The White Crow by Cynthia Peale

Author:Cynthia Peale
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
ISBN: 9780385505420
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2002-04-16T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER

17

IN LOUISBURG SQUARE, THE NIGHT WIND RUSTLED SOFTLY through the trees in the oval as Ames and his companion strolled slowly along toward Mt. Vernon Street. They had been silent since leaving No. 16½ and Caroline’s rather tentative hospitality. She’d recovered from her fright—from her near death, Ames had judged, although he’d kept that opinion to himself—and was resting now, as she had done all afternoon, in the parlor with Dr. MacKenzie at her side.

What exactly had happened to her?

She hadn’t known—couldn’t say.

“All I remember, Addington, is that I glanced around to make sure that dreadful man from the Globe wasn’t following me, and I saw a man—a different man, I mean—who seemed to be watching me.”

At that, Ames had berated himself. He should not have told her about “Ames next.” He’d thought to warn her, but he’d succeeded only in frightening her.

Unless—

The face he’d glimpsed that morning at Bright’s Apothecary, a face he’d last seen in a crowded courtroom, rose up in his mind.

Jonathan Dwight had died under the wheels of a carriage.

Chester Snell had recently been released from prison.

And this afternoon, at the heavily traveled intersection of Charles and Beacon streets, Caroline had nearly died as Jonathan Dwight had died—run down in traffic.

And if Evangeline Sidgwick’s spirit-voices—her “control,” rather—were to be believed, Jonathan Dwight, like Caroline, had been pushed. Murdered.

When Harold Edgeware had called a short while ago, at an unexpectedly late hour, Ames had seen at once that he’d wanted to speak to him privately. Since Caroline was in any event in no condition to receive callers, now here they were, perambulating the square.

Edgeware, so obviously eager to speak, had nevertheless been silent since they left the house. Now Ames turned to him and said, “What is it, sir? I assume you did not visit me tonight to inquire after my health.”

In the darkness, which the few streetlamps did little to dispel, Ames could not see his companion’s face clearly, and in any case it was partly hidden by the brim of his hat. But he heard Edgeware sigh deeply, and then: “No, I did not.”

“Something troubles you—about Mrs. Sidgwick?” He put it as a question, even though he knew the answer.

“About Mrs. Sidgwick—yes. It is that tattoo you showed us this morning.”

“I thought it might be,” Ames replied evenly.

Edgeware made a strangled sound, as if the words were caught in his throat and he lacked the strength to force them out. “It is very difficult for me to say this, you understand.”

“I do, yes.”

“But aside from being rude to you this morning, Ames, I also told you an untruth. And so did Mrs.—Evangeline.” Ames heard in the older man’s voice the agony this confession—for surely it was that—caused him.

“I guessed as much.”

“You did? How did you—but no, I suppose it is all very obvious, isn’t it?”

“Obvious?”

“I mean, my relationship with her. I can’t—I don’t apologize for it. She has brought me much happiness. She is—as you have seen for yourself—a most extraordinary woman.”

“Yes, she is.”

“But it is not because of her powers—her spiritualistic powers—that I have become—ah—close to her.

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