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Decorum

Page 29

by Kaaren Christopherson


  “But do you think he is?” asked Esther. “Men can be such odd creatures. He may be trying to endear himself to you.”

  “Endear himself? You’d think he would have the decency to hold his tongue. Besides, knowing what little I do of the man, I expect he would express himself quite bluntly if he were. I’ll be as happy to leave New York on his account as on any.”

  John arrived with refreshment on a butler’s tray and in one smooth motion released the spring to let down the four legs as he set it before them and departed. Esther poured.

  “He has a way of looking at a woman that’s very disconcerting,” continued Francesca. “I imagine it would cow some women; it made me more determined to pay him no mind. You’ll see what I mean when you meet him. I will give him one thing—he can’t be a fortune hunter. Jerry and Mr. Worth had him thoroughly vetted on that score or they wouldn’t have let him near their business dealings. Besides, if he showed any interest in me, Jerry would probably kill him.”

  “Nonsense. Jerry hasn’t the fortitude to harm a fly. And speaking of Jerry, will we have an opportunity to speak with him—just the two of us?”

  “I’ve thought of that,” said Francesca. “I’ve asked him to take us to lunch one day.”

  “Well, that’s something. I would like to have his opinion—unaided if possible—of the way things stand here, and what we might expect in Banff. We must have a clearer idea of what we may be exposing ourselves to, even at that distance.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” said Francesca. “Though honestly, if I understood fully, I probably wouldn’t have the guts to try.”

  CHAPTER 35

  An Interview with the Family

  The arrangements for the funeral are usually left to the undertaker, who best knows how to proceed and who will save the family of the deceased all the cares and annoyances at the time they are least fitted to meet them. Such details as usually do not fall to the undertaker are entrusted to some relative or friend who is acquainted with business. This friend should have an interview with the family or some representative of it, and learn what their wishes may be and receive from them a limit of expenses.

  —Decorum, page 255

  Jerry knocked at the door of the reception room and came through without waiting for an invitation. The room was dark. The dim light of a single lamp illuminated the private inner office, where Shillingford was unloading the contents of his leather briefcase. The distinctive click of the hammer of a revolver stopped him.

  “Mr. Shillingford?”

  “Come in, Mr. Jerome.”

  The yellow lamplight pooled on top of the desk and played among the strata of files and papers and washed out dimly into the room, seeping into the folds and creases of two more figures. A tall man stood at Shillingford’s shoulder, shielded from the light except for a reflection that melted into the lower contours of his face. In a leather chair in front of the desk sat a petite woman in traveling clothes, her face revealing youth and fear and fierce determination.

  “Mr. Jerome,” said Shillingford, “may I present Mrs. Edmund Tracey.”

  Jerry lowered himself into the other chair, not grasping what he heard. Shillingford went to an innocent-looking cabinet and swung open the little door, revealing bottles of liquor and glasses. He poured Jerry a brandy, standing by him while he took a large gulp, then poured another before returning the bottle to the cabinet and himself to his desk.

  “This gentleman,” said Shillingford, gesturing toward the other man, “is my associate, Mr. McNee.” The men acknowledged each other with a nod. “Mr. McNee traced this lady to St. Louis, where she has been living since 1885. Pieces of this puzzle finally began to come together when my New York operative discovered that Mr. Tracey had removed to a cheap hotel, where he was living under the name Edward Terrey. He was paying a man at the Brevoort to take messages and collect mail for him. My operative had discovered that as Edward Terrey, Tracey regularly wired money to a Mrs. Helene Terrey in St. Louis.”

  “This, presumably, is why he wanted Miss Lund’s money,” said Jerry.

  “And no doubt Mrs. Ryder’s,” said Shillingford. “Mr. McNee discovered Mrs. Tracey’s lodgings at about the time the news broke of her husband’s arrest for the murder of Nell Ryder. Unfortunately, when he arrived in St. Louis, she had already fled. Nevertheless, he obtained enough evidence to make the connection between Edmund Tracey, alias Edward Terrey, and the woman you see before you. He surmised that she was headed for New York and caught up with her en route. News had not yet reached her of our discovery of the bodies of Philippe Letourneau and a Dr. Warren and the implication of her brother Henri Gerard. She came to New York to see her husband, not knowing that she herself might be implicated in crimes perpetrated by her brother and possibly Mr. Tracey.”

  “My only thought was to see the wretch who is my husband,” said the small but steady voice.

  “I hardly think that matters now,” said Jerry. “He’s as good as hanged. There’s nothing you can do to help him.” He drained his glass and set it on the desk.

  “You understand nothing, sir,” Henriette continued. “Nothing would please me more than to see this man hang for his crimes. He has done nothing but bring disgrace to my family and to me.”

  “The evidence against Tracey is ample,” said Shillingford without emotion. “Mrs. Tracey’s appearance can only strengthen the public sympathies already against him.”

  “I knew we would never be able to maintain the lie. I wanted to make him pay and pay, but I knew it couldn’t last.”

  “What lie?” asked Jerry. “Make him pay for what? And how could you”—he gestured toward Henriette’s small frame—“make Tracey pay for anything? You have no idea of the kind of man Edmund Tracey is.”

  “I know him better than any of you ever will.” She settled herself in the chair. “May I have something to drink?” Shillingford fetched a glass of water. She drank, then spoke.

  “By now you have heard how my brother, Henri Gerard, introduced Edmund to our home when I was but a girl. Even though I was very young, I loved him instantly. More than just a childish infatuation. I wanted him body and soul. I believed he saw beyond the slip of a girl to someone who cared for him deeply, passionately. I was in agony whenever he came to the house, so much did I want to be in his company, but I could only steal a few words with him from time to time. Henri Gerard and Philippe used to taunt me about him, torment me, tell me that there were other women.”

  Jerry heaved a deep and painful sigh. Henriette ignored him.

  “Well, I also know how to torment. I tormented my father until he let me have my coming-out ball. I wanted to show that I was a woman, just as good as any other, that I could do as I liked. What a fool I was. How could I, so small and so young, attract a man like Edmund? What attracted him was Maywood and my father’s money, money he knew I could get for him. One way or another I would get him the money and the land. He said he wanted to restore his family’s honor, you see, honor that money and land could give him.”

  “And you fell for it?” asked Jerry.

  “Yes!” she exclaimed. “He knew there was great enmity between my father and my brothers—the ruthless Henri Gerard and the spineless Philippe. My father loved me more than them and gave me anything I wanted. It made Henri Gerard and Philippe jealous and do stupid things, which made him hate them even more. Edmund knew I would have money someday. He protested his love for me and persuaded me to elope with him. Then everything that was mine would be his.”

  “Did your father approve of Tracey?” asked Jerry, almost for form’s sake.

  “Of an Anglo? He didn’t.”

  “Then why risk his displeasure?”

  “I could never remain out of my father’s favor for long. He always forgave me. Besides, my father was not well and had not much time left. Then Edmund made sure there was a reason for my father to insist upon our marrying.”

  “The child.”

  “Yes, the child. It was not evident yet w
hen we eloped, but I knew. I made sure that Edmund knew. And my old nurse. I told her the night we left and knew that she would arouse the household to follow us, find us, and force Edmund to marry me. They did find us, in New Orleans. My father forced us to marry and paid a handsome dowry for my hand.”

  For a moment, Henriette’s voice wavered and a look of pain clouded her face. “It was the shock of it all that killed my father. He took to his bed almost as soon as the ceremony was performed. He lay in agony for several months, unable to care for himself. The doctor attended him constantly.”

  “Dr. Warren?”

  “Yes. My father would have lapses in memory and bouts of pain. Dr. Warren administered laudanum to give him rest, but I knew he was miserable. I truly believe my brothers tormented my father to hasten his end. They expected to inherit, you see, and the sooner the better for they had many debts.

  “Then in the last month, my father’s health declined rapidly. The house was in chaos. Edmund and my brothers fought constantly. I don’t know how the priest was finally sent for. I only remember that I beat upon the chamber door, calling for my father, but they would not admit me. The doctor said I should not be in a room of death with a child in my womb. I could hear my father cry in his delirium, ‘Mon papillon, mon papillon,’ above the sound of the prayers as the priest performed the anointing. My father could barely kiss the cross. Edmund only shouted at me but I was inconsolable and fought him with all my strength. Philippe came out to drag me to my room, but Edmund prevented him and took me away himself. I wept and wept until finally the doctor came and told me that my father was dead.

  “A day later, Monsieur LeGros came. My brothers fully expected a male heir to inherit Maywood, despite the bad blood between them. But I had known all along that Maywood had been left to me. My brothers were furious. And I? I laughed and Edmund with me, for he knew what was mine would be his. Henri Gerard told LeGros his business with the Letourneaus was finished.”

  “So if you had inherited, why didn’t you and Tracey throw them out and bid them good riddance and be done with it?” Jerry asked.

  Henriette took another sip of water and sat quietly for a moment, as if willing herself to continue.

  “As soon as LeGros quitted the place, Philippe turned on me. He began to beat me and tried to strangle me. Henri Gerard shouted at him to stop, but never laid a hand on him. Edmund attacked him, but Philippe threw him off. Edmund ran from the room. I nearly fainted when I heard a shot and Philippe released his hold on me and I fell to the floor. Edmund had shot him dead.

  “The child began to come, too many weeks before his time. The pain was horrible. Edmund and Henri Gerard again sent for Dr. Warren. There was nothing the doctor could do. When the child finally came, he was dead. Mon petit. So much death in that house. I only wanted to get away, to die, too.” The tears came, but Henriette persevered. “Everything Edmund Tracey touched came to ruin. I had had enough of him, and yet was tethered to him for life. I nearly went mad with the prospect of a life with this monster.

  “They hid Philippe’s body and told the doctor that he had gone to France upon the death of our father, but the doctor was suspicious. He threatened to expose everything that had happened at Maywood unless he was paid. He threatened to have Edmund arrested and the weasel Henri Gerard joined him in this threat—and in my heart, so did I. So it was I who came up with the plan. The doctor would pronounce me dead in childbirth. Then I would be out of the way. The property would pass to Edmund and he would sign it over to Henri Gerard. Henri Gerard would pay the doctor. Then Edmund would be free—on one condition. I had no money other than my dowry and what jewels and clothes I could carry away. So Edmund was to set me up in a household of my own and send me money for my keep. As long as he kept paying, I would say nothing about his involvement in the death of my brother or his attempt to swindle the Letourneaus out of their property by using me. He could lead whatever life he liked.”

  “Why did Henri Gerard abandon you?”

  “He hated me for the favor my father showed me. Any plan that got rid of me was favorable to him. Besides, the Letourneaus’ money was tied up in the property, not in cash, so he couldn’t help me if he had wanted to. Edmund wanted to go abroad—to the West Indies or to Europe. Even if he had to marry your mademoiselle and then leave her—to get enough money to keep me and enough to leave the country.”

  “But how could you stand the thought of his pursuing other women?” Jerry found the acceptability of such a plan incomprehensible.

  “Because I knew they meant nothing to him. He hated them—all of them. They stripped him of his dignity. They barely kept him alive. He used to write to me about how he hated them all, even your precious Miss Lund. He hated them just as passionately as I had once loved and now hated Edmund.”

  “But what about this letter,” interrupted McNee. “It doesn’t speak of hatred.”

  “What letter?” asked Henriette.

  McNee drew from his pocket the letter he had found in the St. Louis boarding house and handed it to her. She opened it, and after a furtive glance across the page, crammed it back in its envelope.

  “You can’t see his cruelty?” she asked, thrusting the letter toward the detective. “I was only dear to him when he believed more money was coming, when he thought he was safe. He thought your mademoiselle would make him safe, that he could settle a sum on me and be done with it—done with me.”

  Jerry could stand no more. He was sick at heart. He rose to leave. He looked at Shillingford. “What do we do now?”

  “Inform the authorities,” Shillingford answered.

  “Thank you,” said Jerry to Shillingford, “for letting me hear the conclusion of this business before, before . . .” Jerry could think of nothing to say. Before the police beat down the door? Before the press sensationalizes the story? He turned to go, but Henriette grabbed his arm and held him there a moment longer.

  “I did love him once, monsieur, just as I imagine your mademoiselle once did. God spare her the hatred for any person that I now feel for Edmund Tracey.”

  “God grant your prayer, Mrs. Tracey,” said Jerry. “I’ve heard enough, Mr. Shillingford. Good night.”

  CHAPTER 36

  The Sound of Feasting

  Guests should not return to the house of mourning after the funeral. “In some sections it is customary to conclude the ceremonies of the day with a dinner or banquet, but this is grossly out of place and not to be tolerated by any one of common sense and refinement. . . . It is the cruelest blow which can be given bereaved friends to fill the house with strangers or indifferent acquaintances and the sound of feasting at a time when they desire of all things to be left alone with their sorrow.”

  —Decorum, page 259

  “They’ve already been checked,” said Blanche with indignation, as the policeman on duty inspected the basket. She stood outside Edmund Tracey’s cell—a relatively posh cell for the relatively posh prisoners of high society. “You should know me by now.”

  “Can’t help it, lady,” said the policeman as he pawed through the clean clothes, soap, a book of poetry, and baked goods. “Rules is rules. You could come a hundred times—”

  “Which I have—”

  “—and this might be the very time you’d bring an extra special surprise for your friend here.” The gauntlet of authorities had already broken the soap into pieces and reduced baked goods to crumbs before being satisfied that they contained nothing beyond a little comfort the Tombs had failed to provide. “Okay, lady. You’re all clear.” He unlocked the cell and let Blanche enter, then slammed the door behind her and rooted himself outside the door, where he watched them through the bars.

  “I brought you a clean shirt and underthings,” she began, trying to keep a light tone. “When I come tomorrow you can give me your laundry . . .”

  “You don’t have to keep doing this,” said Tracey.

  “Nonsense,” Blanche said as she crossed to the small table, placed where it had caught t
he last of the day’s sunlight, and made room for the basket’s contents among the books and papers resident there. “I’m afraid the tin of sweet bread got the worst of it this time.” She lowered her voice and tried to offer a sheepish smile. “I saw to it there was a little extra rum.” She opened the tin and the fragrance of the sweet bread drifted genie-like into the cell, which was already warming in the dim morning light of late May. She sat down on a wooden chair adorned with a cushion of once-bright tapestry in gold and blue.

  Edmund absently lifted the cover of the book and ran his thumb up the side of the pages, breaking the awkward silence with gentle fluttering. He put a large crumb of bread in his mouth and then looked as if he thought better of it but dared not offend her by spitting it out. Blanche had never seen him look so thin and pale. The whiteness of his collarless shirt and wan complexion made him appear nearly luminous against the cell’s dingy whitewash. The auburn hair and moustache and the freckled face were ashen. The bed looked like he hadn’t slept in it, so taut was the quilt and pristine the pillow. He fingered the clean shirt—gingerly, she thought—as if thinking of the linen shroud that awaited him. She shuddered and searched for something to say.

  “I was sorry I couldn’t come yesterday. It took all day to see to these things.” She nodded toward the table.

  In truth, the strain of almost daily visits, tamping down her fear and willing herself not to break down in Tracey’s presence, had become a monumental effort. Each time she stepped across the threshold of the Centre Street entrance, sorrow and hopelessness weighed her down. The reckless speed with which Tracey’s case came to trial frightened her, portending a swift and merciless verdict. As she passed like an automaton through the lobby and the hallways with their offices and courts, through the checkpoints, and so up the stairs to the cells, she was torn between abandoning her vigil for the sake of her own sanity and offering comfort to the only man she had ever loved.

 

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