Bryn finished her project and went upstairs to look in on the operation of the store. Her mind was occupied with plans to once again break into Marie LeVeque’s room at the Masion de Ville, but not to the exclusion of all else. She was worried about Fenix. Her sister had not come into the basement to see her which was her usual practice. When she entered the dining parlor, she found Fingle polishing the silver.
“Fingle, has Miss Fenix returned from the library?”
Fingle was not only their butler, their footman and their groom, he was also a friend. He had a strange history. At one time he’d been Samantha’s familiar, a big hound dog with droopy eyes and long ears. His history was reflected in his human face which resembled the dog he’d once been. Sam had elevated him to his current position when the twins saved her from burning at the stake in Salem, Massachusetts. He was unbelievably loyal to her and now to them as well.
He stopped rubbing a teaspoon with a white cloth, examined it carefully for spots, placed it on the white table cloth and looked thoughtful. “No, Miss, can’t say as I have. Was she feeling a little off current this morning? Miss can get twitty.”
Bryn sighed with frustration. “I truly didn’t notice, Fingle. Perhaps I should have. This is not the time for Fenix to go on one of her escapades. She’s at the end of her cycle.”
Fingle nodded. “I thought as much. She’s seemed tired as of late.”
This close to the end, Fenix would be much weaker than normal. Her powers would be at low ebb. She could not be killed, but she could be seriously injured which might advance the cycle and bring on her death.
“Do you think she may have gone somewhere other than the library?”
“I believe she caught a hack. She could have taken it anywhere. Should I go search for her, Miss?”
Bryn’s frown deepened. She pulled her watch out of her pocket and looked at it. Fenix had been gone for four hours. It seemed more and more likely her sister was engaged in something contrary to Bryn’s express wishes. She cursed and went back downstairs.
“Sam! I think we’ve lost Fenix again.”
Samantha pushed her stool away from the propelling system she was working on for Mr. Henry Talbot’s zeppelin, the High Flyer. It was a commissioned piece due to be installed this very week. Henry, a member of the New Orleans Society for the Promotion of Flight, had big plans to cross the continent to New York and then continue on to Paris. The shiny brass propellers hung from the body of the motor which rested on a worktable. Sam’s propulsion system depended on steam, but her engine design was vastly superior to the one Henry already had. The parts were lighter and it required far less fuel to create the desired internal pressure required to operate the propellers.
“It’s too close to the end, Bryn. Anything could happen to her.”
Bryn wrung her hands in despair. “I know. I think she’s trying to take matters into her own hands again. She becomes so headstrong when she gets close to thirty. This happened exactly thirty years ago when we were in England. She was almost killed by Draak Priest himself.”
Samantha wiped her hands on a rag. “Where could she have gone? Do you think she will try to get the stone herself?”
Bryn nodded and accepted a hug from Samantha. “Yes, of course, but I can’t imagine how her mind is working. I’m positive the stone is at the Maison de Ville. Marie LeVeque has it. But did I tell Fenix this? I can’t remember. I saw the emerald lying on her chest. I was about to cut the chain holding it when Quinn came and hauled me off. I was so close.”
“Would she go there?”
Bryn tried to think. Her mind was awash with fear for her sister. She could barely focus. “No, no, she would never do that. She would try to get someone to steal it for her or even give it to her. That’s much more in line with her way of thinking. Who could be close to LeVeque and how would she find that person?”
Sam patted her on the back. “She’s trying to subvert some man. She uses her looks and sex. It’s how she operates. You know it’s true. Does this LeVeque have a lover?”
“The possibility is high, but wouldn’t her lover live with her?”
“I don’t know. Did you feel the presence of another person when you were close to LeVeque?”
Bryn rubbed her temples. “I’m not sure. There was no one with her at that time but I think I detected the subtle presence of masculinity, a big man, a powerful one; perhaps a voodoo man.”
Sam shrugged. “Then she’s with him. All we have to do is figure out where she went to locate him.”
Tears poured down Bryn’s face. “I will kill her when I find her.”
Sam hugged her again. “No need, she’ll be dead in less than two months.”
Bryn pushed her away. “You are no help. I’ll have to send for Quinn.”
* * * *
Quinn and Tomlinson drove Quinn’s curricle downtown to talk to Police Chief Hennessy. The streets teamed with wagons filled with supplies being delivered to local eateries, mule-drawn carts, hacks, carriages and street vendors hawking all kinds of wares from hot beignets to spicy sausages.
Quinn pulled into an empty space across from the station, climbed down and surveyed the scene. An urchin dressed in ragged pants passed by. When the boy stopped to beg, Quinn handed him the reins and asked him to walk the horses up and down Royal Street while he went inside. The boy stared at the silver dollar Tomlinson bestowed on him with awe and took off down the street leading Quinn’s pair of matched bays.
The three-story brick building was busy. Quinn asked for Hennessy at the front desk and was conducted through a maze of corridors to an office in the rear. Hennessy sat at a mammoth desk bent over a pile of paper when they walked in.
The stocky Police Chief wore a set of wire-rimmed spectacles perched on his bulbous nose. When he noticed them, he pushed his glasses up with one finger and lifted bushy eyebrows. “What can I do for you two gentlemen?”
“I reviewed my notes on the Soho killer and it would appear we are dealing with the same man,” Quinn began.
Hennessy’s laugh was a coarse bark that included no humor. His cold blue eyes did not warm and as he spoke his Southern accent became extremely pronounced. “I sincerely doubt it. There is no possibility I can perceive of where your killer crosses the Atlantic to the very city you happen to be in to resume killing women.” He shook his head. “Besides, they’re only two dead darkies anyway. I have so many more important problems on my plate right now than two dead niggers.”
Quinn was shocked at the man’s crude language but tried to ignore it. “Two dead people, Chief. I feel sure you can’t be shoving their deaths under the carpet. And if your cases do intersect with mine, we are looking at a global killer, someone who kills wherever he goes.”
Hennessy leaned back in a creaking chair, laughed again and struck a sulfur match. He used it to light a fat cigar. “No need to worry yourself about this matter, Mr. Blade. Darkies get killed every day. The man was interesting. I did some checking because he looked familiar. He was a voodoo priest, a very powerful one. The dead woman belonged to him. She was a prostitute working the waterfront. He owned several. His death will cause a stir in the local darkie community mostly because he was feared. No one is particularly interested in who killed him or the whore, just glad he’s gone. And as to the killer being the man you seek, I sincerely doubt it.”
“Owned? As in the prostitute belonged to him like a slave.”
“The Civil War has only been over for twenty-five years. Many of our citizens still keep darkies they had from before the war. It’s not all that uncommon. Slavery might be officially over, but here in the South it’s a way of life we’re having a hard time leaving behind. The darkies feel the same way, I assure you. They enjoy being cared for. Life on their own is just plain too hard. It’s a basic fact of nature, sir, darkies are very stupid and lazy.”
Quinn put his hand on Tomlinson’s arm to stop him from saying something offensive to Hennessy. Tomlinson’s views on slavery did not coincide with Hennessy’s or need to be aired at this moment. “I see, well thank you for your time, Chief. Should you find more bodies killed by the same man—or in the same way, I should say—could you send a message to my residence? I would be so interested.”
Hennessy stood up and stuck out a meaty paw. “Surely.”
Quinn shook his hand and they left. The boy was still walking his horses along Royal Street. He added another coin to Tomlinson’s largesse and they headed back toward the Garden District.
“What a complete ass!” Tomlinson expostulated. “He’s not going to inform you of anything. Why he doesn’t even give a drop of credence to our connecting the Soho killer to the murderer of these two human beings.”
“Yes, he is an ass, my dear Tomlinson, but he’s right; no one cares about two dead blacks. He may summon us if more bodies are found . . . and there will be. I certainly hope he does, but as you so succinctly surmised, I doubt it.”
“Do you think this may have something to do with Miss Bryn? I believe she’s searching for a stone in the possession of a voodoo woman. This dead priest may have a connection.”
“I think that’s a very high possibility, especially in light of the way he was killed. I’m not so stupid as to think the connection between the Soho killer and this one does not exist. Two more similar methods of murdering people could not be imagined.”
Tomlinson fingered his brown goatee. “You are right, of course, which means we are looking for a priest or someone masquerading as a priest.”
“Yes,” Quinn said. “And I think I know where to start looking.”
“Amazing,” Tomlinson said. “You do? Where?”
“How long has it been since you went to confession?”
“Me? Never! I’m a Methodist.”
“Pity. I guess it will have to be me.”