Mrs. Staunton leaned forward and smiled brilliantly. “You flatter me, Mr. Cabot. But please, do sit down. And I wish you would call me Maria. Would you like something cold to drink? Or perhaps a cup of coffee would be more to your liking?” She touched a bellpull by the side of the couch and motioned again for me to sit beside her.
“I think I would like iced tea,” I said. The room felt warm and somewhat stuffy, although a bit of breeze was stirring the lace curtains. Perhaps I had drunk one lager more than I should have at luncheon; I thought I would be more comfortable on my feet than sitting. Then I remembered that I was supposed to be pressing Mrs. Staunton for information that might help clear Leonard Galloway of the murder of her brother-in-law. Maintaining a proper distance might be comfortable, but it would hardly encourage her to talk freely, and that was what I was here for. I took my seat beside Maria on the couch.
“I’m simply delighted that Mr. Clemens came to visit us,” she said. “And I’m very pleased that he brought you with him. I know you must be hard-pressed to find any time when you’re not doing things for him. That’s why I’m so glad you were able to come see me today. Tell me, what is it like to work for such a famous writer as Mark Twain?”
I put on my biggest smile. “Well, I spent most of this morning running errands, and that gave Mr. Clemens the freedom to work on his new book. And we spent most of the midday talking to a man who may be able to contribute material, but that was mostly Mr. Clemens’s doing. He asked the right questions, and the fellow we were interviewing supplied the answers, and I took notes. One thing I’ve learned from watching Mr. Clemens is that the research behind a book can be the hardest part. Get your facts, and the rest falls into place very naturally.”
“You make it sound very easy,” she said. “Though I suspect there’s far more to your work than just running errands or taking notes. Mr. Clemens wouldn’t need a Yale graduate for his secretary if that’s all there were to the position. And don’t I recall that you are a writer yourself?” She leaned forward and smiled in a way that made me feel very important—and at the same time, a bit uncomfortable.
I cleared my throat and answered. “I’ve done a few things. Nothing really important yet, though I expect that people will eventually know my name.” I was surprised at how nonchalantly I said it, never having written anything more challenging than my college examination papers. But I did intend to remedy that deficiency as soon as I had time.
“I expect they will know your name,” she said, her eyes glowing. She turned to face me directly. “You are very modest, Mr. Cabot, but I see more behind your facade than you may think. Why, I believe you have the soul of an aesthete!”
“Excuse me?” I wasn’t quite certain what to make of her last statement, but it seemed unlikely to lead to the kind of information my employer wanted me to extract from her. I resolutely tried to change the subject. “I suppose a writer must bring something of himself to his subject, but the choice of a suitable subject is still the most important ingredient. A writer must choose something that arouses the reader’s passions—”
I was interrupted by the arrival of a servant, whom Mrs. Staunton told to bring a pitcher of iced tea; then she turned her gaze back to me and said, “Please go on, Mr. Cabot. I completely agree with what you say about arousing the reader’s passions.” She put her hand on my elbow. “Don’t you think that should be the goal of every worthy artist?”
“Yes,” I said, “but to reach that goal, a writer must use the strongest material possible. The man who never ventures out of his drawing room may compose a fine sentence, but the man who has traveled the world and taken part in great events will have something to say. That, I suppose, is why Mr. Clemens was so proud of having published General Grant’s book. I suspect that your brother, Mr. Holt, would have stories worth the writing down, as well.”
“Poor Reynold!” she said, sitting up straight again. “It may be just as well he keeps most of his memories to himself. What details he has let slip from time to time . . . I have come to dread those moments, Mr. Cabot.” She shuddered, then stood up, walked to the nearby window, and pulled back the drapes, letting a shaft of light and a pleasant breeze enter the room. There was an awkward silence as I groped for something to change the mood. But then my hostess turned and seemed to shake off the depression that mention of her brother had brought upon her. She came back and sat beside me, and smiled sadly.
“If there is some great literary work buried within my brother’s mind, I am afraid it must remain buried. It may be just as well; I think it would be too terrible to read.”
“My apologies for broaching a painful topic,” I said. “I did not realize it was so difficult for him—or for you.”
“Do not apologize,” said Mrs. Staunton. “Eugenia and I are very lucky, compared to the unfortunate women whose brothers and husbands never returned at all. I have understood just how lucky we are, these past few days, after Eugenia’s husband . . . died so suddenly; you must have heard the story. Reynold has been a pillar of strength for her, Mr. Cabot. He has taken over the management of her household and seen her through a most difficult time. I feel he must have been preserved for just this occasion.”
“Perhaps he was,” I said, inwardly congratulating myself on having brought the conversation so quickly around to the subject of the murder. “Was he on good terms with Mr. Robinson?”
“Well, of course he felt closer to Eugenia than to John,” said Mrs. Staunton. “That is perfectly natural; blood is thicker than water, as the saying goes. But John and Reynold were good friends, even before they served together in the War. When they came home, I think that John felt responsible for Reynold, and he tried to give him projects to occupy his interest, helping John with his business. Not that Reynold needed money—he has an independent income, thank goodness. But Reynold was glad to be useful, and it would be unnatural if he didn’t feel very grateful to John.”
“Yes, certainly.” Her wording left certain things rather ambiguous. If the murdered man had felt it necessary to find work for his war-shocked brother-in-law, I wondered how that same brother-in-law had been qualified to take over the management of the business, as he evidently had. What was Mrs. Staunton leaving unsaid? I forged ahead, trying to elicit information without appearing to be an inquisitor.
“It must have been convenient, as well, that he was familiar with Mr. Robinson’s business, when he suddenly had to take it over. What sort of business was Mr. Robinson in? I don’t think I’ve heard.”
“Oh, John wasn’t in business,” she said, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “He would buy and sell land from time to time, or make investments. He owned a good deal of property around town. And of course, the last few months, his plans to run for mayor took up a great deal of his time. I can’t say I paid much attention to the details. John always went to Mr. Dupree if he needed advice on business or politics.”
“Yes, Mr. Dupree seems a very sound fellow. An old friend of the family, I take it?”
“Yes, he was Reynold’s commanding officer in the artillery. He’s been ever so much help to us. I think he feels guilty about poor Reynold’s being captured, although nobody could hold him responsible for the fortunes of war.” She stopped, and then her expression changed. “But here we are going on and on about my family and their troubles. It must be dreadfully boring to you. Tell me about your writing. I’m so interested in what you’re working on.” She laid her hand on mine and looked me in the eye. I started back a little, then made myself relax. If I were too stiff in her presence, she might not be as willing to unburden herself to me.
“Oh, nobody with any feeling could find your stories boring,” I said, trying to keep the subject of her family alive; I felt that I had just now come within range of possible leads to the murder, and I wanted to stay on track. The chance might not present itself again. “The fortunes of war, and what they’ve done to a family like yours, are the very essence of dramatic material. Why, any writer worth his salt woul
d do almost anything to know your family’s story in its entirety.” As I said the words, I realized that they were actually true. Her family history contained the germ of high drama. Perhaps I ought to record her story for Mr. Clemens’s book—or possibly (dare I aspire to it?) my own. I found myself warming to the subject, and laid my other hand on top of hers to emphasize the sincerity of my interest.
“Do you really think so?” She moved closer to me, her eyes wide. “I can’t imagine that a man of your experience would be so interested in my story. I must say, I find it very flattering.”
I was not quite certain the discussion was headed in the direction I wanted. “Why, Mrs. Staunton, flattery was the last thing on my mind . . .” I began. She lifted her chin, looking directly in my eyes, and suddenly the door burst open with a sound like thunder, and we both jumped. Mrs. Staunton lost her balance and fell against me, her face pressed against my chest. She tried to right herself, but her hands and mine were entangled. I pulled my hands free and reached out to steady her. All this happened in the space of an instant, before I had a chance to wonder what had made the sound that startled us.
Gaining my composure at last, I looked toward the door. Her husband stood there. His face was contorted with anger, and she leapt to her feet.
“Percival!” she said. “I didn’t expect you so soon!”
“I can see that, madam,” he said, in a chilling voice. “Go to your room. I will speak to you later.”
“But, Percival—it is not what you think. You cannot believe that—”
“Go!”
She fled. Meanwhile, I had struggled to my feet, prepared to defend myself. Mr. Staunton might be willing to listen to reason, but so far, I had seen no sign of it. “Mr. Staunton, you are making a mistake,” I began.
“No, sir, you are the one who has made a mistake. I don’t know whether you have any sense of honor or not. I can’t say I’ve seen evidence of it.” He had stepped back into the doorway, blocking it. His face was twisted into a hideous mask, so that I might not have recognized him. Was he drunk? His anger seemed all out of proportion to anything that had happened.
“On the chance that perhaps you are a man of honor, and not just a Yankee coward, I will send my representatives to see you and arrange to settle this matter man to man; dawn tomorrow. I suggest you put your affairs in order, Mr. Cabot. Now, get out of my house, sir!” He stepped aside and pointed at the front door.
“Mr. Staunton, I can explain,” I said again. Surely the man was willing to listen to reason. Surely he could not deny the simple truth. “Maria—Mrs. Staunton and I were merely talking. Nothing happened until—”
He cut me off abruptly. “You will have your chance to explain it to my seconds, sir.” I could see that he was having great difficulty keeping himself under control. He fairly shouted at me: “I will see you at dawn, or I will hunt you down and shoot you like a dog. Out of my house!”
15
As much as I wanted to defend myself against Mr. Staunton’s accusations, I realized that it would be unwise to stay in the Staunton house a moment longer. I had been perfectly correct, both in my behavior and in my intentions, at least as far as his wife was concerned. But I knew from my student days what kind of trouble could arise from imaginary insults, especially when a woman was involved. And while the disputes usually died down of their own accord, ending in handshakes and wry jokes, I had also seen them degenerate into shoving and fisticuffs. A fellow in such a truculent mood would but rarely listen to reason, and then only from a close friend. I thought it best to give Mr. Staunton time to reconsider his hasty words. So, with as much dignity as possible, I collected my hat and left the premises.
I was in a bit of a quandary what to do next. Mr. Clemens had said that he would come with Henry Dodds to pick me up after his meeting with Eulalie Echo, but I could hardly stand waiting on the street outside a house from which its enraged master had just ejected me. I walked briskly to the corner so as to take myself out of Staunton’s immediate view. Once there, I stopped to think.
The Staunton mansion was not much more than a mile from Eulalie Echo’s. I could easily walk the distance. But if Henry Dodds decided to drive Mr. Clemens by a different route than the one I walked, we might easily miss one another, and I did not wish to speculate on the scene that might develop if Mr. Clemens appeared at Staunton’s door asking for me, only to learn that I had been sent away. Still, I could think of no better plan. I set off at a brisk pace, backtracking the route Henry had brought me on that afternoon.
After walking a short distance, I found my mood much improved by the serenity of the fine houses of the Garden District. The spacious green lawns and gorgeous flowers shone with brilliant colors in the late afternoon light. Still, I found it hard to forget that Percival Staunton had issued a challenge to meet him at dawn, presumably with weapons at hand. It seemed likely that he would retract it when he had time to hear his wife’s side of the story. After all, nothing had really happened. It was absurd to think that he would carry through his threat to hunt me down over an affront that existed only in his imagination. And yet, Mr. Staunton might be an Othello, easily aroused to jealousy. Perhaps his wife’s past conduct had given him reason, although I had seen nothing untoward in her conduct concerning me. Or maybe he was an untrusting man who kept his wife on a short leash because he knew no other way to handle her. None of these possibilities encouraged me in my belief that his anger would be short-lived. I kept remembering Mr. Clemens saying that the man had supposedly fought two duels.
The walking was easy in the Garden District proper, where the streets were well kept up and the crossings paved. But on the lake side (northwest, by the compass) of Saint Charles Avenue, the condition of the streets deteriorated. The wet climate, with a rain shower almost daily, meant that the unpaved streets had little chance of drying completely, however brightly the sun shone the rest of the time. Often the crossings were merely a few boards laid over the mud, and it was difficult to negotiate them without soiling my shoes. The banquettes were dry but narrow, and I found myself picking my way from one dry spot to another. At last I arrived at the corner where we had dropped off Mr. Clemens earlier, and much to my relief, there was Henry Dodds’s rig tied in front of the little grocery store. I sighed. Now I was on familiar ground again. Mr. Clemens would tell me what to do.
I stuck my head in the door, and there was Henry himself, sitting with a tin cup of beer in his hand and carrying on an animated conversation with two other Negroes. “Hello, Henry,” I said. “No sign of Mr. Clemens, I take it?”
“No sir, no sir,” he said, getting to his feet abruptly. Then he looked at me sharply and said, “I thought you was goin’ to be down on Chestnut where I left you. Lord a mercy, Mr. Wentworth, you didn’t walk all the way here, did you?”
I managed a sheepish grin and said, “I’m afraid so. Things didn’t work out as expected—or at least, not as I expected. Mr. Staunton put on quite a display of temper.”
“I heard he can get mighty hot,” said Dodds. Then he winked at me. “But it can’t be all that bad, if you had the time to walk away. He was mad enough, you’d’ve been runnin’!” The other men with him laughed, and I joined in.
I was relieved at having found our driver, although I really needed Mr. Clemens. He would be able to advise me on how to handle the unpleasantness with Mr. Staunton; perhaps he would even take it on himself to act as an ambassador to smooth things over. On the other hand, his own temper was mercurial enough that he might not be the best choice for a peacemaker. But he would undoubtedly know how to handle the situation and rectify the misunderstanding between me and Mr. Staunton.
I decided to wait for my employer on the bench outside the store, so as to enjoy the little bit of evening breeze that had sprung up. The street was busy, with horse carts rumbling by and men and women returning from a day’s work. Many of them nodded pleasantly when they saw me sitting there. Still, late summer in New Orleans was considerably warmer than I was used
to, and I hoped Mr. Clemens wouldn’t be much longer. I wondered what news Eulalie Echo had for him. It must be something important to our murder investigation, or she could have simply sent a written message, or even a verbal one.
My mind kept racing back to my interview with Maria Staunton and its unfortunate conclusion. I realized that Mr. Staunton’s irrational behavior this afternoon might elevate him to the status of primary suspect. Of course, merely being angry did not make one a murderer, or the whole human race would be at each other’s throats. But there was an edge to Staunton’s anger, something beyond the normal. Had he been drinking? Or had I somehow walked into the last act of an ongoing drama, innocent of all the motives and passions that drove the characters I was seeing for the first time? In any case, it now seemed to me all too possible that Staunton could have gone over the border into homicidal rage over some imagined injury from his brother-in-law. Hadn’t the New Orleans detective told us that a high proportion of murders were domestic affairs?
Of course, I still needed to account for the fact that the victim, Mr. Robinson, had been poisoned. Poison implies planning and premeditation; it is not the weapon of a man in a sudden rage. But perhaps, after the rage had passed, Staunton had nursed some insult or slight over a period of several days or even years, until his anger built to a homicidal level. That might be sufficient explanation. I wondered how easily the poison could be obtained. The poisonous plant had apparently been growing near Leonard Galloway’s home, but how much could one deduce from that fact? Was jimsonweed a common garden weed, or was it rare and confined to certain spots? Would someone picking it be noticed and remarked upon? Eulalie Echo might know; a voodoo woman might be expected to have some knowledge of herbs and the like.
The thought of Eulalie Echo reminded me of the curious change in her speech during our interview. At first she had sounded much the same as the other New Orleans Negroes we had met. But something Mr. Clemens had said—I tried to remember what—had made her change from the broad southern speech patterns to something more refined. Did she habitually speak to white men in a cruder accent? What possible advantage was there for her in being believed more ignorant than she really was? And what made her drop the pretense while speaking to Mr. Clemens? Perhaps Mr. Clemens could explain it to me.
[Mark Twain Mysteries 02] - A Connecticut Yankee in Criminal Court Page 15
