Time Out of Mind (45 page)

“
Tell me about Ansel Carling, Ella. He is quite the cul
tivated gentleman, isn't he? And a lion of commerce on top
of it. A latter-day Ivanhoe.”

“
It is unbecoming, Tilden,” she said icily, “to mock that
to which you cannot aspire.”

“
Hardly the sort of man,” Tilden continued, “who
would bandy a lady's name about in a Thirty-sixth Street
whorehouse. Hardly the type to boast of his conquest to his friends
without even being discreet enough to do so behind
closed doors.”

Ella paled by several shades. “What are you talking
about?” she asked.

“
He laughed at you, Ella.”

“
You are a liar.”

“
Liar!” she screamed.

“
Do you indeed, sir?” She stopped and faced him.

“
To make room for your slut, I presume.”

Now Tilden paled.

“
Hypocrite,” she spat.

“
There will be no divorce, Tilden”—she smirked—
“except at a time and on conditions of my choosing. Press
me on this and I swear I will leave your life in tatters.”

“
As with Cyrus Field, for example,” he hissed.

“
He's as great a fool as you. Though not so great as to
have bought himself a private whore.”

Tilden took two steps closer to her and paused, an expression almost of sorrow on his face. Then he slapped her
hard across the mouth.

“
Tomorrow, Ella,” he told her. “Tomorrow I want you
gone.”

She'd almost fallen, not from the force of the blow but
out of shock. She had never dreamed that Tilden might
strike her. No one had hit her, ever, not in her entire life.
He is a madman. An animal. Ansel. I must get to Ansel.
He will protect me. Gathering herself, Ella crossed to their
entrance hall and fought the knob of the clothes closet
: there. When I tell him what has been done to me here, when
I show him, he will rush back here and give Tilden the
caning of his life. He will avenge me. And oh, how he'll
laugh at Tilden’s childish lies. Easy, indeed. Silly! We shall
see who is silly.

Ella snatched the first coat she found and struggled into it. She reached for a hatbox, knocking several to the floor, and plucked from the debris a small feathered toque that
would be useless for the conditions outside. She ignored
three pairs of boots that sat in the rear of the closet.

Tilden considered stopping her. She was dangerously out of her senses. If her intention was to cool her fury she might
find more coolness than she bargained for. But let her go,
he decided. He was sure that she would go no more than
a few steps once she saw that the storm was slapping her
with a force much greater than he had used.
His back was to the door when he heard it slam. In the
hallway outside he heard a single squeal of rage and then
a series of smacks, which he imagined were the sounds of
her hand pounding the call button of the elevator.He re
gretted that the night operator must see her condition. He heard the sound of sliding doors and the clatter of metal
gates.

“
Tilden.”
He jumped at the echoing sound of his name.
You are not a man, Tilden.”
Oh no. He closed his eyes.
The operator. The neighbors. “
I
know what a real man is
like. Sleep well, Tilden. But do not be surprised if Ansel
pays you a visit and whips the life out of you.”
The elevator
doors rolled shut.

“
My God! Is it possible?” he gasped through his em
barrassment. Would she actually go there? At night? Unes
corted? He could not permit it. Tilden walked quickly to
the closet and found a gray lamb's-wool coat and hat. But what of the infant, he thought as he pulled on his gloves.
Neither Bess, the housekeeper, nor Mrs. Vickers, the nurse, had come because of the storm. In the whole building, hard
ly any servants and few staff had made it through. Could
he leave the infant alone? Tilden crossed to the nursery
door and looked inside. All was quiet. The infant would be
fine for the few minutes it would take to remind Ella of
her duties and to drag her back if necessary.

Tilden chose a stout walking stick from the hallway stand and stepped through the door, closing it quietly behind him.
He headed toward the stairs. A visit from Ansel Carling, he muttered to himself as he descended them. I dare not
even pray for such a blessing. But there will be a visit. Depend on it, Carling. And it is I who will do the visiting.

Tilden reached the lobby and went quickly into the
storm. No one saw him leave.

“
That's John Flood, ain't it? The Bull's Head Terror?”

“
Yes.”

”
I was there, Inspector.”

“
Tough man.” He raised a fist. “Went eight rounds
against John L. No one but Paddy Ryan has lasted longer.”

Tilden nodded, waiting.

“
John's been a friend since I was twelve.” He ignored
the last part of the policeman's question.

“
Though by the look of you, sir, you've mixed it up
once or twice yourself.”

“
Can we get on with this, Inspector?”

“
We can, sir. We can indeed.”

Tilden waited again.

“
You can understand, sir, how the Baremore feller and Missus Beckwith both bein' from the same address caught the eye of the department. Could there have been a con
nection, sir?”

“
No.” Tilden shook his head. “They scarcely knew
each other on sight.”

”
I thought as much myself.” Williams spread his hands.
“Mr. Baremore left for work that morning. Your wife a
full ten hours later. Odd thing, though. She must have prac
tically stepped right over his body to get to where they found her.”

Tilden said nothing.

“
Have you a notion where she was goin', sir, that was
worth bein' out on a night like that?”

“
No.”

“
Well, this is real embarrassin' for me, sir, but I have
to point out I know different. I know you and her had some
strong words, maybe even a blow was struck, and I know
she said something about a feller named Ansel comin' to fix your hash.”

“
He would. Why do you ask?”