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
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
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