Though This Be Madness

by Penny Richards

  “Exactly,” William said, nodding. “He knew Grayson would be generous and fair in providing for his womenfolk, yet they would have no money of their own.”

  “It doesn’t sound as if Etienne had much faith in his wife’s ability to choose a suitable husband,” Lilly said.

  William smiled and shrugged. “In any case, LaRee Fontenot never remarried. According to DeMille, the arrangement worked well, and the same agreement was set up between Grayson and his son, Garrett, who lost no time expanding the family holdings—timber in this case—into Arkansas, where he made his home most of the year.

  “Garrett was unmarried when his father passed away, and on a visit to his grandmother in New Orleans, he met and fell in love with Patricia Galloway. After they married, they went back to Arkansas to make their home.”

  “Is this the same Patricia who is now in the insane asylum?” Lilly queried.

  “The same,” William corroborated. “Garrett and Patricia had two daughters, Cassandra and Suzannah. He died four years ago with no son to inherit. Like his father, he felt that some women are as intelligent and business savvy as men, since his grandmother had regularly and successfully interjected her thoughts and ideas into the running of the various family endeavors.”

  “You said his grandmother had interjected her thoughts and ideas,” Cade said. “Why isn’t she still?”

  “We’re getting there,” William said. “Bear with me.”

  “As a resident of Arkansas, Garrett was not bound by Louisiana law. In accordance with the Married Women’s Property Act, which admittedly is haphazardly enforced, depending on who sits in the seat of power, Patricia became heir to everything the male Fontenots had amassed from Etienne’s time until the present.”

  “Ah,” Cade said with a nod. “And it was Patricia, not LaRee, who fell for the unscrupulous man, this Henri Ducharme.”

  “It appears so, yes,” William told them.

  “If Patricia and her daughters lived in Arkansas, how did she meet Ducharme and lose control?” Lilly asked.

  “She was lonely in Arkansas without her husband, and she and her girls had moved in with Mrs. Fontenot. She and Henri met soon afterward. To the dismay of the entire family, they were married as soon as her year of mourning ended.”

  “You say that Ducharme is a doctor, and yet Mrs. Fontenot doubts his diagnosis in Patricia’s case,” Cade said. “Why?”

  “Yes, Cassandra, the older daughter, confided to Mrs. Fontenot that her mother was mere months into her new marriage when she began to suspect she’d made a dreadful mistake and had put the family fortune in her new husband’s grasping hands—Mrs. Fontenot’s words, not mine,” William clarified.

  “I can certainly relate to that,” Lilly said in a voice laced with bitterness. She ignored the questioning look her partner shot her way.

  “According to Cassandra, it appears that her stepfather’s sole intent in life is to spend them into poverty.”

  Lilly gave another huff of disgust.

  “To further upset the family,” William continued, “within ten months of the marriage, Patricia found herself with child—what is commonly referred to as a ‘change of life baby.’ The confinement was troublesome, and Patricia got little comfort from her husband, who constantly warned that something could go wrong because of her age.”

  “Job’s comforter,” Cade muttered.

  William nodded. “As it happened, something did go wrong. The baby, a boy, was stillborn some eighteen months ago, which sent Patricia into a deep melancholy, from which, Mrs. Fontenot claims, she seemed to be emerging little by little, until she received another blow.”

  As Lilly listened, she thought of her own mother’s murder that resulted in the death of the baby she’d been carrying. She wondered if she would always be reminded of their deaths at odd times like this, with nothing but a snippet of conversation bringing back the painful memory.

  Cade leaned forward in interest. “What was that?”

  “Four months ago, in an effort to cheer her mother, Cassandra urged Patricia to attend a suffragist gathering with her and her sister, Suzannah, who somehow became separated from them in the crush. They looked for her to no avail, and she was located two days later by some hobo in an alley. She had been molested and killed.”

  There was an apologetic expression on William’s face as he looked at Lilly, but though her heart gave a lurch of empathetic pain for Patricia Ducharme’s loss and Suzannah’s suffering, she was no shrinking violet to go into a swoon from hearing such brutal truths.

  “The murder has not been solved, and the New Orleans police have little hope of ever knowing who committed the crime. Needless to say, this tragedy on top of the loss of her infant son strained Patricia’s emotions to the limit.”

  “It would strain anyone’s emotions,” Lilly said.

  William nodded. “Henri claimed she was so overcome with grief and anger that she became abusive, striking him on several occasions.

  “Mrs. Fontenot admits that Patricia’s emotions seesawed between bouts of depression and something near normalcy, but she never witnessed the”—William referred to the letter in his hand—“ ‘howling, screeching creature hell-bent on physical injury.’ That last was Henri’s description as Mrs. Fontenot recalls it.

  “Ducharme claims he had no recourse but to administer small doses of laudanum. Fearful of making her a fiend, he discontinued the drug after the funeral, at which time Patricia began to alternate between forgetfulness and belligerence. She began to imagine things that were not so and accused him of everything from hiding things to lying to her.”

  “The poor thing,” Lilly said, thinking that it certainly sounded as if the woman’s sanity had fled.

  “And so he had her committed,” Cade said.

  William nodded. “A month after burying Suzannah, Henri committed Patricia to the City Insane Asylum there in New Orleans.”

  “I’ve heard of it,” Cade said. “I thought it was for indigents, not the crème de la crème of New Orleans society. I can’t imagine Mrs. Fontenot choosing such a place for a loved one.”

  “You’re right, McShane,” William said with a dry smile. “But there is a certain method in her madness, if you’ll pardon the dreadful pun. Henri wanted to put Patricia in a state institution, but Mrs. Fontenot put down her foot and insisted that Patricia be placed in a private home or left in the city until her true mental state could be evaluated by professionals. That way she would be close enough for the family to visit, and”—his smile deepened—“with the Fontenot bank account, Mrs. Fontenot could arrange for special privileges and care for her granddaughter-in-law.”

  “I understand the special privileges, but not the other,” Lilly confessed.

  “By law—anyone, including policemen, family members, clergy, literally anyone—can leave someone for evaluation at the New Orleans facility for a certain length of time. If they get better, they’re released, but if they don’t, they’re sent to the East Louisiana State Hospital in Jackson.”

  “From what you’ve told us, it seems Dr. Ducharme’s fears are well-founded,” Lilly mused. “Why does Mrs. Fontenot doubt his judgment?”

  “She admits she has no proof that Henri is up to anything nefarious,” William told them. “But with Cassandra’s statement about her mother’s concerns over her new husband and Mrs. Fontenot’s own feeling that too many disasters have befallen Patricia since her marriage, she feels she has justification for her suspicions.”

  Lilly understood LaRee Fontenot’s intuitive feelings perfectly. She recalled feeling that people were withholding the truth during her previous investigation. She also remembered the feeling of certainty that Cadence McShane was not the person who intended her harm after she’d almost been run down by a buggy, even though her intellect reminded her that he’d been in the area when other dodgy things had taken place.

  “Cassandra also believes that her stepfather is somehow responsible for Patricia’s mental state,” William was saying.
“She and her great-grandmother fear that Henri will bypass them and send Patricia to an even worse place and that leaving her in an asylum truly will drive her over the edge.”

  “So our job,” Cade said, glancing at Lilly, “is to try to disprove the notion of Patricia Ducharme’s insanity?”

  “Yes, and to do everything in your power to find out whether or not Dr. Henri Ducharme is the villain Mrs. Fontenot and Cassandra believe he is. And do it as quickly as possible.”

  Lilly was feeling a bit overwhelmed by the task set before her and her disgruntled partner, especially since they needed to move without delay. She shot Cade a sharp glance. His dark eyebrows were drawn together in a frown as he looked over the notes he’d been taking.

  “Does Mrs. Fontenot know anything at all about Henri’s past?” she asked. “We could use someplace to start looking.”

  “The doctor is, by Mrs. Fontenot’s grudging admission, an attractive and charming man, forty-seven years old, and has been married before. She has no idea to whom he was married,” William supplied. “She believes the first wife died.”

  “Am I correct in assuming that we will be employed by Mrs. Fontenot at the house on Rampart Street?”

  William nodded. “You will be hired as a married couple.”

  Cade and Lilly shared a stunned look.

  “We’ve arranged things so that it is almost a given that you will be hired.”

  Mouth set in a hard line, Cade nodded in compliance. “Who else lives in the house besides Mrs. Fontenot?”

  “The doctor, of course, and an array of servants.”

  “Cassandra?”

  “No,” William said. “She met and married an attorney”—he shuffled the pages of the letter again—“one Preston Easterling, fifteen months after her mother married Ducharme. They live on the family plantation, River Run, a half-day’s trip from New Orleans; however, they are frequent visitors to the house on Rampart Street.”

  “Does Mrs. Fontenot’s attorney . . .” Cade paused, searching through his notes for a name.

  “Armand DeMille.”

  “Yes. Does Mr. DeMille have any input about the family’s finances, or has he discovered any financial shenanigans that can be attributed to Ducharme?” Cade asked.

  “DeMille has been in the dark since soon after Cassandra married Preston, and Henri suggested that it made more sense to have all the family affairs handled by someone in the family. He turned over everything to Preston.”

  At the seemingly innocuous comment, Cade’s head came up like a hound on the scent of its prey.

  “I see you find that interesting, too, McShane,” William said with a nod of approval.

  “Very.”

  “I want you and Miss Long to become an integral part of that household,” William instructed, looking from one to the other. “You will, of course, interact on some level with all the people we’ve discussed today, though as you know, not even Mrs. Fontenot is to have any idea who you are.”

  Agency policy dictated that the clients never meet the operatives working their case. It was a practice that made a lot of sense to Lilly. William’s steady gaze met hers, then moved to Cade. At that moment, Lilly saw Allan Pinkerton’s determination and drive reflected in his son’s eyes.

  “Within reason and the law, you are to use every means possible to find out everything you can about Dr. Ducharme. If he is as corrupt as the Fontenot ladies and Mr. DeMille seem to think he is, I want you to nail the scoundrel’s hide to the wall.”

  CHAPTER 2

  After clearing up a few more details about the case, Lilly and Cade exited the Pinkerton building into the dismal spring morning. McShane plunged his hands into the pockets of his trousers and let his gaze roam over the passersby, almost as if he were looking for something or someone. Always alert.

  “So,” she said with a bright smile, “shall we divide the tasks more or less equally?”

  “Divide the tasks?” He looked at her as if she’d gone round the bend. “Didn’t you hear what William said? We will be working this case together. That means we work as a team.”

  “We will go to New Orleans together, certainly,” Lilly said, eager to rid herself of her partner. “But I see no reason we can’t each follow our own leads once we arrive.”

  “Look, Miss Long,” McShane said in a voice reeking with disdain, “I understand your need to prove yourself to the agency, but when I’m given orders, I follow them.”

  Gone was the flirty prizefighter who a mere week ago had winked and smiled at her and made her heart pound willy-nilly. In his place stood a brooding stranger who looked as if he seldom smiled and laughed even less. The deviltry she’d seen in his blue eyes was gone, and in its place was something that looked closely akin to torment. Was he that upset about working with her?

  “But you’re no happier about being paired with me than I am with you.”

  His gaze was fixed on something across the busy Chicago street. “No.”

  Womanlike, she was torn between anger that William thought she needed coddling and a purely feminine annoyance that Cade had no desire to work with her. Knowing she was pulling the tiger’s whiskers, she said, “If you’re the agent he claims you are, why did William give you the job of following me around?”

  McShane’s icy gaze pierced hers with the sharpness of a needle. “You ask too many questions that are none of your business, Miss Long. I only acknowledge my sins in the confessional or when I’m drunk.”

  “Sins? Ah,” she said with a slow nod of understanding. “You did something bad enough to make the Pinkertons angry, and cosseting me is your penance.”

  “One thing you must learn, Miss Long, is that we are forced to deal with many unpleasant things in life. As William said, I am a professional despite—or perhaps because of—my sins.”

  “So you consider working with me an unpleasantness?”

  He gave a negligent lift of his wide shoulders. “I believe we are in agreement that neither of us is keen on the situation.”

  “Fine,” she said, stung, though she couldn’t define why. “If we are to be stuck with each other, I would prefer to have back the boxer as my partner. At least he didn’t look at me as if he’d like to have my head on a platter.”

  Cade stared at her for a moment and, without warning, winked and smiled his cocky smile. “Oh, he’ll be around, colleen, when he’s needed.”

  Lilly’s mouth fell open and she blinked in disbelief. The transformation was immediate and startling. One minute he was distant and inflexible, the next he looked and acted as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  “You do that extremely well,” she said with grudging respect. “And don’t call me colleen.”

  “I told you in Springfield that I’d been around the theater since I was a child. Did you doubt me?”

  She gave a slight shrug.

  “And why wouldn’t you?” he said, the derisive grin still in place. “After all, we Irish have the reputation of being bad-tempered drunks, not to mention that we’re greedy illiterates, and like all good Catholics, we breed like rabbits. However,” he said, raising a finger for attention, “we’ve some fine newspapers in Chicago, and we’re quite involved with the stage . . . since, as you are no doubt aware, that enterprise demands no literacy.”

  Lilly heard the scorn in his voice and knew he was only voicing the opinion shared by most of the country. She had seen the cartoons of R. F. Outcault and Thomas Nast, as well as stage productions that portrayed Irish immigrants as unpredictable, aggressive inebriates who were resented because they were willing to work for any wage. And even though they’d gained a certain amount of respect for their fighting skill during the Civil War, they had yet to gain full acceptance.

  As angry as he made her, the feminine, nurturing part of her wanted to make things better for him. That was a weakness of hers, a vulnerability that her soon-to-be ex-husband, Timothy, had learned to exploit to his own benefit early in their marriage. She must learn to ignore it.


  “I’m an actress, sir, as are my family and friends. Do you imply that we are ignorant?”

  The antagonism seemed to drain from him before her very eyes. “Dear heaven, no,” he said, the bleakness back. “Thank God for the stage, I say. That and the Church have saved many an Irish lad from becoming a bugger or a cracksman.”

  Seeing her frown of confusion, he said, “That would be a pickpocket or burglar to you.”

  Finally, as if they both realized that butting heads was foolish under the circumstances, they looked at each other long and hard. Cade spoke first. “We would no doubt be more effective if we at least tried to get along the next few weeks, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes,” Lilly said with a reluctant nod. “We need to present a united front.” She sighed. “But I have a request.”

  Cade lifted a dark eyebrow in query.

  “Since you know boxing, I would like you to teach me to defend myself. My experience with Mrs. Purcell might have turned out differently had I been better prepared.”

  Lilly had been locked in an attic room and left to die. She had no desire to find herself in that sort of pickle again.

  Instead of pooh-poohing her idea, McShane regarded her for several seconds. “All right,” he said at last. “When and if we find the time, I’ll show you a few tricks.”

  “Thank you,” she said, pleased that he’d given her no argument. “Now, since you are the experienced operative, what do you suggest we do first?”

  “First we’ll go to a nice restaurant somewhere, order lunch, and try to assemble a past for ourselves.”

  A past? It had never occurred to her the importance of such a seemingly trivial thing to their undertaking. If they were to be effective in their new roles, it was imperative that they invent believable “pasts,” both as individuals and as a married couple. It was another reminder that she was not quite ready to venture out on her own.

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” she admitted.