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    A Reasonable Doubt
    A Reasonable Doubt
    A Reasonable Doubt
    Ebook102 pages1 hour

    A Reasonable Doubt

    By Arthur Hale Veasey III

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    About this ebook

    On the morning of March 11, 1931 anyone driving on Main Street might have thought the gawkers crowding the sidewalk were gathered for a Saturday matinee at the Paramount. There were factory workers, shopkeepers and teenagers from the high school, all standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the courthouse. The morning sky was gray and misty; if the mercury dipped low enough, snow was possible.

    A police wagon approached by way of a well planned ruse, driving down Water Street to Stage Street then Vestry Street to the back of the courthouse. Their prisoner, a boy with wavy blond hair was dressed in a neat brown suit. He climbed out, wrists manacled, and the marshals hustled him through the back door. A few bystanders caught the deception and the crowd surged at the police who pushed them back. Inside the courthouse, the boy would be arraigned for Haverhill’s own crime of the century -- a crime so sensational that Boston newspapers had assigned their best reporters to cover the story.

    A Reasonable Doubt is a fictionalized account of the city’s most dramatic crime of the twentieth century. A compelling murder mystery that is both fascinating and engaging from start to finish.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArthur Hale Veasey III
    Release dateDec 15, 2015
    ISBN9781310797262
    A Reasonable Doubt
    Author

    Arthur Hale Veasey III

    Arthur Hale Veasey III was born and raised in Haverhill, Massachusetts. He attended Governor Dummer Academy in nearby Byfield and completed his higher education at the University of Denver. He has written essays and short stories that have appeared in several publications. The Diary of Dolly Makepeace is his first novel. Mr. Veasey lives in West Newbury, Massachusetts with his wife and two children.

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      Book preview

      A Reasonable Doubt - Arthur Hale Veasey III

      Chapter 1

      The City Desk

      I was covering the city desk for the Gazette halfway through a slow news day when the call came in from Jade Lash. Jade was our city hall correspondent, a thirtysomething, freckle-faced brunette who covered city council meetings and reported on the local politics of the day. She had never married, and I had always wondered why—she had brains, a sense of humor, and curves in all the right places. I had been half in love with her at one time, but the decade-or-so difference in our ages stuck in my head, so I never did anything about it. I took her call expecting an update on the city council meeting scheduled for that afternoon. I was in for a surprise.

      Nick, there’s something going on over here at the Benson Hospital; I got wind of it at city hall. Three patrol cars went out from the station hell-bent for leather, so I followed them here. LeBosquet is on the scene, along with Cassidy. When they arrived, I heard him tell the beat cop to keep everyone out.

      Inspector Ovila LeBosquet was the senior detective on the city police force and a high school classmate of mine; everyone called him Ollie. We weren’t particularly friendly back then, but by the time our careers intersected, we had developed a wary respect for each other, a result of my journalistic nosiness and his cautious regard for the press. Ollie was a cop’s cop, and he knew how to deal with newshounds, as well as hard-boiled criminals.

      Well, it’s a hospital, for Chrissake, I said. Maybe someone who had a story to tell died—you know, a deathbed confession or something.

      I don’t know, Nick—there’s a lot of activity going on for a private infirmary that generally caters to gallbladders and kidney stones.

      Well, stay on it and see if you can get inside, or at least talk to someone who’s been on the inside.

      I tucked the phone between my jawbone and shoulder as I pressed down the switch hook, got a dial tone, and dialed 2550. I lit up a cigarette just as a voice at the end of the line announced, Police department. I anticipated the speaker.

      "Charlie, it’s Nick Ridgeway over at the Gazette."

      Hey, Nicky, how are ya?

      I’m great. How’s Sheila?

      She’s doin’ okay, thanks. She asks about you all the time, and I tell her you’re as insufferable as ever. What can I do for you—as if I can’t guess?

      "A little information on the side would be great, you big harp. What’s going on over at the Benson?’

      I cannot reveal that, Nick. Captain’s orders.

      C’mon, Charlie—Jade Lash is up there, and I’m gonna find out sooner or later. Just humor me—was there a break-in? A burglary? Some old lady’s jewelry got lifted?

      Bigger than that.

      Crime of passion, huh? Some blue blood got in his cups and slapped his mistress around?

      I cannot answer that, Nick—It’s an ongoing investigation, and besides, I won’t know anything more until the detectives get back.

      Charlie, are we talking about some kind of a criminal assault here? Because it sure sounds like it. LeBosquet doesn’t sweat the small stuff.

      I’ve already said enough, Nick, but if I were you, I’d be interviewing King Clement and not wasting your time talkin’ to me.

      Clement? What’s Clement got to do with this?

      He made the call, that’s all I know, but you didn’t hear it from me.

      Thanks. I owe you one, Charlie.

      • • •

      George Kingsbury Clement was the product of two prominent Haverhill families, the Kingsburys and the Clements. Educated at Harvard, he was in the shoe manufacturing business for a time, before he closed the enterprise in the wake of a labor dispute. He was a bluenose and kept an office on the ground floor of the Masonic Building on Merrimack Street, where he validated himself as an insurance broker and was a presence in local politics. But horses and hounds were his passion, and he kept a stable at his spacious home in the Highlands. I decided I should walk the two blocks to his office and call on the gentleman, when the phone rang. I picked up, and a breathless Jade Lash started in before I could spit out my name.

      Nick, the cops are all over the Sarah Clement Ellis mansion at number thirty, the big gray house with the turret—you know the one—just a block west of the hospital. It’s like a big crime scene, with every entrance to the place cordoned off and police detectives coming and going. I managed to get a quick look inside from the sun parlor before they threw me out. I saw Nora Ring, the housekeeper; I know her. She was bawling her eyes out. Something sinister happened in that house, Nick. I can feel it.

      I was just on my way over to King Clement’s office when you called. Sarah Ellis is his sister. I had a tip that he might know something about all of this.

      Don’t bother—he’s here. I saw him go in not more than five minutes ago. He had Dr. Laskey with him.

      You stay put, kiddo. I’ll be right over.

      • • •

      I revved the engine of my old coupe, engaged the clutch, and gently pushed the four-cylinder transmission from first to second to third in perfect succession up Pecker Street, around the GAR Park, and across Main to Summer Street. I passed the high school and library as traffic slowed to a crawl and a cop waved as though he wanted to detour me up a side street. I flashed my press pass, and he let me through. Two blocks farther, Jade was waiting at the curb. I pulled over so she could get in. Her long, slender legs entered first, gracefully drawing my attention, until she swiveled and faced me in a way that demanded immediate eye contact.

      Okay, so what do we know?

      I talked to the domestic who keeps the house across the street. An ambulance arrived about nine o’clock this morning and transported somebody to the Benson Hospital. Two men who fit the description of King Clement and Dr. Laskey were seen directing the operation authoritatively but with little fanfare. It wasn’t until almost three hours later that the cops showed up at the hospital. It seems pretty strange.

      Nora Ring is probably off-limits, but I suspect Mrs. Ellis had more than one housekeeper. Why don’t you ask your newfound friend? Jade pivoted and slid her lithe frame from the car, then walked about twenty strides to a handsome Victorian on the corner. She knocked on the door and conversed for a minute or so with a woman with gray hair, pulled back and knotted in a sensible fashion. Moments later, she returned to the car and announced with satisfaction, Agnes Reardon, number eight on Nineteenth Avenue.

      • • •

      We arrived at the address to find a multifamily tenement with white clapboards on the first story and plain cedar shingles above. A burly man observed us from the doorway. He wore denim trousers and a brown leather jacket. As we approached the vestibule, he stuck out his chest with menacing bravado—like

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