[Mark Twain Mysteries 02] - A Connecticut Yankee in Criminal Court

by Peter J. Heck

  At the mention of Grant’s name, Mr. Holt rose to his feet. His eyes bulged, and his face turned red. “Don’t mention that butcher’s name in my household,” he said.

  The widow Robinson began to pull at her brother’s sleeve. “Sit down, Reynold, please,” she said. “This is neither the time nor the place to refight the War.”

  Mr. Staunton’s face took on an expression almost of boredom, as if he had gone over the subject many times before. “You forget yourself, sir,” he said in a long-suffering tone. “This is not your household, but mine, and it ill becomes you to pick quarrels with my guests. The War is long since over; take your seat.”

  At these words, Mr. Holt seemed suddenly confused. His anger disappeared as quickly as it had arisen. He dropped back into his seat and picked up his wineglass while his sister fussed over him, leaning close and whispering in his ear. Although I was almost directly across from them, I could make out only a few words. There was a flutter of relieved conversation as the tension left the atmosphere.

  Still, I kept a close eye on Holt, fearing that his anger might return. He seemed subdued for now, but if he were suddenly to turn on Mr. Clemens, only his sister was between them. Would I be able to intervene in time to save my employer from harm?

  As if she could hear my thoughts, Mrs. Dupree leaned over and confided to me, “Poor Reynold. He has never been quite himself since the War. Pay him no mind; he really wouldn’t harm a fly.”

  Meanwhile, Mrs. Staunton, recalling her position as hostess, turned to her guests with a smile. “My apologies, Mr. Clemens. I am sure I speak for all of us, especially my brother”—she shot him a glance—“when I say that we are honored to have you as our guest, in our city and in our home. We are not provincials here, as much as the North may think of us as such. An honest difference of opinion is the only true spice of civilization and culture. Your beliefs may differ from ours, as one flower in a garden does from another, but each has its own place and its own beauty.”

  Our hostess might have gone on in that vein for some time, but Professor Maddox, sitting to her left, chuckled and said to Mr. Clemens, “What Maria means to say, Mr. Clemens, is that you and Mr. Cabot might be Yankees, but we still like you. I spent the best years of my youth at Harvard, and learned, contrary to what I’d been taught at my mother’s knee, that many of you Northerners are actually quite human.”

  There was a general murmur of agreement, and Mr. Staunton signaled to the servant to refill the wineglasses.

  “So, Mr. Clemens,” said Mr. Dupree, “what were you going to tell us about General Grant’s book? I spent most of ’64 and ’65 trading fire with his men, right up to the end. Nobody likes losing, but there’s no denying he knew his business. What was your part in his book?”

  The other men nodded and leaned forward, eager to turn the talk back to the universal subject of southern talk. The women exchanged glances and seemed to heave a collective sigh, resigning themselves to the fact that the conversation was back on its inevitable course.

  “It was pretty much an accident,” said Mr. Clemens, “though I’ll concede that it could only have happened to someone who knew the general to begin with. I’d heard that he was planning to write his memoirs, and I went to his apartment to offer my congratulations. As it turned out, he and his son were looking over a contract for that very book. I knew as much about publishing as he did about fighting a war, so I volunteered to look over the contract to make sure he was getting a fair offer. Well, one look was enough to convince me that it would have been a mistake for him to sign it. I told him I’d publish the book myself and give him seventy-five percent of the profits.”

  “That sounds like a very generous offer,” said Professor Maddox. “Did you ever have any qualms about making it?”

  “No, because I took it as my patriotic duty to erect a monument to the man who brought the War to a conclusion and ended four years of bloodshed. I am as proud of having helped that book come into the world as of anything I have written myself, if for nothing else, because I made certain that the author got fair value for his labor. Only a fool could have lost money on the contract I gave him. I could have spent the same amount of energy on my own writing, lining my own pockets, but I have never once regretted publishing that book.”

  Mrs. Staunton listened with interest to my employer’s story of how he published Grant’s memoirs, smiling and nodding. “So, Mr. Clemens, I see you have done your part to make certain that our youth know what their forebears have done,” she said. Mr. Clemens beamed to hear her words of praise. “So that,” she continued archly, “they may learn from their mistakes.”

  My employer, who had just taken a mouthful of pecan pie, nearly choked. Finally recovering his composure, he laughed heartily, and said, “A palpable hit, Mrs. Staunton! Let it never be said that southern ladies don’t know how to turn the tables on us poor Yankees!” Everyone laughed, including (I was glad to see) Mr. Holt.

  Then she turned to me, still smiling. “Mr. Cabot, did you say this was your first visit to New Orleans? What do you think of our city?”

  “It has its own character,” I said, trying to choose my words carefully. “I haven’t traveled as widely as Mr. Clemens, of course, although I hope to, but I can’t say I’ve ever seen the like of New Orleans. New York may be more cosmopolitan in its way, but the exotic elements there are of more recent origin, and not as well blended into the whole. One isn’t aware of the Dutch origins of New York at all, whereas the French roots of New Orleans are plainly visible.”

  “And visibly beautiful,” Mr. Clemens interrupted, nodding in the direction of Mrs. Camille Dupree, who blushed slightly and called him a flatterer. “Of course I am,” he replied, nodding graciously. “It is one of my favorite pastimes.”

  Mrs. Staunton laughed, then turned to me again. “Mr. Clemens told me that you are planning a career as a writer, yourself,” she said. “Have you decided on which genre you will strive to conquer?”

  “Watch yourself, young fellow,” said Mr. Dupree, chuckling. “Maria has never been able to resist new writers and poets. Before you know it, she’ll be spoiling you rotten and making you totally unfit to be anybody’s secretary.” He gestured with his coffee spoon toward my employer. “Mr. Clemens, if I were you, I’d keep a close eye on him before he gets out of hand.”

  “Oh, he can get out of hand if he wants to,” said Mr. Clemens. “Best thing in the world for a young fellow, every now and then. As far as Mrs. Staunton’s spoiling him, I reckon I can prevent that by getting there ahead of him and letting her spoil me, instead. Why should the young get all the attention?”

  There was a general round of laughter, and Mrs. Maddox said, “Oh, you’re hardly worth Maria’s effort. She could never take any credit for your success, but Mr. Cabot is a blank slate, and if she plays her cards right, she can chalk everything he writes to her own account.” Everyone laughed again, but again I noticed that Mr. Staunton’s laughter seemed a bit forced.

  We sat conversing in this amiable way, touching on literature, history, and current affairs, for over an hour. Then, around nine o’clock, the ladies went into the parlor, and our host brought out a fine old cognac and a box of Havana cigars. I took a small snifter of the former but declined the cigars. Mr. Clemens took one enthusiastically, and after the ritual preliminaries, lit it up and declared it excellent.

  Mr. Staunton smiled. “Well, Mr. Clemens, I have heard that you were in the habit of buying a box of the best Cuban cigars and setting aside the contents, then replacing them with cheap cigars to offer your guests. Is this true?”

  “Slander, downright slander,” said Mr. Clemens. He blew a smoke ring, then continued. “Although I knew a steamboat captain who used to pull that trick. He swore that nobody ever noticed. But that’s still running a risk, because there are people who can tell a good cigar from a bad one, and some of ’em don’t have a sense of humor. If you’re looking to save money on cigars but still smoke the best, the reverse trick is the one to tr
y.” Here he leaned forward and pantomimed opening a box, then turning it upside down. “What you do is buy a box of cheap cigars, the kind made up of sweepings off the factory floor, empty it out, and fill it with good Havanas. Pass that box around, and watch your guests turn up their noses. Then you can light one up with a clear conscience, knowing you’ve offered them the best. And you’ll save money, even counting the cost of the ones you throw away, because you can keep refilling the same box for years.”

  “Aha, and have you employed this stratagem?” Professor Maddox asked in a mock accusatory tone.

  “Why would I admit it, even if I had?” said Mr. Clemens, and there was another round of laughter.

  Mr. Holt joined in the laughter, but at the same time he shook his head. “Only a Yankee would take pride in such tricks,” he muttered. I noticed his brother-in-law give him a hard glare at this, but Holt only snorted and took another drink. I began to suspect that Holt was somewhat too fond of his bottle.

  Without our hostess’s limitation on conversational subjects, the talk inevitably came back around to the War. This was fine with me, because there was much I wanted to know. What had made them fight so long and hard against superior numbers, in support of a cause they must have known was hopeless? Even I had heard of the Washington Artillery, which had played a role in every battle fought by the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia, from Bull Run to Appomattox. Here were three veterans of that regiment, and I listened in fascination to their reminiscences.

  “Fredericksburg was where we gave the Yanks their medicine,” said Mr. Holt, who had been an artilleryman at the age of sixteen. “We watched ’em come up the hill with bayonets fixed, while our riflemen picked holes in their ranks. The Federals’ cannon were across the river, where they couldn’t hurt us, but the infantry kept on coming. When the fools got close enough, we gave ’em a taste of canister, and sent ’em to the devil.” His face shone with a fierce light, and I was glad I wasn’t among the men who’d had to charge his position atop Marye’s Heights more than thirty years ago.

  “Yes, it was a cold, grim day,” said Mr. Dupree. His face was less excited than Mr. Holt’s, and in his voice I sensed compassion for the boys who’d been on the receiving end of the Confederate cannonade. “General Lee was somber as I ever saw him, even though it was a clear victory for us. The only time I recall that he looked worse was at Gettysburg, when he apologized to the men he’d sent into the Federal guns.”

  “And at Chancellorsville, when Stonewall was shot,” said Dr. Soupape, shaking his head. “I was at headquarters when the news came. I think that was the worst.” He shook his head sadly, and his eyes had a faraway look, as if he were seeing that bloody battlefield of thirty years ago, instead of the elegant Garden District dining room in which we sat.

  “At least Old Jack had a clean end to his pain,” said Mr. Holt, and a chill fell over the room again, although I wasn’t quite sure why. His face was still fierce, but the light had gone out of it.

  I thought he was about to speak again, but Mr. Dupree put a hand on his shoulder. “Now, Reynold, we’re among guests, and this is not a time to reopen all the old wounds.”

  “It’s all very well for you to say that, Gordon,” said Holt. “God knows, there aren’t many others I’d listen to it from, but you have your badge of honor, too. I’ll say no more.” I looked at his face, a dark mask of untamed pride, and wondered if he had begun drinking earlier in the day, before coming to dinner.

  “As long as a man has his honor, that is sufficient,” said Mr. Staunton dogmatically. He thumped a fist on the table. “Nobody can say that Reynold Holt has given up his claim to honor, and I’ll defend that statement with my life.”

  I was completely at a loss what to make of the last few speeches, other than to ascribe them to a superfluity of liquor at the table. Earlier, Staunton had seemed at odds with his brother-in-law Holt, but now he backed the man’s boorish behavior. As for the “badge of honor,” I could guess what that meant. Detective LeJeune had informed Mr. Clemens and me that Mr. Holt had been wounded, captured, and held prisoner by the Union after Chancellorsville. I had no idea what sort of treatment he had received, but it seemed a long time to hold such a grudge. The War had ended before I was born, and questions of honor were long since settled, it seemed to me. But these Southerners evidently had long memories.

  So I was even more startled when Mr. Holt glared at his brother-in-law, Mr. Staunton, and said, “I am glad to hear you speak in favor of honor, sir. Would that your actions always matched your words.”

  Mr. Staunton’s face went through several changes while he struggled to find words. Dr. Soupape raised his hand as if warning him against continuing, and Mr. Staunton looked at him uncomprehendingly for a moment. Then he pulled himself together and said in a very quiet voice, “I will overlook what you have just said, Reynold. I have defended my honor more than once, as you will no doubt realize upon reflection. But the hour is growing late, and the ladies will be waiting for us in the parlor. I suggest we go and join them.” He stood and gestured toward the door leading into the next room.

  With that, the dinner came to a most perplexing end.

  12

  When Mr. Clemens and I arrived back at our pension on Royal Street, it was well after midnight, and the air had cooled enough for even a native of Connecticut to feel comfortable. I had wined and dined in a manner to which I had previously aspired only in my dreams, and a good night’s sleep seemed the only thing remaining to bring the evening to a fitting end. But Mr. Clemens had other ideas. He loosened his tie, poured himself a drink, and started to fill a pipe. I began to excuse myself and head for my room, but he glared at me and said, “Where the hell are you going, Wentworth? This is no time to be crawling into bed.”

  “I beg to differ with you,” I said, somewhat grumpily. “I can barely keep my eyes open.”

  “Differ all you want,” he said, “but I need you to stay awake a little longer. Leonard Galloway’s neck may depend on it. Too many things went on at that dinner party tonight for me to keep track of by myself, and unless you help me remember them, I’m likely to miss something important. Splash some cold water on your face if you have to, and have a seat.”

  I was tempted to protest further, but his logic was inescapable, and in any case, his expression brooked no dissent. So I poured myself a tumbler of soda water and sat down opposite him while he finished loading his pipe. At last he looked up at me and said, “Quite a passel of suspects, ain’t they?”

  “Good Lord!” I said. “I thought I was going to have to jump over the table to keep that Reynold Holt from attacking you when you mentioned General Grant. Don’t these people know when they’ve lost a war?”

  Mr. Clemens chuckled. “Yes, Holt must have been a real fire-eater when he was young. Percy Staunton isn’t any kind of lamb, either. That detective said that Staunton’s fought a couple of duels, if you can imagine that. So he’s no stranger to killing, or at least not to the idea of it.” He struck a match, and held it to the tobacco.

  I shook my head in amazement. “Well, I think we can safely put both of them right at the top of our list. I wonder what they had against Robinson?”

  He had the pipe well lit by now and took a couple of fragrant puffs before answering. “Who knows? We’ll have to find that out somehow, if we’re going to prove somebody besides Leonard Galloway killed Robinson. Motive is one of our key points, along with method and opportunity. The courts always want to know all three of those.”

  “The method isn’t any puzzle, at least,” I said. “Robinson was poisoned.”

  “Yes, but we need to know how he was given the poison. Especially if the cook didn’t do it—how did someone get him to take a dose of something everybody supposedly knows is deadly poison? And the stuff he took, jimsonweed, is fairly obnoxious stuff. You wouldn’t have much luck trying to pass it off as an exotic variety of cabbage.”

  “That means we have to look to opportunity, then,” I said. “Which
of our suspects had the opportunity to give him the poison in an undetectable form? It would have to be someone who visited him that day, or shortly before, I’d think.”

  “That may be,” said Mr. Clemens. He took a sip of his whisky and rubbed his chin, thinking. “I don’t know enough about jimsonweed to say how it could have been disguised, how long it keeps, how much of it you need.”

  “I’ll bet Dr. Soupape would know,” I said. “He’d be a suspect, in my book.”

  “True, but if he’d done it, I doubt he’d have called attention to it. He could have declared Robinson the victim of some common ailment and sent him to the undertaker without a question being asked.”

  “But he might have feared being found out, if he’d done it,” I said. “Perhaps he wanted to throw suspicion on someone else.”

  “Well, that brings us back around the circle again,” said Mr. Clemens. “Which of our suspects had the opportunity to poison Robinson—and the knowledge to do it without suspicion? What we really need to know is who visited the house that day, and maybe the day before. Arthur, the butler, could tell us that. Leonard seems to think he’d know something that might clear him.”

  “I wonder what it could be?”

  Mr. Clemens shrugged. “For all I know, poor Leonard is grasping at straws. But I’ll keep on trying to corner the butler, and I’ll see what I can find out. I have a pretty good idea who could tell us what we need to know about the poison and how it could’ve been given. I’ll have to go see Eulalie Echo again. Meanwhile, we can speculate on motives. Not knowing a great deal about Robinson, it strikes me that almost anyone at the dinner table could have had some reason to kill him.”