads were just placing the dinner on the table,
and my uncle was standing by the window, looking out upon the garden, now all ablaze
with flowers, many of which were new to me.

He turned round as I entered, and showed me one of the handsomest and kindest faces I
ever beheld in my life. He was a man in middle life, tall and somewhat stout, though not
unbecomingly so, with curling brown hair, a little touched with gray at the temples, large
gray eyes with very long lashes, and a chestnut beard trimmed in the fashion of the day.
He was richly but soberly dressed, and I noticed even then the whiteness and fineness of
his linen. Sea-coal was not used in London then as much as now, and it was easier to keep
clean.

"So this is my little niece, is it?" said he, kindly raising me and bending down to kiss my
forehead as I kneeled to ask his blessing. "You are welcome, my dear child. May the God
of thy fathers bless thee."

Even then there was something in my uncle's tone which struck me—a peculiar solemnity
and earnestness, quite different from the business-like, rapid fashion in which Father
Barnaby and our own Sir John used to go through the same form. It seemed as if he were
really speaking to some one. He caused me to sit at his right hand, and helped me
bountifully from the dish of roast fowls which stood before him. The dinner was elegantly
served, and Sambo showed such skill in waiting on his master, and such alacrity in helping
me to sweetmeats that I found my dislike to him sensibly diminishing.

Of course we children did not speak at the table, and indeed I was too busy making my
remarks on all I saw to care even for eating. I admired the china dishes, so hard and light
and so beautifully painted; the clear glass and finely wrought silver; and I once or twice
really forgot to eat in gazing through the great glass window at the flower garden.

"You are looking at the flowers!" said my uncle. "After dinner we will go and see them
nearer."

At that moment something made an odd scratching noise on the glass door which led into
the garden. Sambo looked at his master, who smiled and nodded. He opened the door and
in walked a stately creature, which I should hardly have guessed to be a mere cat, only for
his loud musical purr. He was immensely large, and had fur that almost dragged on the
ground, a bushy tail, and a mane or collar of much longer fur round his neck, and as he
was of a yellowish color, he looked not unlike a little lion. He marched up to my uncle's
side, where Sambo had already set a joint-stool for his accommodation, but seeing a
stranger at table, he turned and greeted me with great politeness, rubbing his head on my
arm as if to invite my caresses.

"Do not be afraid," said my uncle, seeing me shrink a little, for indeed the creature's great
size and strength made him somewhat formidable to a stranger. "He is the best-tempered
fellow in the world, and a famous playmate, as you will soon find out."

Hearing this, and seeing the cat was evidently a favorite of my uncle's, I ventured—having
finished my dinner—to stroke him, an attention which he received with condescending
kindness. My aunt poured some cream into a saucer, and Turk drank it as calmly as if it
were a matter of course—as indeed it was for him—to sit at table and eat cream.

"Loveday opens her eyes!" said my aunt. "I dare say she never saw a cat sit at table and
be served like a Christian before. Do you like pets, Niece Loveday?"

"Yes, madam!" I answered, and indeed I had a kind of passion for them, which I had
heretofore gratified almost on the sly, for my Lady Peckham did not like pet animals of any
kind.

"That is well, for we have plenty of them," said my aunt. "Sambo must show you his
popinjay."

Sambo bowed, and grinned till his face seemed all white teeth.

"There, run away, children, and play in the garden if you like!" said my uncle. "Take
Loveday to see the flowers."

We went out into the garden, and the girls showed me many lovely flowers, such as I had
never seen before.

"My father trades with the Dutch merchants, who bring all sorts of curious plants from the
Indies," said Katherine. "That is the way we got our cat and Sambo."

"Father bought Sambo from a man who treated him cruelly," added Avice. "When he first
came here he was a heathen, but my aunt has taught him better, and now he can say his
paternoster and creed in English. We all like him because he is so droll and so kind. My
Lord Cardinal wanted him for a fool, but my father would not give him up."

"I never saw a black man before," said I. "I did not know there were such things, and
when I first saw him I thought it was the evil one himself."

"Some of our neighbors believe he is not quite right," observed Katherine, "but he is as
good a Christian as any one."

"Better than some, because he is grateful!" said Avice. "Come, now, and we will show you
the last new tree our father got from foreign parts. There is not another in the country,
and we are in a great hurry to have it bloom, that we may see what the flowers are like."

I duly admired the foreign tree, or shrub, which had thick, glossy loaves, and on which the
flower buds were just forming, and then, Turk appearing and putting in a claim for notice,
we had a great frolic with him, and found him an excellent playfellow, as my uncle had
said.
When we went into the house, my aunt called me up stairs and showed me my clothes
neatly arranged in a press, while a small blue bed, like my cousins', was being put up for
me in the light closet I have mentioned.

"This will be your room as long as you stay here," said she. "Let me see that you keep it
neat and orderly, as a young maid should."

I courtesied, and said I would do my best. The little room was very pretty, and even
luxurious, in my eyes. There were no rushes on the floor, such as I had been used to
seeing—and I now perceived, for the first time, what it was that made the floors all over
the house seem so strange and bare to me.

"That is one of my nephew's new-fangled ways, as old Dame Madge calls them," pursued
my aunt. "He learned it in Holland among the Dutch, who are the cleanest folks in the
world."

"Yes, new-fangled ways," muttered the old dame, who was mending somewhat about my
bed curtains. "It was never a good world since these new ways came up. But we shall see
—we shall see!"

"I must needs allow that the air in the house is much sweeter since we disused the rushes,
which are a great cover for dirt and vermin," pursued my aunt; "though it makes a great
deal of work, washing and polishing the floors."

"I noticed how sweet the house smelled," I ventured to say. "I think the floors look pretty,
only—" and then I stopped in some confusion, as it occurred to me that I was making very
free.

"Well, only what?" asked my aunt.

"Only it seems a pity to see such fine rugs laid down to be walked on," I answered. "We
had only two at Peckham Hall, and one was on the state bed and the other on my lady's
own."

"You are an observing child. Sambo says the Turks use these rugs just as my brother does,
and that they kneel on them to say their prayers—poor, deluded creatures."

My aunt chatted on, and I stood by her side, well content to listen to her and answer her
questions. She had a remarkable way of putting every one at their ease, both gentle and
simple. We never had a new housemaid or 'prentice who did not at once fall in love with
Mistress Holland.

"You must not mind if Dame Madge is a little crabbed sometimes!" said my aunt, as the old
woman left the room. "She is jealous of all newcomers, and would fain keep the favor of
master and mistress altogether to herself. There, now, all is done, I believe," she added,
as she hung a holy water basin and crucifix at the head of the bed. "I hope you will be
happy here, my child."

"I am sure I shall!" I answered, with perfect sincerity, and then, all at once, I remembered
that this pleasant house was not my home after all—that in a few days Mother Benedict
would probably come and carry me off to that fate which had been waiting for me all my
life. I suppose my face showed my thoughts, for my aunt noticed the change—as what did
she not notice which concerned the comfort of others—and asked me what was the matter.

"It is a change for you, I know, but you must try not to be homesick."
"I am not homesick!" I answered. "Only—" and then I dropped on my knees, hid my face
in my aunt's lap and burst out crying. I don't know what made me. I should never have
thought of such a thing with my lady, who, though always kind, did never invite my
caresses.

"What is it, dear heart? What makes thee cry? Tell Aunt Joyce what ails thee, my dear,
tender lamb, now do?" said my aunt, who was apt, in times of interest, to return to her
native Devon. I remember, as though it were yesterday, how sweetly sounded in mine ears
the homely accent, and the words of endearment which I suppose might find some echo in
my childish remembrance. Sure 'tis a cruel thing to deprive young creatures of those
caresses which even the dumb beasts bestow upon their young. I have always thought
that if my lady had been more tender and gentle with poor Randall, he might have been
different.

"Only I can't stay here!" I sobbed at last. "Pretty soon Mother Benedict will send or come
for me, and I shall have to go to the convent, to be shut up and never see any body, or
run in the fields any more, and to wear a horrid gray robe, and a veil—" and here I broke
down again.

"My child, I think you are borrowing trouble!" said my aunt, with a perplexed look. "I
thought you were coming to live with us. I heard nothing about any convent."

"But I am to go to the convent!" I answered. "My lady said so."

"Well, well, we will talk to my nephew about it!" said my aunt. "Don't cry any more, there's
a lamb, but wash your face and come down stairs with me, and by and by we will go and
take a walk in the fields and see the old people in the almshouses. Can you sew?"

"Oh yes, aunt!"

"Then you shall help me a little, if you will. I am making some napkins of old worn linen for
one of the bedeswomen who has watering eyes, and you shall hem one for me. As for the
convent, I would not trouble about that just now, at any rate. It will be time enough when
you have to go there."

Somewhat comforted, I washed away the traces of my tears with the rosewater my aunt
gave me, and followed her down stairs to the parlor, where my cousins were already
sitting, the one at her sampler, the other at her lute, which she played very prettily for a
child.

If my aunt was in a hurry for the napkins she gave me to hem, she did not act wisely in
seating me at the window, for I saw so much to observe and admire that my work went on
but slowly. But I suppose her object was rather to divert me from my grief, and in that she
certainly succeeded. Now it was some gay nobleman of the court with two or three
attendants, all glittering in gold and embroidery who passed by—now a showman with a
tame jackanape or a dancing bear—then a priest under a gorgeous canopy, carrying the
host in its splendid receptacle to some dying person.

I can't pretend to recite all the wonderful things I saw. I could not help wondering where
all the people found lodging, and how they found their way home at night. Now London is
far more crowded than it was then, and it increases all the time, despite the laws made to
check the growth of large towns. But I do not think it can ever be much larger than it is at
present.
 CHAPTER II.

MORE REMEMBRANCES.

ABOUT four o'clock my uncle came in from his business, and we had each a bun and
somewhat else—at least we young ones did—for my uncle never ate between dinner and
supper. He greeted me kindly, asked how I had passed my day, looked at and commended
my work and that of his daughters, and asked them if they had somewhat to repeat to
him. Whereat Katherine recited the twenty-third psalm in English, and Avice a part of the
hundred and nineteenth.

"And what can my little niece say for me?" he asked.

"I can say the penitential psalms in Latin," I answered; "but I do not know them in
English."

"Then you shall read a little for me instead," said he; and drawing me to his side he took
from his desk a bound book, and turning over the leaves, he pointed out a passage, which
I read. It was new and strange to me, for it talked of God's care for flowers and little fowls,
and bade men consider that, as they were worth much more than these things, so our
Heavenly Father would provide for all our needs. It ended thus:

"Care not therfore for the daye foloynge. For the daye foloynge shall
care ffor yt sylfe. Eche dayes trouble ys sufficient for the same silfe day."

"Do you know whose words these are?" asked my uncle, as I finished.

"No, uncle," I answered.

"They are our dear Lord's own words," said he, "and spoken for our comfort. Do not you
forget them."

"I suppose Our Lady made Him say them!" I ventured to remark.

"No, dear child. Our Lord needs no one to make Him send us comfort and help, since He
himself loves us, and died to redeem us. Never doubt his love, my child. That never fails
those who seek him, and even though he leads them through dark and troubled waters—
nay, even through the very fiery furnace—it is but to guide them to his rest at last."
I saw my aunt sigh at these words, as if they had some meaning more than met the ear.
For my own part, they filled me with amazement. I had always been taught to think of our
Lord as a harsh and severe judge, who relented toward us—when he did relent—only at
the intercession, or rather commands, of Our Lady, his mother. It seemed very strange;
but I was presently diverted from the consideration thereof by my uncle's next words.

"Did my Lady Peckham send me no letter by you, dear child?"

"Oh, yes, uncle!" I answered, remembering all at once the packet my lady had placed
among my things, with a strict injunction to deliver it to Master Gabriel Corbet directly on
my arrival. I ran up to my room, and finding the package safe and sound in my book of
Hours, where it had been laid for safe keeping, I brought it down and put it into my uncle's
hand. He cut the band of floss silk which confined it, and was soon engaged in its perusal.
Seeing, I suppose, that I was watching his face, my aunt directed my attention to some
pageant passing in the street. My eyes, however, soon stole back to my uncle's face, and I
was startled to see the change and the look of grief which had come over it. Forgetting all
decorum in my anxiety, I cried out:

"Oh, uncle, must I go to the convent? I will be so good if you will only let me stay here."

Katherine and Avice looked scared, and so was I when I bethought me of what I had done.
My uncle, however, did not seem angry. On the contrary, he put out his hand and drew me
toward him.

"Listen to me, Loveday, and you also, my children, and learn what it costs to nourish a
grudge," said he. "When we were both young, my brother and I quarreled. No matter
about what. I thought myself wholly the injured party, and, despite all our good mother's
efforts, I would not be reconciled. So my brother, who was the younger of us two, after
vainly trying to bring me to a better mind, betook himself with his young wife to a little
estate in the west country, which had been left him by a kinsman."

"More than once did he send overtures for a reconciliation, but I—miserable sinner that I
was—would not even read his letters. Meantime he, riding home from market, was set
upon by robbers and miserably murdered. A brother of the kinsman who left him the
estate started up with a claim which was made good, by the help of some great man his
patron. My sister died from the effects of grief, and this poor child was thrown upon the
world without a protector, and but for the kindness of my Lady Peckham, whose husband
was her kinsman, she might have grown up a wretched, forlorn beggar."

"I humbly thank my dearest Lord," and here he raised his cap, "who hath both granted me
conviction of sin and His forgiveness for the same; but He, like earthly parents, sometimes
leaves the offender to smart for his fault, even though he is forgiven. I, who would give my
hand, could it avail, to call my brother's daughter my own and bring her up as such, have
forfeited that right by my cruel and unfeeling conduct. My Lady Peckham has the right to
dispose of Loveday, and it is her will that she should go to be brought up at the convent of
Gray Nuns not far from Dartford."

So there was no help for it. I had much ado to restrain my sobs, and I saw the gray eyes
of the twins fill with tears.

"But, uncle," I faltered and then stopped.

"Loveday does not like the thought of being a nun!" said my aunt Joyce, finishing the
sentence for me.
"She is not to become one just now!" said my uncle. "It seems my lady has promised her
husband, Sir Edward, that she shall not be professed till she is twenty-one, nor then,
unless by her own choice."

"Heaven help her, what choice will she have by that time?" said my aunt.

"A good many things may happen in twelve years!" answered my uncle, dryly. "These are
days of change and shaking, you know, aunt. But as Loveday is not to go to this same
convent till she is sent for, we will enjoy her company while she is here. 'Each day's trouble
is sufficient for the same selfe day,' as we have just read. But, my children, if your father
has humbled himself before you, let not the lesson be lost upon you. Remember, never to
let the seed of anger and malice take root in your hearts—no, not for an hour. Sure you
may see in my case what evil and bitter fruit it may—nay, must bring forth—yea, even
after the sin hath been confessed and done away by Christ His own blood and sacrifice."

Young as I was, these words of my uncle made an impression on my mind which was
never wholly defaced, though covered by the teachings of later years. My lady's
contrivance for evading her promise to her husband was certainly ingenious. In these days
we should call it Jesuitical, but we had not then begun to hear very much about the
Jesuits, though there has been coil enough since.

"It is a pleasant evening, and the air is fresh and cool after the warm day," said my uncle,
after a little pause. "Get your hoods, my children, and we will walk out to the Minories, and
then visit the old people at the almshouse."

Children's hearts are light. Of course I was pleased at the notion of a walk, and by the
time I had been out half an hour I had persuaded myself that something might come to
pass to prevent my going to the nunnery after all; and I was ready to observe and enjoy
all the sights of the way. We had not gone far before I heard a great whining and grunting
behind us, and looking round I perceived that we were followed by two lusty, well-fed pigs,
which showed every desire for a better acquaintance. I had a dislike to hogs, and was
always a little afraid of them. I pressed closer to my uncle, who was leading me by the
hand, the twins going before us, and Sambo following with a great can, the use of which I
did not understand.

"What is it?" said my uncle—then seeing the direction of my eyes. "Oh, the pigs; they will
not hurt you. Why a country maid should not fear pigs, surely. But you wonder why they
follow us; I will show you."

He took from his pockets some crusts of bread which he threw to the pigs, and of which
they partook with little grunts of content and much shaking of broad ears and curly tails. I
even fancied they cast glances of positive regard and affection from their queer little eyes.
Their repast being ended, they turned and trotted back, I suppose, to wait for some other
patron.

"Those are St. Anthony's pigs," said my uncle. "The proctors of St. Anthony's Hospital are
used to take from the market people such pigs as are ill-fed and unfit for meat. These
have the ear slit and a bell tied round their necks, and being thus, as it were, made free of
the city, they wander about at will, and being fed by charitable persons become very tame
and familiar, and learn to know and watch for their patrons, as you see. But these fellows
are growing so fat, I fear I shall not have them to feed much longer. As soon as they grow
plump and well-liking, the proctor takes them up and they are slaughtered for the use of
the hospital."
It seemed to me rather odd even then, I remember, that a saint should be a patron of
pigs, but I could not help thinking I should have liked St. Anthony far better than St.
Dominic, who tore the poor sparrow in pieces for coming into church. We had now gone
quite a little way from home, when we passed an abbey or convent shut in behind a high
wall, and I saw that there was an open space before us.

In effect, we soon came to a great green field, where were collected many fine cows, some
lying down chewing the cud, others in the milker's hands, and still others patiently waiting
their turn. A sturdy, farmer-looking man was overseeing the work, and a neat woman was
straining the milk and pouring it warm and rich into the vessels brought for its reception. I
noticed that she gave good measure and many a kind word to the feeble old bodies and
little children who brought their jugs and their half-pence. *

"Well, Dame Goodman," said my uncle, "you are busy as ever."

* This was that tract now known as Goodman's fields.

"Oh, yes, your worship, we are always busy at this hour," answered the dame. "More
people come to us at night than in the morning. Where is your half-penny, Cicely Higgins?"

"I have none to-night," answered a pale scared-looking child. "Mother has been sick all
week, and we have no money."

"And where is your father?"

"I don't know," answered the child sadly. "We have not seen him in many days, and
mother cries so I can't ask her."

"He is where he deserves to be, and that is in prison, from which he will come to be
burned with the next batch of heretics!" said a sour, thin-faced old woman. "And serve him
right, too, for speaking slightingly of the Blessed Virgin. I would they were all served with
the same sauce."

"For shame, dame! Have you a woman's heart in your breast, that you speak so to the
worse than orphan child?" said my uncle, indignantly.

"Oh, ho! I did not know your worship was so near," answered the old woman, with a
cackling laugh. "Methinks we are very tender to heretics—we are!"

"We are tender to other sinners besides heretics, or a wicked, hard-hearted old woman,
who owes two quarters rent, would be turned into the street as she deserves," rejoined my
aunt, severely. "You had better keep civil words, Dame Davis, at least until you can pay
your debts."

The old woman turned pale at this home thrust, and muttering something about meaning
no harm, retired into the crowd. My uncle asked the child a few questions, and then,
turning to the dame who was measuring the milk, he bade her fill the child's pitcher, at the
same time putting a piece of silver into her hand.

"That I will, your worship, and give her good measure too!" answered Dame Goodman.
"Jenny Higgins is a good, hard-working creature, and not to be blamed for her husband's
follies. Drat the man, why can't he believe as his betters tell him, and not go prying where
he has no business?"
My uncle smiled, but sadly methought, and Sambo's great can being filled, we walked
away by another road.

"Who was that old woman, aunt? You seemed to know her," said he presently.

"Who was it but old Madge Davis, who lives in your house in the Minories, and has paid no
rent for six months," answered my aunt. "She is a bad handful, and keeps the other
tenants in constant hot water by her meddling and tattling."

"That must be seen to. I think we will put her in the cottage with old John. He is so deaf
she can not tattle to him, and there will be no one else to quarrel with."

"Most people would turn her into the street," said my aunt; "and indeed she deserves
nothing better."

"Ah, dear aunt, were we all to have our deserts, who should escape?" asked my uncle,
sighing. "It would ill become me, to whom have been forgiven ten thousand talents, to
take my fellow-servant by the throat who owes me but an hundred pence."

I did not understand the allusion at the time, but afterward I read the story aloud to my
uncle in his great book.

We had now come some distance and were arrived at another field, inclosed, but with
convenient paths and turnstiles for foot passengers. On the side of this field toward the
street were about half a dozen small, but neat and well-built two-story cottages, each with
its little garden-plot stocked with pot herbs and some homely flowers. In most of them the
windows were open, and on the sills, which were quite low, lay a clean white cloth and a
rosary. The inmates were mostly bed-rid, but in one or two the old man or woman might
be seen sitting bolstered up in a great chair. I at once guessed that these were almshouses
of some sort. My cousins told me afterward that they were founded by some prior of the
Priory of Trinity, a kinsman of our own, who had left a provision for the care of the poor
bedesmen and women.

I now found out the use of the great can of milk which Sambo had brought from the abbey
field. In every window stood a little brown jug, which the blackamoor proceeded to fill from
the vessel he carried. The good fellow seemed to enjoy his work of charity, to judge by the
grins and nods he bestowed on the old folks. Most thanked him heartily, but one old
woman turned away her head, and when my aunt rather mischievously asked her if she
did not want any milk, she muttered that it turned her against it to see that heathen pour
it out.

"Never mind her," said my uncle to Sambo, who looked greatly affronted, as well he might.
"She is a poor childish creature you know," and, taking the can from the black man's hand,
he filled the jug himself, and passed on smiling, while Sambo muttered that Massa was a
heap too good.

The last cottage was the neatest in the row, and a hale-looking old man was training a
honeysuckle round the door. I wondered why he was there, till I looked in at the window
and espied a wasted old woman propped up in the bed, looking more like death than life.
My uncle stopped and entered into conversation with the old man, while we young ones
made acquaintance with a white cat and two kittens which were basking in the sun.

"With all my heart—with all my heart!" we heard the old man say, presently. "There is
plenty of room up stairs and the little lass can wait on Mary at odd times. Poor soul, poor
soul! But will not your worship come in and have a word with my poor dame? It does her
so much good. And meantime the young ladies can look at the garden and the birds."

We went round to the back of the house accordingly, where we found a neat little garden-
plot in which was a tame sea-gull running about in company with a hedge-pig, a lame
goose, and a queer little dog, which always seemed to go on three legs. We amused
ourselves with the animals, which came to us at once, as if quite used to being noticed, till
my uncle called us.

On the way home, he told my aunt that he had arranged with the old man to let Cicely
Higgins's mother live in the upper room of his cottage for the present. It seems each of the
old people were entitled to an attendant, but John being a hale man for his great age, did
not avail himself of the privilege, but cared for his wife himself.

My uncle had some control over these houses by virtue of his relationship to the founder, I
believe, and, therefore, could put in whom he pleased. There were many such small
charitable foundations about London in those days, but they were mostly swept away in
the great storm which destroyed all the religious houses in the land. It was a storm which
cleared the air, no doubt, but it left some sad wrecks behind it, as is the way of tempests.

When we reached home we had supper, at which two or three of my uncle's friends joined
us—elderly, sober men like himself. We young ones went to bed directly after, and thus
ended my first day of London.

CHAPTER III.

ANOTHER CHANGE.

FOR a few days I was kept in quite a fever of suspense, thinking every time I heard a
strange voice or an unusual noise in the house, that some one had come for me; but as
the days passed into weeks, and the weeks into months, and I heard nothing from Mother
Benedict, I began to make myself at home in my uncle's house. My old life in
Somersetshire came to seem like a dream—almost as much so as that still further away
time when I lived at Watcombe farm with my father and mother. I practiced my lute, and
worked at my white seam and tapestry, and kept up my Latin, learning a lesson every day
which I said to my uncle at night, when he never failed to reward me, when I had been
diligent, with a story out of his great book. For recreation we played with our dolls and the
cat, worked in our own little gardens, and took walks with my uncle and aunt to see poor