Decorum (29 page)

C
HAPTER
35

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 when 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.”

C
HAPTER
36

“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 the 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.

“Did anyone come to see you yesterday?” she asked.

“My lawyer, of course.” He drew up a stool and sat down at the table opposite her.

“What did he say?” She pushed out the words. “Will there be another appeal?”

“There’s no new evidence in my favor to make that possible. With the Louisiana business looming it’s unlikely there’ll be anything.”

Louisiana, where they had seen their happiest days together before life had intervened. New Orleans, with the lacy loveliness of its gritty gentility, the refined culture alongside primal superstition. They had soaked up experience moment by moment many a moonlit evening and many a steamy afternoon. Now it was all gone. She wondered if she should bring up the happy past to divert him. She couldn’t, she thought. If he had half the feeling for her that she had for him, the remembrance would only bring pain. That there would ever be a time to come when she could look back on these memories with fondness seemed an utter impossibility.

“Has she come to see you?” Blanche asked.

“To which ‘she’ are you referring?” Tracey smirked. “My wife? My fiancée?”

“Anyone,” Blanche said.

“They’ll let me have no contact with my wife.” Tracey sighed. “It’s just as well. She is also a guest of the City of New York, over in the Women’s Prison. Ironic, isn’t it? This is the closest we’ve lived together in years, but not for long. She faces trial in Louisiana with her brother, as soon as the extradition has gone through. It seems there’s to be quite a family reunion, since I may be joining them. I’m quite popular, you know. Louisiana is haggling with New York State over who will have the pleasure of dispatching me. Louisiana wants its chance to hang me before New York can send me to Auburn and allow me the honor of being among the first to test their electric chair. I don’t know which is more appealing—to hang like a gentleman in my native land or to fry among the imposters like a foreigner.”

“Oh, Edmund, don’t.” Blanche hated the acid tone that crept into his languid voice.

“The Chickadee and the Magpie,” he said disdainfully. “They both have written—frequently.”

“What do they say?”

“I have no idea. The prison authorities know them intimately, of course, having perused my correspondence with interest. I’m sure they found them entertaining. Would you like to read them?” He picked up a little stack of opened letters and held them out to her. “You may as well. I’ve not been able to bring myself to do it. The Magpie would either say that I had been cruelly misunderstood or rail upon me as a villain for having deceived everyone for so long and condemn me to perdition.”

“Might she offer some help?”

“She might.”

“Isn’t it worth finding out?”

“I think Jerome may see that as a conflict of interest, since he is doing everything he can to act in the interest of the Chickadee. As to the Chickadee herself, she has sent me three. I can almost predict what they contain.” He did not look at her, but looked toward the barred window. “The first is an appeal to unburden myself as to what drove me down this path—a desire to understand me in a way she had hitherto not bothered. One contains a self-examination and asks me to forgive her for anything she might have done to hurt me. The final one, if I know her at all, requests an interview that we may exchange our mutual forgiveness. I find it revolting and hypocritical—a reminder of everything I hated about New York and her class of people. Had the scheme come off and we had . . .” His voice trailed off. He looked down at the table. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not the man I was when we were both free and knew each other well, when we loved each other in New Orleans.”

“But I still see in you the man I knew.”

“And that’s the man I want you to remember, not the one you see before you.” He raised his eyes to hers. She wondered for a moment whether she had lied, to him and to herself—that this was not the man she had known, but a stranger.

“I don’t want you to come anymore, Blanche,” he said softly.

His statement shocked her. In one instant she felt the fear of being cut off from him and the shame of relief at being released. The distress must have shown plainly on her face, for he continued quickly.

“Don’t think I haven’t appreciated your faithfulness,” he said, almost comfortingly. “No one has ever shown me this kind of fidelity—especially now. If there is such a thing as Christian charity, you at least haven’t been ashamed to visit the prisoner.

“I don’t want you to come because I want to spare us both. I am selfish in this, I admit, but I want to remember you at your loveliest and happiest. I know you’ve tried to cheer me, to look your best and not like some woebegone widow. I also see how visiting me has worn you down. You have seen me waste away day after day. I don’t want to be remembered like that—not by you of all people. Will you please honor my request?”

Blanche could no longer hold back the sadness that welled up in her. She began to cry. He reached across and took her hand. She had feared that the warmth of his touch would stir painful memories. But the cold she felt through her lace glove nearly repelled her. She was glad, but the gladness did nothing to suppress the tears.

“Please listen, Blanche. I have a request to make of you. After everything is over, I have directed my lawyer to find you and send you all my personal effects.”

She shut her eyes and put her hand tightly over her mouth to keep herself from sobbing. He continued.

“Among these you will find a large ring with a crest in it. It belonged to my fiancée’s father. It’s the only thing among my few possessions that is not mine. She gave it to me upon our engagement. Please see that it is returned to her. I leave her to wrestle with its associations. Anything else that’s left, you may keep or do with as you see fit.”

She could not help the sobbing now. He waited for the flood to subside.

“If they send you to Louisiana, shall I follow you?” she offered, knowing—or rather hoping—his answer would be negative.

“No. Leave it alone, Blanche. Leave our good memories there. Don’t scar them.” She nodded her assent. The warmth from her fingers slowly gave his cold hand life.

“You must go now,” he said.

“Can’t I stay a little longer?”

He shook his head. “No. There’s no point. Let’s say our farewells now.”

“May I send you some things—anything you might need?” she asked, nodding toward the basket.

“As you wish. Yes, it does help. But please don’t bring them yourself.” She nodded.

She looked toward the door at the policeman standing there.

“Officer, I’m about to leave. I’m not coming back. May I say my good-byes?”

The policeman sighed and looked to his right and to his left. He made no move to turn away, but averted his eyes.

Blanche and Tracey rose. In their embrace she felt how thin he had grown, the ripple of ribs beneath his shirt and the sharp collarbone against her cheek, but it didn’t matter. She was comforted that he held her for so long, that he might regret releasing her. Then she raised her face to his and her hand to the back of his head and kissed him, not with the passion of a lover, but with an ardent esteem she felt for him now. She held the kiss for a moment and afterward leaned her forehead against his mouth and felt the auburn moustache brush her brow.

“Say my name once more,” she said.

He put his hand under her chin and pulled it up gently until their eyes met.

“Go quickly now,” he said. “Farewell, my dearest Blanche.”

She did not resist as he urged her toward the door. The policeman unlocked it for her and closed it again with a dead clang. She did not look back, but hurried down the hallway and descended the stairs.

She was halfway to the entrance when she saw a tall veiled figure coming through the door. Blanche stopped and waited till the figure saw her. The woman approached and stood before her. Francesca lifted her veil.

“He said you’d want to come,” said Blanche. She felt almost triumphant, as if she owned something this privileged woman never would. Yet this was no triumphant time. There was pain enough without heaping it upon a woman who merely wanted to make her peace. Blanche could not begrudge her that. “He doesn’t want to see you.”

“No. I suppose he doesn’t.”

“Then why come?”

“You think I shouldn’t?”

“I suppose you have a right to try.” Blanche sighed. “No, I suppose I can’t blame you.”

“You’re sure he—”

“Yes, I’m sure,” said Blanche. “He said he doesn’t want to see you.”

“He actually said as much?”

“Yes. Just now when I was there.”

Tears welled up in the woman’s eyes, but her voice was steady. “That’s that, then,” she said. “I’m actually glad to have seen you. I’d rather hear it from you than hear it from some official or embarrass Edmund with a scene that neither of us wants.”

Blanche nodded.

“I’ll go then,” said Francesca.

Both women hesitated.

“I’m so sorry about all this—” Francesca began.

“Don’t,” said Blanche. “Please don’t bother.”

“No. No, I’m sorry.”

Neither woman moved. Blanche thought the other looked a little awkward and was surprised at herself for feeling completely at her ease.

Then Francesca turned and added, “May I drop you somewhere? I have a carriage outside. . . .”

“Thank you. No,” said Blanche. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll find my own way.”