Fletcher studied her face and then nodded. “Very well, will you do it when we return to New Orleans?”
“Yes,” she assured him.
There was little rest for either of them that night. When the sun rose, Sydnee heard Fletcher’s deep regular breathing. She knew he was asleep. Silently she slipped out of bed, dressed, and left the house. She wrote a note explaining that earning his trust was so important that she could not wait until they returned to New Orleans in a week. She must resolve it immediately or go mad. When they met again, she would have answers.
Sydnee walked to the landing and booked passage on the next riverboat to New Orleans. With an hour to wait before boarding, she decided to look around Natchez Under-the-Hill once more. It was still a loud and busy landing lined with dilapidated taverns and warehouses perched on pilings. She walked past the whorehouse where she met Maxime, watched flatboats unload, and draymen fetch cargo. There were few miscreants on the street at this hour, but occasionally a man would stumble out of a rundown hotel and spit or retch.
Suddenly Sydnee swung around into a doorway, pressing herself against the doorframe. She had just seen the creature step out of a whorehouse and start up the hill. With her heart in her throat, she watched the man in the greatcoat trudge up the road towards the residential district of town.
Every fiber of Sydnee’s being was on alert. What was he doing here? Was he following her, or was it something to do with the abductions?
Wiping her hands on her dress, she put up her parasol to hide her face and started up the hill after him. The sun suddenly felt unbearably hot and her mouth parched. When he reached the summit, the man turned down one of the grandest streets in Natchez and continued walking. Sydnee followed him past huge plantation houses to the end of town. It was early, and the roads were quiet, so she was surprised when a carriage came down the road. The driver was traveling at a leisurely pace, and she could see the passenger inside. He was a well-dressed, elderly gentleman who looked vaguely familiar to her. Suddenly she realized with a jolt that it was Cuthbert Saint-Yves. She had forgotten he resided here with Tristan’s mother and Charles. He had not seen her, nevertheless, she quickly covered her face with her parasol.
Sydnee watched the carriage roll down the road and stop alongside the man in the greatcoat. When the door opened and he crawled inside, Sydnee thought she would faint. How can this be? How does Saint-Yves know this hideous beast? Sydnee clawed at her corset, gasping for air. Staggering into the shade of a tree, she caught her breath as the carriage moved on down the road away from her.
Frantically she tried to gather her thoughts. What should she do? Her first impulse was to run back to Fletcher, but she realized that there was more to gain by returning to New Orleans to talk to Tristan. Her legs felt like butter, and her hands shook so violently that her parasol quivered. Nevertheless, she found the strength to return to the landing. Taking a deep breath, she reached inside her drawstring bag and handed the attendant her ticket, boarding the paddle wheeler. The first thing Sydnee did when they blew the whistle and pulled away from shore was to order two whiskies and swallow them one after the other.
Chapter 30
The riverboat arrived in New Orleans late that night. Without regard to the hour, Sydnee hired a hackney and went to see Tristan. She looked up and saw a light in his room, so she knocked loudly. He opened the window and leaned outside. “Sydnee, what on earth! I’m on my way down.”
When he opened the door, she stepped inside and whispered, “No one is ill. Everyone is safe, but it is a matter which cannot wait.”
Tristan was still dressed, and he picked up a candle ushering her into the library. Sydnee pulled off her wrap and threw it on a chair. He stood before her, looking at her anxiously.
“It is about your father. I believe he is in some way connected to the abduction and sale of orphans.”
Tristan’s jaw dropped. “What are you talking about? Father?”
“I was as stunned as you.”
“Why?”
Sydnee explained everything and then asked, “Have you ever witnessed anything unusual in who he meets, in his accounts?”
Tristan walked to his desk, shaking his head. “I know a little about Father’s finances, but of course, not everything. I was helping him a while back when he was having some financial difficulties, but he told me that he made some new investments and corrected the downturn.”
“What year was that, Tristan?”
He frowned, thinking back. “It was the year we went to see Mortimer. That was--forty two.”
“That was when the kidnappings started in New Orleans,” Sydnee said.
Tristan gasped. “Are you saying that is how he pulled himself out of debt? By selling children?”
“Quite possibly,” Sydnee replied.
Tristan paced back and forth, rubbing his forehead. “I detest my father, Sydnee but I don’t think he is capable of such a thing.”
“I understand Tristan, but can you look the other way?”
He stared at her and then said at last, “You’re right. I will not rest until I know for certain. We must go to his office.”
“You have keys?”
“Yes. Let’s walk. If we take the carriage out, we will wake the household.”
Cuthbert Saint-Yves’ office was near Jackson Square, only a short distance from Tristan’s home. Several planters, attorneys, and merchants had offices in the building. It was late, and the streets were deserted. When they arrived at the building, Tristan turned the large skeleton key in the lock, and it ground open. He held the lantern high as they walked down a corridor. Tristan opened another door, and they were in his father’s office. He set the lantern down on the desk as Sydnee untied the drapes, letting them drop over the window.
Sitting down at his father’s desk, he started opening drawers and taking out files. Sydnee pulled up a chair, and together they began the arduous task of examining documents. There were years of transactions, receipts, and miscellaneous ledgers. For hours they pored over records of slaves bought and sold at Saint-Denis; births, deaths, and illnesses, but there was never anything about the trafficking of orphans.
When they examined the last document, Tristan sat back and sighed. “Well this has told us nothing.”
“Perhaps he did not keep files.”
Tristan shook his head. “My father? Not likely. Let’s try to get some sleep. We are exhausted. It is still several hours before sunrise, and I don’t want Isabel to wake up and ask where I have been.”
“You’re right,” Sydnee said.
They put the files away, locked up and started home. When they reached Sydnee’s house, she told him to come in and have a drink.
“Good idea. I need something strong to help me sleep,” Tristan said, as they walked in the door. Sydnee picked up her mail on the hall table and walked into the parlor with Tristan. She lit a lamp and poured them each a strong drink.
“Just what I need,” Tristan said, taking a sip and slumping back into a chair while Sydnee opened her mail. She read and tossed several letters on the table, took a sip of bourbon and opened another letter.
“I have been wanting to ask you more about Fletcher Locke,” Tristan said. “He seems--” He stopped mid-sentence, staring at Sydnee. “What is it?”
“It is--” she hesitated, reading the letter again. “Of all things, this is a letter from Madame Picard.”
“What! After all of these years?”
She looked up from the letter and said, “It seems she knows of my work with kidnapped children. Gis--,” Sydnee stopped. She almost said, “Giselle” and then caught herself. “—a friend told her.” She continued, “Madame Picard believes Maxime’s last words may help us find the ringleaders. She read Ninon’s words to Tristan. “Maxime whispered several disjointed words to me before he died. For years, I did not understand the meaning. I thought he was delirious, but now I am not so sure. He mumbled, ‘abduction’, ‘mask’ and the book, ‘La Vendetta.’ ”
Tristan was stunned. “Is it possible he knew something about father, Sydnee? Maxime always did his bookkeeping for him.”
“Maybe, but what does it mean? Mask? La Vendetta?”
“Isn’t a mask sort of like a stencil?”
“Yes, you are right,” Sydnee exclaimed, her eyes widening. “But the difference is with a mask you place it over a letter to read a hidden message. Is it possible there is a mask hidden somewhere that will reveal the truth when it is placed over certain documents? A mask which is hidden perhaps in a copy of La Vendetta?”
Emptying his glass, Tristan said, “Let’s go.”
They rushed back to the office and went through Cuthbert’s bookcase, but there was no mask and no copy of La Vendetta.
“If it is hidden in a copy of a book, it is probably in Natchez,” Tristan said, disheartened.
“Maybe Maxime was the one to hide it, but again, it is probably at the house in Natchez.”
“Just a moment, Sydnee,” Tristan said. “You found Maxime in the garçonnière the night he died. Could he have hidden the mask in there somewhere?”
“If he was strong enough,” Sydnee said.
“We must look.”
They rushed out into the night once more but this time to the abandoned property on Rue St. Louis. The garçonnière was a melancholy sight indeed. It had fallen completely into disrepair. The stucco was crumbling, the shutters were unhinged, and the weeds had taken over the courtyard. Rodents had infested the little building and much of the furniture had been stolen. It smelled musty, and they had to brush cobwebs away from their faces when they entered. They walked carefully across the floor because of rotten floor boards. A heavy layer of dust covered everything, and they could hear mice scurrying in the walls. When Tristan held the lantern up, Sydnee saw the bed where she had found Maxime.
“There are still books in the bookcase, Sydnee,” Tristan exclaimed with relief. “I am amazed they are not gone.”
Blowing the dust off the volumes, they started to scan the titles. Sydnee squatted down to look at the lower shelves. Suddenly she yanked a book out and opened it. The pages parted and there was an envelope. “Tristan,” she said, standing up. Pulling out a heavy piece of paper, she unfolded it. It was a blank sheet with holes cut in it. “Look,” she said, flipping over the book. The title was La Vendetta.
They looked at each other, their eyes wide.
Once more they dashed to the office, but this time the sun was rising, and the city was stirring. Vendors and farmers were winding through town with their wagons and pedestrians were stepping out of their homes, ready to start their day. One more time, Tristan and Sydnee entered Cuthbert St. Yves’ office.
Tristan yanked open a drawer and said, “I noticed earlier that there were a few ledgers that looked different from the rest, perhaps--” and he opened one, placing the mask over different pages.
Sydnee held her breath.
Nothing. No coherent pattern emerged. They tried it on several more ledgers, and the words were just a random assortment of text. Tristan opened another one, put the mask down and like magic, names and dates appeared.
“Oh, Mon Dieu!” Sydnee gasped.
Document after document held lists of children bought and sold. There were over twenty years of records.
“It appears my father has been doing this for years, up and down the Mississippi Valley and as far east as Nashville.”
“But not until 1842 in New Orleans. Why?”
Tristan shrugged. “Maybe too close to home, but when his finances took a downturn, he grew desperate and started here too.”
They continued to examine the files. There were parent’s names and how much they received for the sale of their children. Other ledgers recorded the names and addresses of the people who bought the children. There were even accounts of money paid to workers in the organization. Tristan and Sydnee scrutinized these lists closely but did not recognize any names.
“Oh, Sydnee,” Tristan said, sitting back and sighing. “My father did this hideous thing, and unwittingly I benefited from it.”
“We both did,” she said, pulling the drape back and looking out. “We must go before someone sees us. The workday is starting.”
They gathered everything up, opened the drapes again and left the office. When they reached Sydnee’s front door, Tristan handed her the envelope with the mask. “We must keep these separate. You take the mask. I will give the ledgers to D’anton.”
Sydnee nodded.
“My father is coming to New Orleans on the packet from Natchez tonight. I am going to confront him with everything.”
“No, Tristan!” Sydnee gasped.
“I need to give him a chance to explain himself.”
“Why? Why does he need a chance? The man is dangerous.”
“I’m not afraid of him.”
“I think you should be.”
Tristan looked into Sydnee’s eyes and then took her hand. “I will be fine.”
Sydnee walked into the house and called Atlantis. Wearily she climbed the stairs to her bedroom with the dog by her side. She drew the drapes, locked the door and tried to sleep, but nightmares of the man in the greatcoat haunted her. Several times, she sat up in bed drenched in sweat and terrified.
She looked down at Atlantis, grateful the man had been unsuccessful in befriending her, but Sydnee was not naive. She knew that after Tristan confronted his father, that creature would be relentless in exacting his revenge.
* * *
At last Sydnee was able to sleep, and she did not wake until the sun was setting. She dressed making sure to put the mask deep inside her bodice. Marie had been working most of the day downstairs, and she gave Sydnee a cup of coffee, telling her that everything had been quiet while she was in Natchez.
Sydnee sat down in the dining room. The setting sun sent streaks of gold through the shutters and onto the carpet. She picked up the letter from Madame Picard. Without her they never would have traced the abductions to Cuthbert Saint-Yves. Once again this woman had changed her life.
As she bent over the hearth burning the letter, Sydnee wondered how she fared and if the pain from Maxime’s passing had eased for her.
Suddenly she gasped, jumping up. Is is possible? She stared straight ahead, wild eyed. What if Maxime had not contracted cholera? What if Cuthbert Saint-Yves had poisoned him for his discovery? The symptoms of cholera and poisoning are similar, vomiting, the flux and cramping.
Sydnee put her fist to her lips. That would explain Maxime’s frantic last words to Ninon.
“I must stop Tristan,” she said out loud. “He cannot meet with that man.”
* * *
“What is so important that it cannot wait until morning,” Cuthbert Saint-Yves said to Tristan. He was sitting at his desk in his office, looking at Tristan with disdain.
“Before I go to the authorities, Father,” Tristan said, standing before him. “I want the satisfaction of telling you exactly what I know and how ashamed I am to have benefitted from such loathsome activity.”
Cuthbert’s eyes narrowed. “What are you babbling about?”
Tristan threw one of the ledgers down on his father’s desk. Cuthbert grabbed it and opened it. “So?” he said impatiently. “These are slave ledgers.”
“No, Father. These are not slave ledgers. These are records of the sales of children, children sold into bondage for labor and other unspeakable practices.”
Cuthbert did not move, his eyes on his son.
Tristan continued, “I have your little instrument of intrigue as well, the mask. It is hidden away in a safe place separately from the documents.”
Rising to his feet, Cuthbert’s nostrils flared. He was furious and wanted nothing more than to place his hands around his son’s neck and squeeze.
Tristan met his gaze head on.
Cuthbert’s face looked gaunt and his cheeks sunken in the dim light. His eyes darted to the window. He saw movement outside. Turning back to Tristan, h
e sneered, “Beware my son. You are in over your head.”
“It is too late for threats, Father.”
“What is it you want?”
“I am not here to blackmail you,” Tristan said. “The good Lord knows why I came here at all.” He picked up the ledger and started for the door. But I have one more question. Is mother a party to this?”
His father chuckled cynically. “She has her alcohol and Charles. She cares not how I obtain my money.”
Tristan opened the door.
“Beware,” Cuthbert snarled. “I will unleash my wrath upon you.”
“That is nothing new,” Tristan replied, unconcerned. “You have been doing it for years.”
* * *
Sydnee was too late. She watched from across the street as Tristan climbed into his carriage and left his father’s office. She sighed. In her heart she knew Cuthbert Saint-Yves had poisoned Maxime. The man was capable of anything and murdering a slave was the least of his worries. She would see Tristan that afternoon at her townhome when he rendezvoused with D’anton, and at that time she would tell him about the possible murder.
D’anton was the first to arrive at Sydnee’s house that afternoon. He was smartly dressed in a dark blue coat with grey trousers. Taking off his hat and dropping his cane in the rack, he asked, “What’s wrong with you Sydnee? You look pale.” He moved his hand up and cupped her cheek.
“Tristan and I have something to discuss with you,” she replied.
When Tristan arrived, they told D’anton everything. “Here are the documents for you to lock in your office,” Tristan said, handing D’anton the ledgers.
“You have the mask, Sydnee?” D’anton asked.
She nodded.
He stood up, reached in his pocket and took out a calling card. On the back he wrote a name. Handing it to Sydnee, he said, “This is the name of a judge in Natchez. Take the mask to him as soon as possible. We must keep these items far apart.”
“I will go now and purchase a ticket on the next packet,” Sydnee said, picking up her gloves and calling for Atlantis.
The Grand Masquerade (The Bold Women Series Book 4) Page 34
