Good Man Friday (38 page)

Awkward silence. The Constable – a heavyset man with a political hack's oily smile – scratched a few notes on his paper and sized up the witnesses before him with shrewd blue eyes: the immaculate Englishman, the pale-faced Southern poet in black, the sable giant with a bandage on his head. As if asking himself whether he'd have to take them aside later and warn them to keep their mouths shut about the suspect's unseemly breakdown.

‘Sir,' January urged gently, ‘I beg you to remember the Constable is here. He'll take down everything you say—'

‘Fuck him!' yelled Bray. ‘God-damn the lot of 'em! I killed the bitch, and I'll shout it from the goddam rooftops!' He leaned across the table, seized January's wrist. ‘He was my only friend. The only person who cared about me. He was my Man Friday, the single other human being with me on this Christly barren desert island full of God-damn cannibals! How can you be so pur-blind simple that you don't see what she did?'

‘That will be for the court to decide.' Oldmixton, sitting directly opposite Bray at the table, took from his breast pocket a single sheet of paper and laid it before the prisoner. ‘In the meantime, Mr Bray, if you'll sign this, it will give me authorization to make arrangements for her burial. As a friend of the family—'

‘Arrangements for her burial?' Bray leaned across the table, pulled the papers to him and snatched the pen from Oldmixton's hand. With it he scratched a huge X through the writing, scrawled,
Tie a brick on her and throw her in the river
, and signed his name. ‘There's your arrangements.' He shoved the document back at Oldmixton. ‘Give that to her God-damn family! As her husband I reckon I've got the right to say how my wife's to be put to rest. You can take all that secret writing of hers, and the account-books you say she Jewed up, and all them bankin' papers that was in her satchel when I come into her bedroom and found her dressed like a man and diggin' her jewels out from under the floorboards – and whatever you can find out from this spyin' traitor pimp bastard—'

He jabbed a savage finger at Oldmixton, whose expression was a universe of grieved pity.

‘—an' you can say what you want of me. But she was an evil woman, Jeffers, and she deserved to die for what she done. For killin' the best nigger I ever knew.'

And he lowered his head to his arms, not weeping, but silent as stone.

When the constable had signed to the deputy who stood by the door, and himself led the trio of witnesses from the room into the bleak corridor of the jail's annex behind City Hall, Oldmixton asked in a tone of gentle concern, ‘Is he sane enough to stand trial?'

Spymaster? ME?

Jeffers studied his notes for a moment, his thick mouth turned down at one corner. ‘That I don't know, Mr Secretary,' he said. ‘It'll be up to the judge at the arraignment, I guess.' To Poe, he went on, ‘You say he was drunk when you told him what you'd heard of his wife's crimes—?'

‘He appeared to be drunk, yes, sir. There was a near-empty bottle on the table before him, and there was nothing to have prevented him from going on drinking for the remainder of the evening, until Mrs Bray returned.'

‘And these coded messages he speaks of – this cipher and key – that would give at least some evidence of his sanity if they could be found. What did they look like?'

January glanced sidelong at Oldmixton, who appeared to be listening with the same expression of grave sorrow that he'd worn in the visiting-room …

Oldmixton, who had in all probability paused to pocket the decryption and the magic-square key from among the jumble of liquor-stained bills and cards on the parlor table, when he'd gone to the Bray house early Tuesday morning and the frightened servants had led him to the locked bedroom door …

He may even have gone there in quest of them, rather than of a meeting with Mrs Bray.

‘That I cannot say, sir,' Poe replied. ‘He shook something at us, crumpled in his fist –' he demonstrated with a gesture – ‘but I did not see what it was.'

‘I would venture to say, sir,' said Oldmixton, ‘and I believe that Dr Gurry, who treated Mr Bray for his attempted suicide some two weeks ago, will concur, that the shock of learning of his wife's financial chicaneries, coming so soon after his quite rightful distress at his former servant's disloyalty and disappearance, simply overset poor Mr Bray's reason. Though I am, as I said, a friend of Mrs Bray's family, and was deeply fond of Mrs Bray, I do not believe Mr Bray was in his right mind; nor should he be held responsible for what he did.'

As they crossed the lobby of the City Hall towards the doors, the Second Ward constable laid a peremptory hand on January's arm, said, ‘You ain't lookin' too peart, boy.'

Oldmixton turned back immediately, his brown eyes watchful, but January only shook his head. ‘I'm sorry, sir. Them robbers out by Bladensburg gave me such a crack on the head, we had to turn back to town. Mr Trigg and Leopold had to carry me most of the way back.'

He felt cold to his marrow and during his questioning about the events of Monday night had struggled against recurring waves of pain. But if he collapsed, he knew, even a cursory attempt to revive him would result in the discovery of a bullet hole in his side. ‘I know I should be able to shake it off,' he added. ‘My momma always did say I got a head like granite –' an untruth that turned the constable's suspicion into disarmed laughter – ‘but that's just not happenin'.'

‘Think you'll be in shape to play Saturday?'

‘Good Lord, no, sir.' January managed a wan grin. ‘But if you got money on that game, I promise you, me not bein' on the team's likely to help more'n it hurts. I am truly the sorriest player you ever saw.'

‘And Mede Tyler …' Constable Jeffers sank his voice. ‘You think he's gone for good? Or you think he's going to show up for the game?'

With more truth than he put into his voice, January said, ‘I truly wish he would, sir.'

‘Hmph.' Then he smiled and slapped January in a friendly fashion on the hurt side of his back. ‘Well, you get some rest, then, boy,' he chuckled. ‘Guess I'll see you at the game.'

January felt measurably better by Saturday, enough so that he was able to walk out with the Stalwarts to the fields along Reedy Branch. No further questions had been asked about the five white men found dead on the Baltimore road on Tuesday morning, nor the four bodies – also identified as Kyle Fowler's men – found near Warrenton. The countryside was being combed for the slaves that Elsie Fowler testified both bands were transporting, but – according to Trigg – she'd had nothing to say about anyone asking after her brother late on Monday night.

As a diplomat, Mr Oldmixton could not be prosecuted for buying information, but given the current situation between the United States, Britain, and the still-rebellious Canada, Miss Fowler would certainly be hanged for selling it.

Oldmixton paid a call on the boarding house on Saturday afternoon, shortly before the Stalwarts set forth for the game. January was in the parlor, bidding farewell to Poe.

‘I shall be obliged to set forth before the game is over,' the poet said, ‘if I'm to catch the last train to Baltimore. Aunt Muddy – my mother-in-law, I suppose I must call her now –' and the note in his voice, the flicker of a smile on his face, spoke volumes of his affection for the woman – ‘writes me that Haswell, Barrington and Haswell of Philadelphia have offered me fifty dollars to adapt and compress Wyatt's
Manual of Conchology
for American readers, so I suppose we shall be going to Philadelphia for a time …'

‘And the inhabitants of Acropolis, Indiana, can look out for themselves?'

Poe smiled, a little shyly. ‘God help me, I probably deserve to be horsewhipped for condemning poor Ginny to live on what a writer might make – it's worse than living with a gambler, I suppose. But before God, Ben, I can't not do it. The world burns for me, with tales to tell. Would God have made a man so, if there were not at least some path for him to follow?'

‘I don't know.' January took his hand and shook it. ‘But speaking entirely selfishly, my wife and I will both be glad that there will be more of your work to look for.'

As he spoke he saw a gig draw up in the street, and a moment later, Oldmixton's brisk, elegant form strode down the gravel path. The Englishman greeted Poe's news with pleasure and asked if January intended to go to the ball game: ‘If you actually believe there will be such a thing?'

‘That I don't know, sir. I don't know if white men will think it more dishonorable to engage in a contest with black ones, or to be seen by all to run from it. But if they come, I intend to be there.'

When Poe left the room at the sound of Mrs Trigg's voice in the hall, Oldmixton lowered his own voice and, stepping close to January, took his arm.

‘And is it your intent – as I understand from Madame Viellard – to return with them to New Orleans next week? I could not, for instance, persuade you to remain here?'

January raised his brows.

A moment of silence lay between them.

Are you asking me what I think you're asking me?

Quietly, Oldmixton went on, ‘With Fowler gone I need a man of intelligence working for me – and Fowler, disgusting as he was, was a man of intelligence, in both senses of that word. He knew everyone in certain circles in the District, something I've observed you have had no trouble in doing either, though in much different circles. You're a man of enterprise and resolution – and a man with little reason to feel loyalty to a government which truckles to the demands of people who prefer that you and your family remain legally animals, in order to grow rich from your labor and your pain. I think we could work together well.'

‘So do I,' said January, with a slow smile. ‘And I won't say I'm not … intrigued. But I won't live in the District – and I won't make my family live here. In New Orleans we have a certain amount of protection, among our own people, the
gens du couleur libré
. In New Orleans we have family: those we love, the world we love.'

‘And how long,' asked Oldmixton, ‘do you think that world is going to last?'

‘God only knows,' January said. ‘But it's where I belong. Twenty-three years ago I defended it against your General Pakenham.'

‘And are you glad you won?'

‘Not every day.'

‘Oh,
treason
!' gasped Dominique's voice in the hall. ‘Oh, that ungrateful … that wicked—!'

She swept into the parlor, fizzling with rage, shaking a piece of notepaper in her small, lace-gloved hand.

‘She is a traitoress!' she cried. ‘A – a
salope
…'

‘Who—?'

‘Thèrése!' Minou stormed over to him, thrust the note at him. ‘And I doubt
she
would have done me the courtesy of leaving me a message, had not that … that
hypocrite
thought to forestall pursuit by leaving me this! Oh! The
nerve
of the man!'

January took it.
‘My dear Dominique
,' he read, ‘
it is with deep sorrow that we are obliged to write this, knowing your feelings toward us both—

‘If they knew my feelings toward them both at this moment they would
die
of shame!'

‘
—and deeply sensible of how they will be wounded. Yet we pray that your kindness will forgive two hearts that have found one another in adversity, and that your understanding will one day reconcile you to our memory. Do not worry about either of us, for we will be wed as soon as we reach a Northern city where we can establish our home and our hearts in safety and peace
.
Yours in loyalty and love
—'

‘They
dare
write to me of loyalty!' stormed Minou.

‘
Frank and Thèrése
.'

‘Nothing –
nothing
is so despicable as disloyalty of this sort!' she raged. ‘This betrayal – this
infamy
… Is it not so,
P'tit
?'

January said nothing, but Mr Oldmixton, with an ironic smile, agreed, ‘Indeed, nothing.'

Minou was still fulminating – very much in the fashion of Luke Bray on the subject of Mede's desertion – when they reached the field. To do her credit, Dominique did not give vent to her fury when Charmian, trotting at her side in a springtime glory of white gauze with a cherry-red sash, asked, Where is Thèrése? But when Henri appeared, driving himself in a very stylish chaise, and Minou ran to embrace him, January picked up his niece and told her, ‘Thèrése has gone away with Mr Preston to be married.'

‘Is that why Maman is angry?'

‘Maman is angry because Thèrése didn't tell her she was going,' said January. ‘I think when she stops being angry, she'll be happy that Thèrése is happy.' He hoped this was the case, anyway. ‘But it's the custom, when a servant leaves someone's household, even to marry a man she loves, to ask permission, and she didn't.'

Charmian frowned, puzzled. ‘Why not? Thèrése always tells me to ask permission.'

‘Do you sometimes forget?'

The little girl nodded.

‘She may have just forgotten, because she loves Mr Preston so much.' He hoped that was true, too – and not simply that Thèrése needed a man's escort for a time, if she was going to make her way as a free woman in the North.

At least she hadn't helped herself to Minou's pearls, which rather surprised January, actually. Possibly, Mr Preston had objected – or Thèrése had had enough sense to realize that it was unwise to court further reason for pursuit.

‘Will she marry Mr Preston and be happy?'

‘She will.' January smiled a little, seeing by Dominique's furious gestures that she was pouring the whole tale into Henri's ears. Never had he seen her look so much like their mother.