As the audience broke up, Judith took hold of Cooper's arm to get his attention. At the side of the parlor, wearing a white cravat and stockings and a dark green coatee and knee breeches, Des LaMotte stared at Cooper while mouthing thank-yous to the parents pushing up to congratulate him.
"Cooper, is that dancing master the one who —" "Same," he snapped. "Empty threats, I've decided." "I don't know. He looks as though he'd like to crucify you." Cooper shot him a glance. LaMotte held it a moment, unintimidated. Then he switched his attention to his admirers, bowing and kissing hands.
"We're leaving," Cooper called to his daughter, who was struggling through a crowd of pupils and parents near the curtain. "Get your bonnet and shawl."
"Please, Papa, I have to speak to someone."
"I saw him. We'll have nothing to do with any of Canby's mercenaries."
Judith said, "I think it's unfair to refuse her a few minutes of harmless conversation."
"I'll decide what's harmless and what isn't." Cooper seized his daughter's wrist. "Where are your things?"
Marie-Louise turned red. She wanted to perish on the spot. Captain German was moving toward them. Through welling tears, she saw him stop suddenly. She pulled, but her father wouldn't let go.
Judith gave up and hurried to find her daughter's things. Moments later, Cooper pushed Marie-Louise out a side door to a passage that led to Legare Street. She was crying loudly.
41
A man of seventy-six is too old for this, Jasper Dills thought. His journey on the Baltimore & Ohio had been a sleepless nightmare of jerks, bumps, cinders, and filth. Even in a first-class car, he found himself packed in with the canaille. Sweaty peddlers, pushy mothers with weepy children, flash gentlemen hunting victims to fleece at cards. Horrible, not to be borne.
But he was bearing it, was he not? He'd obeyed the imperious summons the moment it arrived by telegraph. He'd purchased his ticket and packed his carpetbag, because he was fearful of the consequences if he didn't.
The train arrived at the depot at dusk. A mild spring dusk, with flowers and trees blooming all along his route to the east side of town. God, it was horrible to be pulled away from Washington at this moment, when the curtain was about to rise on the last act of the high drama of Johnson and the Radicals — the Senate trial of the chief executive on the eleven articles of impeachment. Never before in the history of the republic had there been an opportunity to witness the dethroning of a sitting president.
Still, that drama was remote, while this one, if you cared to call it a drama, was immediate, touching his life and livelihood. All the way across the mountainous darkness of West Virginia, he had tried to imagine other reasons for the summons besides the one he feared.
The sweet scents of Ohio springtime did little to mask the city's noxious odors. Even here, in a quiet east-side district of fiercely steep streets and huge old houses, many decaying, the air smelled of the river, and the German breweries and slaughterhouses. Detraining at the depot, Dills had nearly choked on the odor of hogs and more hogs. A European traveler had called Cincinnati "a monster piggery," and nicknamed it Porkopolis. In the Tribune, old Greeley hailed it as "the queen city of the West." Which only confirmed that Greeley was unbalanced. When Mr. Dickens made his American tour in 1842, what could he possibly have found here that was worth seeing?
The hackney labored to the crest of a hill and turned into a circular cul-de-sac, where it stopped. Dominating the sullen sky between the cul-de-sac and the river was an immense Gothic Revival house, forbidding as a castle, which it resembled because of three adjoining octagonal towers on the river side. The rough stonework was dirtied by time and overgrown with untended ivy, much of it dead. Many of the ground-floor windows were planked over; others showed numerous breaks in small panes of stained glass.
Behind a rusting iron fence, the weedy yard sloped up to a recessed entrance. There Dills discerned a figure hovering in the shadows. Not the same damned caretaker after twenty-five years, he wondered, climbing out with his carpetbag. He paid the driver, adding a handsome tip with well-concealed regret.
"Come back for me in an hour and I'll double that," he said. It was outrageous to spend so much, but he was terrified by the thought of being isolated out here without transportation. He heard bird song in the distance, but near the great Gothic house not a bird warbled or flew. He couldn't help thinking he was in a place of the dead.
"Right, sir," the driver said. "Didn't know anybody still lived in this old dump." And away the hackney went down the hill, its side lamps dwindling and dimming, leaving him by the rusted fence in the lowering dark.
He heard the shuffling step of the old man coming down the walk. It was indeed the same caretaker, still fetching and doing for the resident of the house. He was crudely dressed, stooped, his age impossible to guess because he was albino, with red-tinged eyes and skin nearly as white as his hair.
His broken nails showed as he reached to open the gate. Rusty hinges squealed. From under a soiled cap, his red eyes watched the visitor as he pulled the gate wide. Dills stepped through, and then the caretaker slammed the gate again, a sound like a chord of wrong notes.
Halfway up the walk — roots and weeds had broken through the stairstep blocks, shattering them — Dills started violently when the caretaker spoke from behind him:
"She found you out."
He felt frail and vulnerable then. His heart fluttered and raced. He tried to summon the resentment he'd felt during most of the long, dirty journey. He needed every bit of it to endure what was to come.
Her room was at the very top of the tallest octagonal tower. Dills reached it by struggling up a creaky stair and stepping through a doorway with the shape of a classic Gothic arch. He was out of breath and feeling more unclean every moment. At least there was some air stirring up here. He could feel it, damp and fetid, as he shuffled across the stone floor toward the figure seated in a huge high-backed carved chair.
The chair was the only piece of furniture aside from a broken spinning wheel lying on its side amid skeins of yarn that had long ago rotted. In bowls and saucers set around the floor, fat homemade candles burned, a dozen of them, relieving some of the gloom and enabling him to see the chair's occupant. Behind her, two smashed-out windows afforded a commanding view of the Ohio River and the hilly dark blue shore of Kentucky. In the river, like boats on the Styx, barges moved slowly, their lanterns gleaming.
"I do not have a chair for you, Mr. Dills." Her tone suggested it was punishment.
"That's perfectly all right. I came as soon as I received your message."
"I shouldn't wonder. I shouldn't wonder you came — to protect your ill-gotten stipend."
She reached under the chair. He heard glass clink. Then something rattled. "You deceived me. Now and again my houseman fetches a local paper. He discovered this. You deceived me, Mr. Dills." .
"Relative to that, please let me say —"
"You said Elkanah was in Texas. You said he was a wealthy and respected cotton farmer. I have paid you, trusted you for years on the basis of such information. And this is your gratitude? All those letters concealing the truth?"
Blinking, feeling the frail heart in his breast racing faster, Dills dropped his carpetbag. "Might I see that?"
"You already know what it says." Thick blue veins bulged from the back of the hand she extended. He took the paper. There, in the general news column on the front page, he saw a paragraph under the heading bizarre Pennsylvania murder.