“Got religion, did he?” asked Shillingford.
“Either religion or the fear of God. Speaking of religion, Mills says the priest has something against the family. Apparently there was enough of a regular flow of money from the Letourneaus to the Church that the bishop considered recommending Father Marcel’s elevation to monsignor. When the current generation failed to live up to the parents’ standards, the priest’s chances were greatly reduced.”
“No wonder I had a difficult time with him—protecting the names of the father and grandfather, at the same time despising Henri Gerard and Philippe. He conveniently omitted the business about the child. Perhaps he considered Henriette to be the last hope of the family redeeming itself with the Church—and his prospects.”
“Not unlikely,” agreed McNee.
“Clearly even Father Marcel regarded the circumstances surrounding her death to be suspect. To the best of his knowledge no one except the brothers and Tracey—and Dr. Warren, of course—witnessed the deaths of Henriette and the child. There was no wake or vigil, no administration of last rites, no normal activity surrounding the death of a Catholic. Why the haste?”
“There is the custom of letting the remains rest in the crypt for a year and a day before room is made for another body,” said McNee, “but this is a family burial ground with many tombs scattered about, not a single crypt or oven vaults aboveground. Plenty of room for everyone. Maybe they were afraid another interment so soon after Charles Montague Letourneau’s death would draw undue attention to the matter.” McNee considered. “But would it? Wouldn’t it be more noticeable not to follow the normal rites of the Church and not to inter the bodies in the normal way? The Church would be up in arms. Now, there’s a row for you right there.”
“From what I understand,” said Shillingford, “with the Church on the side of the family there wouldn’t have been much the law could do to intervene. I can’t imagine that the journey to the Letourneau cemetery twice in the space of a week would have made any difference to three able-bodied men. I assume three—Henri Gerard, Philippe, and Tracey.”
“You mean four, don’t you—with the priest?” asked McNee.
“No,” said Shillingford after a moment’s thought, “the priest said three—himself, Henri Gerard, and Tracey. Philippe had left Maywood for France.”
“The lawyer could shed no further light upon the situation?”
“None. He was discharged as soon as he read the will, a will that left everything to Henriette.”
“Henriette?” asked McNee, surprised. “A bit unusual. And she was alive then—when the will was read, I mean?”
“Yes.”
“So, we must indeed try to find the doctor,” said McNee. “I’ll see if our host has anything to say about him.” McNee produced a rude map. “Perhaps it’s time I paid a visit to Maywood Plantation. Maybe Mills knows the quickest way to the graveyard.”
CHAPTER 21
The Obligation of Silence
There are few points in which men are more frequently deceived than in the estimate which they form of the confidence and secrecy of those to whom they make communications. People constantly make statements of delicacy and importance which they expect will go no farther and will never be repeated; but the number of those who regard the obligation of silence even as to the most particular affairs, is extremely small.
—Decorum, page 227
McKetterick’s hosted a special brand of secular Christmas musical extravaganza, sparing no expense in costumes and scenery and live animals. Indeed, the theater made most of its money during the Christmas season, which carried it through the year’s more mediocre offerings. The theater itself was at the bottom of the list of respectable entertainment, a stifling hellhole and firetrap, with cramped seating and decrepit balconies and an alley full of bleating livestock—which only added to its charm.
Vinnie Lawrence, who enjoyed a good laugh, had persuaded Michael to take Anne and herself and their more incorrigible friends to McKetterick’s, followed by the splurge of a late supper at Louis Sherry’s. Vinnie didn’t care that many in the parish would criticize this raucous entertainment for a parson’s daughter. She had so little opportunity to be the object of delicious gossip that McKetterick’s suited the purpose perfectly. Michael Lawrence nearly sacrificed a limb to give Vinnie her wish and emerged victorious. The evening promised to stoke the fires of gossip well into the New Year.
The street was sporting a lively traffic jam of hansoms, private carriages, and foot traffic when the Lawrence party’s carriages pulled up. The narrow sidewalk was a mass of undulating humanity. They had missed the initial melee; one of the theater’s front doors was already hanging by a single hinge and another looked like a fist had gone through. Extra house staff were hired for the occasion, their muscular bodies straining at McKetterick’s livery—gatekeepers through which the seething and excited throng passed. Their attempts to weed out the troublemakers only created bottlenecks clogged with merry patrons. Scalpers did a brisk business. So did pickpockets.
The Lawrence party flung itself into the fray, forming a human chain with the gentlemen leading “like parting the Red Sea,” shouted Michael—a pathway closing up tight behind them as soon as they were through it. With so much jostling around them, no one took any notice of the ladies unbuttoning their coats and thrusting hands down their bodices to retrieve the tickets. The party was carried through the cramped lobby, swept up the shabby stairs, and deposited in the front two boxes almost before any of them could draw breath. Flushed and excited, the young people settled above the mayhem that was the orchestra. Above them in the balconies, two tiers of overheated spectators waved, shouted, and fanned themselves with stage bills.
“Say, Lawrence!” shouted one of the friends who peered around the wall that divided the two boxes, cupping his hand next to his mouth to make himself heard. “What’s the chance of escaping at intermission for a quick smoke?”
“Nil,” Michael shouted back, “There’s nothing quick in this place.”
“Except a cutpurse,” said a companion in their own box, who had just noticed her bag was missing.
The buxom girl laughed. “Someone took the bait. You were right about keeping nothing of value in a purse. I stuffed it with torn newspaper.” The girl put both her hands on the top of her bodice as if adjusting it. “Let them try to get my purse.” Everyone laughed.
No need to be demure in this place. Vinnie extracted her opera glasses from their little bag and surveyed the crowd. She began at the top and slowly made her way around the tier, laughing at the antics of the occupants, and disappointed that she could see properly only the people nearest the railing. The second tier, the story was the same.
As she began to peruse the back of the orchestra, her eye caught a set of dark and striking features atop a tall figure making her way down the near aisle. Each man she squeezed past looked her up and down. Unruffled by this attention, she kept her progress as if she were out for a Sunday stroll. Her hair was black and exquisitely knotted at the back, a large Spanish comb rising from the knot. She wore a slim black dress, a brightly colored shawl thrown carelessly over her shoulder.
It’s that Jet Woman, Vinnie decided, Mr. O’Casey’s paramour. She couldn’t wait to tell Francesca. She watched the woman pick her way down the aisle to a row near the front of the house. Vinnie looked for the empty seat and expected to find O’Casey next to it. Instead, she saw the head and shoulders of a man in evening clothes who looked oddly familiar. The Jet Woman stood at the end of the row and shouted to her companion. The man turned his head at the sound.
“It couldn’t be,” Vinnie whispered, dropping her opera glasses in her lap. “It just couldn’t be.” She put the glasses up to her eyes again. One by one men rose and women pulled their skirts closer to let the woman pass. The companion rose, turning toward her—and consequently toward Vinnie. As the woman brushed past him to take the seat on his other side, the man pulled her toward him and kissed her low o
n the jaw under her ear. She smiled as she took her seat. The man sat down, showing by his posture that he was devoting to her his full attention.
Vinnie suddenly felt sick. She wanted to cry. She wanted to run. She wanted to tell someone, everyone. Yet she could tell no one that the man she saw was Edmund Tracey.
The theater became unbearably hot. She felt drenched inside her dress and suffocation leapt across her chest and up through her neck and face. Cold perspiration sprang onto her forehead as pain grabbed at her eyes from behind. She dropped the glasses and pressed her gloved hands to her temples. The noise in the hall merged into an incomprehensible mass. The lights and people began to spin. Michael’s voice saying, “Vin, are you all right?” was the last thing she heard.
When Vinnie woke, she was at home in her own bed. Her mind and body were in such misery that she couldn’t trouble to remember how she got there. Anne was sitting at the foot of the bed. Michael stood by the door, ghostlike in the dim gaslight. Her father stood behind her mother, who continued to soak a cloth in cool water, wring it out, and apply it to Vinnie’s spinning head. The doctor had been sent for. Vinnie couldn’t think. She couldn’t speak. She was seized by a violent crying fit that so hurled her stomach that she vomited into a bedside basin. Exhausted, she fell back onto the bed.
Michael’s disembodied voice said, “She seemed just fine when we arrived.”
“It was terribly hot in the hall,” Anne’s voice said. “There was a lot of noise and people moving about everywhere.”
Her mother’s voice swam to the surface. “I knew I had misgivings about this for some reason. All you young people gallivanting off to that dreadful place. Then to become overheated and be dragged out into the cold air. What on earth were you thinking, Michael?”
“We couldn’t very well leave her there.”
“Now, Mother,” said her father, patting her mother’s shoulder. “I’m sure Michael and Anne did their best.”
When at last the doctor examined Vinnie, he concluded that she had caught a chill. Her overheated state had made her vulnerable to illness. The Lawrences must keep her warm, lest her chill turn to pneumonia. Vinnie’s confinement was like being in prison. She was permitted no visitors, which would only incite restlessness and rebellion. Only Francesca’s plea to join her and Anne in hosting a celebration New Year’s Day kept her in minimal check. When the first cough made its debut from deep in Vinnie’s chest and threatened this enterprise, she determined to wait it out and put up with the hot eiderdown, mustard plaster, bland porridge, dry toast, weak tea, and a room that smelled of camphor.
The tumult in Vinnie’s mind and her enforced silence found vent in imagination and tears. As much as she wanted to unburden herself, for once she dared not give voice to her fears. She turned the scene at McKetterick’s over and over again in her mind. There was no mistaking the easy stance and the charming smile. It was Edmund all right—and the exotic-looking Jet Woman. The memory of the look they shared, the kiss, the movement of their bodies as he pulled her closer embarrassed Vinnie, even as she lay there in the safety of her bed. She wished that even a fraction of the passion Edmund showed toward that woman could be genuinely bestowed upon her friend. Vinnie was ashamed of him. She hated to admit it, but on the surface at least, Mr. Connor O’Casey stacked up much better than her friend’s fiancé.
McNee stood in the shade of a tree at the edge of a clearing and took a canteen from his light pack, swished a gulp of water around in his mouth, spat, then took two good swallows before replacing it. He knelt and extracted a map and laid it out on the grass, taking off his hat and wiping his forehead with his sleeve as he prepared to refresh his memory on this parcel of Maywood Plantation.
The sun was at midday’s height. He lifted to his eyes the binoculars that hung around his neck and surveyed this part of Ascension Parish as far as their sight would take him. The Letourneau family graveyard lay in his direct line of sight. The little city of the dead, peopled by stone angels and saints, rose in the shelter of a modest stand of live oak trees, engulfed in tall grass and vines. An oversized gray temple tomb with its Corinthian columns commanded the center and dwarfed even the pediment tombs and barrel vaults with their crosses and obelisks, each of which diminished in size until the graves in the outer edges were reduced to a few plain box tombs and overgrown coping graves.
He made for a pile of decaying logs in the shelter of a small stand of trees. He would eat his midday meal hunkered down among the logs for protection and ponder the problem of the lock. He pulled his grub from the pack and drew a slim flask from his pocket. A box tomb, the priest had said. Only two or three of these were visible above the encroaching grasses. Might one of them contain a clue that would lay to rest any question of Edmund Tracey’s motives and veracity?
He would sit back for just a minute more, he thought, and then get up. As he leaned back, his head bobbed a time or two and he forced his eyes open for a second and squinted at the dappled sunlight through the leaves, only to let his head fall forward on his chest. In a moment, he was fast asleep.
One of the first things a detective learns is, Never fall asleep on the job. This principle floated up from the recesses of slumber when McNee heard the unmistakable cock of a shotgun and felt both barrels nudge him against the back of his drooping neck.
“On your feet—real slow-like,” said the deep, drawling baritone over McNee’s left shoulder. McNee chided himself for being caught so completely off guard, but let it pass in favor of riveting his full attention on the situation at hand. As he stood, his canteen tumbled to the ground and he half-bent down to retrieve it.
“Leave it. Put your hands in the air.” Again, McNee complied. “Now move off about five paces.” McNee did so. “That’s far enough.” The man’s speech was careless, but McNee detected a hint of refinement, as if the man were capable of proper speech when he cared to exhibit it.
“All right. See that patch of dirt?” McNee could just see out of the corner of his eye the double barrel of the shotgun indicating a bare patch of earth in the grass to his left. “Now you’re goin’ to take that gun out of your belt with two fingers of your left hand and you’re goin’ to toss it over there, gentle-like. Two fingers, mind, or I’ll blow your head off.”
CHAPTER 22
Impatience and Heedlessness
The desire of pleasing is, of course, the basis of social connection. Persons who enter society with the intention of producing an effect, and of being distinguished, however clever they may be, are never agreeable. They are always tiresome, and often ridiculous.... They thrust themselves into all conversations, indulge in continual anecdotes, which are varied only by dull disquisitions, listen to others with impatience and heedlessness, and are angry that they seem to be attending to themselves. Such persons go through scenes of pleasure, enjoying nothing. They are equally disagreeable to themselves and others.
—Decorum, pages 22 and 23
Blanche had wheedled out of Connor that the Worths’ invitation to Christmas dinner had arrived. She had also wheedled out of him that the woman she saw at Madame Pommier’s millinery was the same Miss Lund who attended the same Jeromes who were guests at Thanksgiving, the same Miss Lund who was engaged to Edmund Tracey.
A change had come upon Connor, though he tried to conceal it—the introspection, the distraction, the obvious effort to show enthusiasm for anything that interested Blanche. She had attributed it to the press of business and the hotel, but she soon realized it was something else. He seemed a little lost, absorbed in reverie from which she found it hard to rouse him. Even in the midst of their lovemaking he was absent from her.
With this new invitation, she was determined to stand her ground. She had a right to complain, didn’t she? She had given up Thanksgiving, hadn’t she? She was a respectable widow. If she didn’t stand up for herself, Connor would certainly never respect her.
“Oh, no you don’t, not this time,” Blanche fumed, “I will not be left behind again.”
“It’s not my party, Blanche. I didn’t make the choices. You’d hate it anyway. The place’ll be crawling with kids, just like it was at Thanksgiving.”
“That’s not the point. You promised me that once you broke in with these people you’d see to it that I would be introduced. I won’t let you shove me in a cupboard as if I don’t exist. You’ve had your chance—two in fact. What am I supposed to do by myself while you’re eating your Christmas pudding?” Her face was hard and her words were sharp.
“I’m sorry, Blanche. Truly. The Worths asked me again for Christmas dinner—and did not include any guest of mine in the invitation. It’ll be just like it was, only worse. Kids’ll be crawling all over and shouting and showin’ off all their presents. You’ll go mad.”
“If you can stand it, so can I.”
“You wouldn’t last an hour.”
“Well, the whole party can’t be made up of children. Who else will be there?” Blanche tried to make the question seem natural.
“Whadaya mean?”
“It’s a straightforward question. Who else was invited?”
“Just a few friends of the Worths.”
“Who are they?”
“Some people you wouldn’t know.” The comment stung.
“Who?”
“What are you on at me about?” he snapped. “Probably the Jeromes and maybe a few other people, that’s all. How should I know?”
Question, evasion, question, evasion. It was infuriating.
“I want to go.”
“It’s a bit late for that.” His irritation showed more and more. She didn’t care.
“Then decline. Say you can’t go. Say you’re sick. Say anything.” She choked back her last words and turned away.
“I can’t do that,” O’Casey said.
Decorum Page 18