Forever Waiting (30 page)

Sunday, August 26, 1838

T
HE
house was quiet. Everyone was at Mass, and John was catching up on paperwork. He couldn’t put off a trip to Richmond much longer, but he didn’t have the heart to tell Charmaine. She still suffered from morning sickness, but intuition told him she was avoiding Richmond because of her fugitive father. Still, he’d have to leave soon if he hoped to be back before she delivered.

The study door opened, and John looked up, astonished to see Paul. He’d only visited Charmantes once since their confrontation in the stable: for George’s wedding.
He’s grown tired of Agatha and is returning her to Father
, John snickered to himself.

Paul took the chair opposite the desk, his face somber.

“What brings you back here on a Sunday morning, Paul?” John asked, refraining from a barb about not being able to make a go of it without Father.

“John … ”

Something was wrong. The man was perturbed: his face ashen, his eyes turbulent, his demeanor shaky.

“What is it?” John demanded. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Agatha,” he began. “It’s Agatha. She’s deranged—gone mad.”

“You’re just now realizing this?” John quipped.

“I’m not joking, John. She’s been grief-stricken since Father cast her out, and last night, she snapped. She’s in a state of delirium— she thinks
I’m
Father. She makes little sense, but she’s saying things … ”

John’s eyes narrowed. “What has she been saying?”

“She goes on and on about meeting Father before your mother did. She rants about Elizabeth stealing him away.”

John sighed. “We know all this. Why is she still crying about it. She managed to bring Father around to her way of thinking. You have your fair share now, so what else does she want?”

“She wants Father! She’s insane, I tell you! She’s confusing your mother with Colette, and she’s been saying things. I don’t know if they’re true, but … ”

“What has she been saying, Paul?” John reiterated.

“Things about Colette,” Paul replied, his eyes searching John’s.

“What about Colette?”

“She claims she and Robert saw to it Colette was—removed.”

Dumbfounded, John leaned back in his chair.
“Removed?”

“John,” Paul murmured, dreading what he was about to say. “That last year when Colette was so ill … Agatha set herself up as Colette’s personal companion, maintaining she was not well. She had Robert here treating Colette every week, then twice a week, and finally, every day. In the beginning, Colette tried to avoid him, complaining about feeling worse after he left. He changed his compounds, or so he said, and she seemed improved. After Christmas, I was away, and I assumed I’d find her completely recovered when I returned. But Charmaine contends she only grew worse. Blackford blamed it on a lung infirmity, but now, now I don’t know … Colette’s death enabled Agatha to become Father’s third wife. John—” Paul’s face went white, and he hesitated to state his next horrific speculation. “Pierre was in Father’s will. He was named as successor to the estate after you. Agatha found out and was very upset, probably furious.”

Like the light rushing into a darkened room, comprehension dawned, and Paul’s words melded with a kaleidoscope of incidents that were suddenly most logically connected: Agatha’s persistent efforts to alienate him from Frederic, her triumphant face when he’d removed himself from his father’s will, Blackford’s abrupt departure, a demonic Phantom escaping his stall, Pierre getting past all eyes to make it to the lake—even his nightmares!
I followed Auntie … She gave him a pouch. I think there was jewelry inside
 …

John jumped to his feet and headed for the door, but Paul caught his arm before he reached it. “Where are you going, John?”

“To church!”

The Latin phrases of the consecration echoed in monotone off the walls of the chapel. The coolness was rapidly dissipating as the heat of summer penetrated the sanctuary on beams of sunlight plunging down to the nave and altar. With the small congregation behind him, Father Benito sped up his lengthy recitation. Grasping the host, he held it up to the crucifix before him, uttering the Latin intonation: “
Hoc est enim corpus meum
 … ”

The chapel doors banged open, and though he held a reverent silence as he cast the bread heavenward, he cursed the inopportune interruption at the pinnacle of the holy celebration. Footsteps echoed hollowly on the floor, but Benito resisted the urge to look back, lowering the bread to the plate. He raised the chalice when a shadow loomed behind and his arm was violently wrenched away from the altar, knocking the cup from his hands. It spiraled off the table and clattered to the floor, splattering wine across the white linens. He was brutally twisted around and came face-to-face with a livid John. “What do you know, old man?”

Charmaine cried out as Benito’s vestments were abruptly gathered in two balled fists, his face pulled up close to John’s. From the corner of his eye, the priest saw Paul draw up behind his brother. “What do you know?” John demanded full-voiced.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Benito sputtered.

“You know goddamn well what I’m talking about, and let’s have it out before I choke the life from you right here and now!”

Charmaine jumped to her feet, but Frederic grabbed her arm, holding her to the spot, his eyes riveted on the scene unfolding in front of the altar. “What are you doing, John?” she cried. “What is going on?”

But John’s eyes were locked on the petrified priest, his grip tightening around his neck. “You were taking payments from my aunt! Why?”

“They were contributions for my mission for the needy,” Benito croaked.

“Do you want to
die
, old man?” John shouted, his hold so fierce Benito’s eyes were beginning to bulge from their sockets.

“John, stop it! Stop it!” Charmaine screamed, her horror increasing. She looked to Paul.
Why is he here? Why isn’t he intervening?

“You have one choice right now,” John snarled. “Tell me what happened, and I won’t kill you. Understand?”

Benito’s face took on a bluish hue. The tableau held for what seemed endless minutes, the clergyman’s cyanotic complexion now ghastly. Charmaine’s desperate gaze traveled helplessly from Frederic to Paul; both were equally bent on facilitating this inquisition, refusing to intervene. The gaping congregation was standing, frozen, the chapel deadly silent. Just when Charmaine thought the priest would pass out, he rasped, “Your aunt and uncle poisoned Colette … ”

Benito’s eyes rolled back in his head and his eyelids fluttered shut.

“The rest, Benito!” John seethed, adjusting his grip enough to revive him. “Speak up, you bastard!”

“Blackford … abducted the boy … and drowned him … in the lake.”

The terror on the priest’s face climaxed as John, insane with fury, twisted the garments ferociously, lifting Benito St. Giovanni up and off the floor.

Charmaine screamed again, but Paul had already grabbed hold of his brother, and George was charging the altar. John shoved Benito away, the man tumbling backward to the floor. “I should kill you, you greedy charlatan!”

Paul was between them now, allowing the gasping Benito to rise to his feet. “George,” he directed, “take Bud with you and lock Benito in the bondsmen’s keep.”

“No!” Frederic countermanded. “Take him to the stable and wait for me there.”

George shoved Benito toward the back of the church. The grooms who had attended the service fell in alongside him, then they were gone.

Jeannette had begun sobbing uncontrollably, her arms flung around Charmaine’s waist, her head buried in her bosom. Yvette remained silent, standing ramrod straight, her eyes clouded in disbelief.

“John!” Charmaine implored desolately, rushing to his side when Frederic released her. “Oh, John!”

But he wasn’t hearing, his mind racing. He headed toward the chapel doors.

“Where are you going?” she called after him.

He didn’t answer, and she looked helplessly to Paul again.

Paul chased after him. “Where are you going, John?”

“To see Westphal,” he replied. “Come with me.”

When Paul did not return, the austere company migrated to the drawing room. Frederic settled into an armchair and cradled Jeannette in his lap. She buried her face in his shirt and whimpered pitifully, hugging him fiercely. He stared beyond the walls, stroking her hair and patting her back until the tears subsided.

Charmaine closed her eyes to the piercing pain in her heart. It was as if Colette and Pierre had died all over again. Poisoned! How had she not seen it? No wonder Colette had been so ill! All the signs were there. And Pierre! His death had not been a horrible accident! Charmaine groaned.
I didn’t protect him! Dear God, I didn’t protect him!
But why murder an innocent, beautiful boy? Agatha had much to gain from Colette’s death, but Pierre—
why?

“Why, Papa?” Yvette asked, her voice quivering. “Why did they kill Mama and Pierre?”

“Because they are evil,” he said quietly, his voice hard and heavy. He nudged Jeannette’s chin off his chest so she would look at him and gently wiped away the tears that smudged her cheeks. “Better now?” he tenderly asked.

“I think so,” she heaved.

“Good. I have to speak with Father Benito. Will you be all right if I leave you with Charmaine and Nana Rose?” When she nodded, he kissed her forehead and rose, setting her back into the chair. He patted Yvette’s head. “They will be punished, Yvette. I promise you that.”

She smiled up at him mournfully. “Be careful, Papa,” she warned.

“I shall.”

He looked across the room at Rose and Mercedes. The old woman shook her head sadly. He walked to the doorway where Charmaine stood. “I won’t be long,” he told her. He squeezed her shoulder and was gone.

The greater the wealth, the deeper the pain
 …

John and Paul rode into town together. Westphal’s house was directly across the street from the bank. They dismounted, and John rapped on his door. Finally, it opened.

“What is it?” Stephen asked, astonished to find both Paul and John there.

“Get your keys and open the bank,” John stated flatly.

“Open the bank? It’s Sunday!” Stephen objected. “I’m eating right now!”

“Open the bank.”

The banker looked at Paul.

“Stephen, do as he asks,” Paul said.

They waited at the doorstep as the man went inside to retrieve his keys. They crossed the street to the bank.

“What is it you want?” Stephen queried, clearly annoyed as he fumbled with the lock.

“I want to see Blackford’s account,” John answered.

“I can’t do that!” Westphal roared. “It would be a breach of privacy!”

“Blackford is a murderer,” John replied. “He left the island in April, and he’s not coming back. He had to have taken all his money with him. I want to know how much and to which bank you endorsed his money.”

“You can’t be serious!” Westphal objected.

John considered him for a moment. “Westphal, what I’ve told you is true. Benito Giovanni corroborated it. Now, I’m losing my patience. Will you give me Blackford’s file, or do I have to get it myself?”

Westphal’s eyes went helplessly to Paul. “It
is
true, Stephen. We need to find out where he headed after he left in April.”

Shaking his head, Westphal entered his office. He retrieved the file and handed it to John, who flipped it open and settled into the desk chair to study it.

After a few minutes, John looked up at Paul. “Agatha paid her brother well for his work. He made a few hefty deposits, starting in April of ’36. I would imagine that’s when the poisoning began. But the big payoff didn’t come until the week after Pierre’s death. That’s when she signed Thomas Ward’s entire estate over to this account.”

John paused, rubbed his forehead, and turned to the banker. “This shows Blackford drew all his funds in a voucher, signed by you, Westphal, to the Bank of Richmond. I doubt he remained in Virginia. Did he tell you where he was headed?”

“No,” Westphal replied. “He only said he planned on retiring comfortably. But perchance this will help.”

John was surprised when the financier handed him a letter from Benito Giovanni. “Benito entrusted it to me for safekeeping,” Stephen explained. “I was told to pass it on to your father should anything happen to him.”

John didn’t need to read the letter to know it was the clergyman’s insurance against an untimely death.

George and Gerald stood guard over Benito, who sat on a crate with his hands bound behind his back. Both men were scowling at him when Frederic entered the stall. “Leave us alone,” he ordered.

“We’ll be outside,” George said.

Frederic waited until the stable door closed, then he lifted a horsewhip off the peg from which it hung and stepped closer to the priest. Benito’s head lifted for the first time, and he cringed.

“Now, my
good
man,” Frederic growled, slapping the butt of the whip across the palm of his hand, “I am going to ask you a few questions, and unlike the last time, you are going to answer every one of them, or you will hang for your corrupt deeds before sunset. Do you understand?”

The priest nodded slightly.

“Good. Now, how did you come by the information you just revealed?”

“Overcome with guilt, Agatha confessed her sins, then sought to appease her conscience by offering me money for the needy.”

Frederic’s eyes narrowed. “One more lie, Benito, and I’ll tie the noose myself.”

Benito swallowed, the seconds accumulating. He had run out of options. “When you called me to your chambers that night, after Colette’s death, I realized lies were being spread about her.”

“Lies?”

“Although years ago she had confessed her affair with John, on her deathbed, she did not confess any other adulterous liaisons. Therefore, I concluded she had not been unfaithful to you.” He hung his head and waited.

“And yet, you led me to believe otherwise!”