“There!” Celine shouted again, trying to point. “With the beard, in the brown coat!”
The man she indicated was being jostled by the crowd. He was hunched over on his left side, his skin was pale and his eyes were bright but glassy, as if he were drugged. Some in the throng were still murmuring Perot’s name. The man’s gaze was darting wildly. Hemmed in as he was, there was no escaping the crowd.
The guards had almost reached the gallows. Cord lunged ahead of them. He nearly pushed over a toothless old woman with a chignon tied around her head and lost precious time as he made a grab for her and stood her on her feet before he shoved on. After nearly coming to blows with a burly Kaintuck, Cord finally reached the man Celine claimed was Jean Perot.
From two feet away, the man’s body odor was merciless. Cord ignored the stench as he clamped a hand on the padded shoulder of what had once been a well-tailored cutaway coat. The slight, dark-eyed Creole tried to pull away but lacked the strength to do more than lean back.
“Who are you?” Cord asked, giving the man a vicious shake.
“Let me go! Let me go, I say!”
Up close, Cord could see that the man was more slovenly and disgusting than he had first thought. He was also quite young. It wasn’t until the brown coat opened to reveal a dark stain low on the man’s shirtfront that Cord felt certain Celine had correctly identified Jean Perot.
Cord put one hand around the back of Perot’s neck. His captive winced and whimpered, favoring his left side, but could not escape.
“Please, let me go. I’ve done you no harm …”
“You think not?” Cord glared down at Perot as he dragged him toward the gallows. “That’s my wife they’re about to hang.”
“It’s Perot!” a hardy, suntanned youth beside Cord began shouting. The note of urgent hysteria carried above the din. “He says he’s got Perot. Stop the hanging!”
It took Cord an instant to recognize the youth as the cabin boy from the Lady Fair. Like the others in the ship’s crew, the boy had donned nondescript clothing and a wide-brimmed panama hat.
“Keep it up, Raymond,” Cord mumbled to the youth. “This is a far better diversion than we could have ever hoped for.” He shoved Perot toward the gallows through the onlookers surrounding them.
Cord reached the base of the wooden platform at the moment Celine’s guards arrived at the steps. He saw Auguste at the stairs, standing but a few feet away from Celine. She was scanning the crowd, searching for him, so Cord called her name. When she saw him with Perot, a tremulous smile of hope lit her face.
Dignitaries from the Cabildo were in attendance, assembled in a roped-off area fronting the gallows. Cord pushed Perot up against the gallows platform and held him there while he called out to the men and the few women in the official viewing area. The uniformed police had begun to take notice of the disturbance behind them.
“Governor! Stop the hanging!” Cord shouted, thrusting Perot forward.
“Jean! Oh, my God, my son! My son …”
A frantic woman disengaged herself from the viewing area, arms outstretched, hands grasping for the creature Cord held like a bedraggled cat.
Celine was prodded up the steps of the platform until she stood directly below a thick rope fashioned into a noose. An ominous figured stood to one side of the platform. With his arms crossed over his chest, he stood as silent as death. A black velvet bag, unrelieved but for two small eyeholes, was draped over his head. Celine shivered as she exchanged a glance with the cold, dark eyes staring out at her from the shadowed interior of the hangman’s hood.
From her vantage point above the crowd she saw Cord refuse to relinquish Jean Perot to his babbling mother and his father, who now stood on both sides of their son. As the astounded officials looked on, the mob, led by Auguste’s crew, was chanting in unison. Cries of “Stop the hanging! Stop the hanging!” shook the square. The guards were milling about uneasily on the platform.
The governor himself raised both hands in the air and tried to quiet the crowd. Silence fanned out like ripples on water from the officials’ section toward the edges of the mob. There was a press to move forward, a collective strain to hear what was being said by the tight knot of officials near the base of the gallows.
Throughout the crowd the citizens of New Orleans began to speculate. Who had come forward to save the penniless fortune-teller’s ward? Were the rumors true—could she truly work black magic? Was she in league with some voodoo priest or priestess? Was that really Jean Perot or a zombie groveling beneath the gallows built to hang his murderess?
Celine recognized Jean Perot’s mother. Her be-ringed hands clutched her son to her breast, smoothed his oily hair, patted his back. If it had not been for Perot’s coloring and height, or for the fact that the frantic gaze in his eyes today was the same one she’d seen the night he’d tried to kill her, Celine would have never recognized him.
She was about to see Jean firsthand, for the governor and his deputies had persuaded Cord to relinquish the man to them and were now leading Perot and his family toward the Cabildo. Cord disengaged himself from the group and came bounding up the stairs.
Behind them, at a slower, more sedate pace, came Judge Bennett, who had presided over her hearing.
“Cordero.” She reached for him, but once more the shackles prevented her from raising her hands. Then she noticed Auguste standing beside Cord.
“Auguste, go!” she whispered. “Someone might recognize you.”
The distracted guards gave Auguste a quick once-over and said nothing. Like the rest of his crew, he had donned a panama hat, and kept it pulled low. With his head tipped down, the wide brim cast a shadow that partially shielded his face from the crowd.
“The only one who might remember me left the moment he saw me,” Auguste whispered back to Celine.
“Henre?” she asked.
“You are quite perceptive, dear Celine.”
Cord grabbed her wrist shackles. “Get these off her,” he said to one of the guards, who ignored him. When Judge Bennett issued orders for the men to escort Celine back to the Cabildo, Cord turned on him.
“I want these shackles off my wife.”
“Young man,” Bennett said, peering up at him over his gold-rimmed spectacles, “it will do you no good whatsoever to yell at me.”
“But Perot’s been found. This is ridiculous.”
“As ridiculous as it may seem, she was found guilty of two murders. One is still outstanding. I will have her unshackled when and if she is proven entirely innocent or I am good and ready. Now, might I suggest you go with your wife and these gentlemen here while I break the news to this mob that they are going to have to disperse without their afternoon’s entertainment?”
Jean Perot smelled even worse in the close confines of the judge’s chambers.
Sitting beside Celine, Cord wouldn’t have cared if the man reeked like a very dead horse. Her shackles had been removed after they were all closeted with Judge Bennett, the Perots, Jean and four of the police guards. At Celine’s insistence, Auguste had left them at the door of the Cabildo and disappeared into the crowd, though not before he’d kissed her on the cheek.
Cord, Celine and the three Perots sat like penitents on hard-bottomed chairs, waiting for the judge to speak. Cord removed his coat and slipped it over Celine’s shoulders. She smiled up at him as she pulled the edges of the wide lapels close.
“Mrs. Moreau, it is obvious you did not murder Jean Perot, for here he stands. Sort of.” Bennett wrinkled his nose as he looked Jean up and down. “It still remains to be seen just who you did kill.”
“No one, sir,” she said softly.
“Ask him,” Cord said, leaping to his feet. He was barely able to refrain from strangling Perot.
“I was just getting to that,” the judge said. “Sit down, Moreau.”
Cord sat beside Celine again. When she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, he covered it with his own.
Judge Bennett turned to Je
an, who sat beside his parents, hunched over on his left side as if he were ninety, not nineteen years old.
“Young man, it would behoove you to tell me the truth, and all of it. Now. If we have to drag it out of you with a long, lengthy trial, things will not go as well for you.”
Before Jean could utter a word, the elder Perot jumped to his feet. “I have money. I want the best lawyer available for my son. I want—”
“I want you to sit down, sir,” Bennett barked.
Cord smiled until Jean began in a weak, singsong tone that demanded everyone strain to hear him. He raised a filthy hand and pointed it at Celine.
“She tried to kill me. I had to disappear. I knew she would not give up until I was dead. She cursed me, just as the old woman did. I am ill,” he said, imploring the judge with outstretched arms. His coat gaped open to reveal the bloody stain at his midriff.
“I have been ill since that night when she stabbed me,” he went on, his gaze darting from one person to the next. “I was … delirious, wandering the … the city. I … don’t know what happened. I … lost all track of time, of days … weeks … until today, when I saw the crowd. That’s all I know …” His voice trailed off.
Without taking his eyes off Jean, Judge Bennett leaned across his desk.
“There is a little matter of the body found in your courtyard, Perot, the one everyone assumed to be you. Someone of the same height, the same build, wearing your clothing. How do you explain that?”
“She did it,” Jean said quickly, pointing at Celine. “She killed the old woman, too.”
“You’ll have to do better than that,” Bennett told him.
“I can do better than that.” Cord started to get to his feet again.
“Your Honor?” Celine said, pulling Cord down beside her. She closed her eyes for a second to collect her thoughts. The judge seemed willing to listen and waited for her to go on.
There was not a sound in the small chamber when she began.
“My husband has recently learned that Jean’s cousin has been missing since the night of Persa’s murder. I had met this cousin on only one occasion, when he came with Jean to my guardian’s shop. Dressed in Jean’s clothing, this young man might have easily been mistaken for Jean. With his face—”
When she pictured the laughing, dark-eyed, devil-may-care youth who had encouraged Jean to have his fortune read, she could not continue.
“What you’re trying to say is that with his face bashed in, the fellow might have been mistaken for Jean here?” Bennett finished for her.
“Yes, sir. I believe Jean killed Persa, then went looking for me, certain I would sense the truth. When he tried to kill me to keep me quiet, I stabbed him and ran, thinking he was dead. I don’t know when or how he killed his cousin, but he must have.”
“That’s a lie!” Jean cried.
Madam Perot appealed to Bennett. “My son needs medical attention. His wound, the wound that woman inflicted upon him months ago, is seeping. It is infected. Surely you can see that he is burning up with fever and crippled with pain—”
Cord jumped up again before Celine could stop him.
“Your Honor, I know how we could get to the truth once and for all. It’s a bit unconventional—”
“Everything about this place is unconventional,” Bennett cut in. “Had I known what was in store for me before I came to New Orleans, I would have stayed in Boston.” He sighed. “What is your idea, Mr. Moreau?”
“As you know, my wife was raised by a fortuneteller. Perhaps as a result, she herself has a somewhat unique talent.”
He looked down at Celine. She shook her head, trying to get him to stop, but Cord went on.
“Let her lay her hand on Perot and you’ll have your answers,” he urged Bennett.
“No!” Jean Perot screamed like a stuck pig and began thrashing in his seat, his wild eyes locked on Celine. “Don’t let her touch me. Don’t let her even come near me. I’ve been in hell since that night she touched my hand!”
Madam Perot started wailing and crossing herself to ward off evil. Cord held out his hand to Celine, urging her to stand and walk with him over to Jean.
Bennett frowned. “Is this some of that voodoo you people down here are so fond of?”
“You’re thinking of gumbo,” Cord said as he led Celine across the room. They stopped before Jean Perot and his mother.
“With Your Honor’s permission?” Cord asked Bennett.
“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” the judge said. He stood and spread his palms on the desktop, leaning forward to get a better view.
“Touch him, Celine.” Over the protests of both elder Perots, Cord pinned Jean in his chair.
“No! Don’t!” Jean cried out, writhing, as Celine reached for him.
She nearly balked, then closed her eyes and touched his hand. Almost immediately she whispered, “I see it. I see it all,” and then let quickly go. Cord was watching her closely, with a curious stare.
As Celine stared down at Jean Perot, the man who’d killed Persa, the man who’d sent her running headlong into the night, she could only feel sorry for the pitiful creature he had become.
She turned to Judge Bennett.
“Well, young woman?”
“It happened just as we suspected.” But Celine knew it was only her word against Perot’s, that her visions would probably count for naught. She was about to warn Cord not to be disappointed when Jean started babbling.
“She sees true. I killed him! I killed my cousin Renard and hid his body in the stable. Then I went to the old woman, because I needed to know what would become of me. She knew right away, said there was evil upon me, said I would die very shortly for what I had done.”
His fingers kept scratching at the fabric of his trousers as he stared off into space reciting his crimes, while his mother wept copious tears into her palms.
“I had to kill Persa, too, you see? She knew too much. And then, as I was leaving the shop, I remembered Celine. She could see everything, just like the other one. She would surely know I’d killed Renard and old Persa. So she had to die, too.” He looked over at the judge. “It’s a pity that others had to die just because I owed so much money to Renard. He was going to tell Papa, you see.”
“I’m afraid I do see,” Judge Bennett said slowly. “I’m afraid I see all too well. Officers”—he turned to the policemen, who had managed to blend into the far corners of the chambers—“see that young Mr. Perot here is treated to our fine accommodations.”
After Jean was led sobbing from the room and his parents filed out in shock, Judge Bennett came around the desk. He stood before Cord and Celine, took her hand and shook it.
“Mrs. Moreau, I have never known anyone who stood beneath a hangman’s noose and lived to tell about it. I’m certainly glad your husband saw fit to arrive in time.”
Celine looked up at Cord. She could see that he was more than a little distressed at the reminder that he’d almost let her down. She slipped her hand around his waist and leaned against him.
“So am I, Your Honor, but anyone who knows Cordero as well as I do knows that in the end, he always does the honorable thing.”
Twenty-three
DUNSTAIN PLACE
ST. STEPHEN ISLAND
“Most men think one wedding a lifetime is more than enough,” Auguste said with a laugh as he handed Cordero a double-breasted black jacket. “If I didn’t know Celine I would think you were a glutton for punishment, but if she were my wife I would also want to contrive as many honeymoons as I possibly could.”
Closeted in one of the spare rooms at Dunstain Place, the two talked as Cord slipped on the jacket and buttoned it up.
“Let’s just say our first wedding was not the stuff a girl’s dreams are made of.” Cord grinned at his father, unable to keep the embarrassment out of his tone. “I wasn’t even sober.”
“Do you think you should have kept this a surprise? What if she doesn’t want to marry you again?”
/> “After last night, I think that’s highly unlikely,” Cord said, bending down to concentrate on his image in the mirror above a dressing table.
“So things are going well? Might I be expecting a grandson soon?”
“Things are going well. I hope before long you’ll get your wish—and we ours. I’m certainly doing my part.” Cord paused with his hand on his high shirt collar, after having made certain it was adjusted just so. He wanted everything to be perfect for the ceremony he had planned for sunset.
“Can you believe I’m actually nervous?” he asked his father after he realized his hand was shaking.
“As nervous as we were when we escorted Celine to the gallows?”
Cord’s smile instantly faded. “I’d rather not ever be reminded of that day again.”
“I’m sorry. Since all went well, I felt it safe to jest. Now,” Auguste said, brushing off the cuff of his coat sleeve and standing at attention, “what would you have me do to help? Should I give the bride away?”
“I’ve already asked Howard Wells to do that. Since he seems to be a fixture around here, he should at least earn his keep.” When Auguste’s face mirrored his disappointment, Cord quickly added, “I had thought to ask you to stand as best man for me.”
The man was speechless for nearly a minute and then, grinning broadly, he took Cord’s hand in his and said, “There is nothing I’d rather do.”
“I’ll see you in a quarter of an hour then,” Cord said, grabbing his hat from the bed. “I’m off to collect the bride.”
“At least you don’t have far to go.”
“No, she’s just down the hall.”
Celine had just stepped out of her bath when a knock sounded on the bedroom door. She smiled as she tossed aside her towel, slipped on her dressing gown and tied the sash. After more than one very embarrassing episode, Cord had finally convinced Foster and Edward that at the very least, they should knock before entering the master suite.
“Come in,” she called as she shook her damp hair out and began to comb her fingers through the wet mass. When she saw her husband walk in instead of one of his servants, she couldn’t contain her joy. She ran across the room and into his waiting arms, unmindful of the flowered silk fabric draped over his arm.
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