I found a seat atop a wooden crate and sat down to read. I confess that I found little of interest. There were a handful of admiring profiles describing Mr. Wintour's progress from office boy to magnate, and still more articles that gave details of his various civic interests and contributions. The phrase "pillar of the community" got repeated airings, as did the descriptive "reclusive millionaire." I noted a handful of names that seemed to recur several times-Mr. Hendricks, Dr. Blanton, and various other business associates and fellow benefactors-but apart from that I discovered little worth mentioning to Harry.
I had closed up the sheaf of papers and was preparing to leave when a clipping from Aubrey McMillan's society column caught my eye. It was dated three years previous, in April of 1894, and announced the engagement of Branford Wintour to Miss {Catherine Hendricks, the only daughter of his longtime business associate Mr. Michael Hendricks. The wedding was to take place the following June.
I reached into my pocket for the clipping I had torn from that morning's paper. In the fashion of the day, it told me only that the deceased was survived by Mrs. Branford Wintour. It seemed to me, however, that I had heard Mrs. Wintour's given name mentioned the previous evening, and that it was not Katherine. Margaret, was it? Mary?
Biggs returned to find me still puzzling over the clipping. "What do you have there, Dash?" he asked.
I showed him the engagement notice. '"Do you know anything about this?"
"Come on, Dash," he answered, "surely you remember-oh! Of course! You'd have been out of the city. Making bunnies vanish in Toledo or some such. Quite the scandal, that was. The society drama of the fall season."
"What happened?"
"It seems our Mr. Wintour had a bit of an eye for the ladies. While he was courting Miss Hendricks-a surpassingly lovely woman, by the by-he was also carrying on a bit of a pash with the Screech."
"The Screech?"
"I take you've not met Mrs. Wintour?"
"I have not had that pleasure."
"Her voice is said to excite amorous feelings in barn owls. Quite the domestic martinet, as well. Can't keep staff, they say. Her father shovelled coal for a living, so she's thought to be a bit short on the social graces. Quite a looker in her own way, but I wouldn't have taken her over Miss Hendricks. See here-," he stepped over to a distant file drawer and riffled the pages for several minutes, eventually producing an announcement of Miss Hendricks's presentation ball. A pen-sketch of the young woman accompanied the article, showing a lovely, heart-shaped face with lustrous lashes and a fragile mouth.
"Apparently she wanted to go on the stage," Biggs said, "but her mother wouldn't hear of it. She'd have done well with that face."
"Not any stage I've ever played," I said. "She'd stop the show." I looked up from the image. "So how did Wintour come to throw her over for someone called the Screech?"
"Destiny forced his hand. Seems he and the Screech were discovered taking the country air together on the eve of his own engagement reception. He tried to hush it up, but Michael Hendricks got wind of it and called the wedding off. Hendricks also severed his business partnership with Wintour, though it seems that Hendricks got the worst of the arrangement. Meanwhile, Wintour tried to salvage his social standing by marrying the lady whose honor he had stained."
"Sounds like a fairly miserable outcome for everyone."
"Yes, well, perhaps Mr. Wintour found some consolation in his three-million-dollar fortune, his mansion on Fifth Avenue, his private railway car, his-"
"All right. I get the point." My eyes rested again on the sketch of Miss Hendricks. "Tell me, whatever happened to her?"
"Oh, she won't be long on the market. There's some British lord squiring her about town now. After her fortune, they say." He read my eyes. "I think she may be just a hair out of your league, Dash."
My face must have gone crimson. "You may be right," I said, with a cough. "In any case, much obliged." I stood up and reached for my hat.
"Don't be in such a hurry, Dash," Biggs said. "I'm on my way to cover the Wintour service at Holy Trinity. You're welcome to come along if you wish. You can carry my pencil."
"A funeral service? Already?"
"Apparently the Widow Wintour is in something of a hurry."
"But the police can hardly have completed their investigation so quickly. There was talk last night of giving the body a thorough medical examination."
"My thought exactly," Biggs said, cinching up his necktie. "All the more reason to go and have a look at the mourners. In any case, it'll be a chance to see all the wealthy and powerful friends lined up in a row. New
York society wouldn't dare to miss this send off. Come along, I might just take you to lunch afterwards."
Biggs chatted amiably about his recent turf losses as we made our way uptown in a horse and trap. Soon we found ourselves at the newly built Church of the Holy Trinity, high on Second Avenue. "New York wasn't meant to hold so many people and buildings," Biggs said, gazing up at the church's soaring Gothic tower. "Soon they'll have to start putting them all underground."
We climbed the wide steps and Biggs made himself known to a church official stationed by the door. We were shown into one of the transepts where other members of the press had assembled. I always tend to feel subdued and reverential in any church or cathedral, even if the religious beliefs of the celebrants don't happen to correspond with my own. Biggs suffered no such inhibitions. He spent several moments glad-handing his colleagues in hushed but exuberant tones, and introduced me to various reporters from the Times and the Herald. I slipped behind a column to jot down their names, hoping that I might call on them to publicize Harry's next engagement-should he happen to secure one.
Biggs motioned me forward and we leaned against a wooden railing that commanded a view of the front rows of the nave. He kept up a running side-of-mouth commentary as each mourner was led up the center aisle. "The tall, grim-looking fellow is Michael Hendricks, but of course you met him last night. There have been rumors that the two of them were trying to patch up their differences. Hendricks is said to be desperate for capital. And there's his good wife Nora-look at her! Waving and nodding like some sort of duchess! She's much admired for her charity work amongst the lower orders, although said to have a weakness for French wines. Who's that behind her? The little fat fellow with the battered top hat?"
"That's Dr. Blanton," I whispered. "He was also there last night."
"Ah! So that's the good doctor. The Screech's lap-dog. I've heard all about him. Nearly half of his practice is absorbed in drawing up powders and potions to soothe Mrs. Wintour's delicate nerves. No doubt he's been kept on the go since the unhappy event."
Biggs and I both scribbled a few notes on our pads. "See the young swain coming up behind?" he continued, indicating a bluff and hearty-looking fellow carrying a swagger stick. "That's Mrs. Wintour's younger brother Henry, the family wastrel."
"I don't recall seeing him last night," I said.
"I wouldn't have thought so. Wintour couldn't stand the sight of him, but his wife was grooming him to step into the family business. He's just back from a grand tour of Europe, which was supposed to give him some seasoning. Look at that smirk! Can't wait to get his hands on his brother-in-law's fortune. His sort always makes me want to-well, well! You would seem to be in luck, Dash! Unless I miss my guess, the young lady moving up the aisle is none other than Miss Katherine Hendricks, the late Mr. Wintour's old flame." He indicated a slender figure in a black, close-fitting frock, wearing a low hat trimmed with netting.
"Steady, Dash," Biggs said, elbowing me in the ribs.
"She's extraordinary," I said. "I've never seen anything to compare."
"There are many who would agree with you, including that tall fellow just to her left-who, if I'm not mistaken, is her current beau."