wish. You can carry my pencil."
"A
funeral service? Already?"
"Apparently
the Widow Wintour is in something of a hurry."
"But
the police can hardly have completed their investigation so quickly.
There was talk last night of giving the body a thorough medical
examination."
"My
thought exactly," Biggs said, cinching up his necktie. "All
the more reason to go and have a look at the mourners. In any case,
it'll be a chance to see all the wealthy and powerful friends lined
up in a row. New
York
society wouldn't dare to miss this send off. Come along, I might just
take you to lunch afterwards."
Biggs
chatted amiably about his recent turf losses as we made our way
uptown in a horse and trap. Soon we found ourselves at the newly
built Church of the Holy Trinity, high on Second Avenue. "New
York wasn't meant to hold so many people and buildings," Biggs
said, gazing up at the church's soaring Gothic tower. "Soon
they'll have to start putting them all underground."
We
climbed the wide steps and Biggs made himself known to a church
official stationed by the door. We were shown into one of the
transepts where other members of the press had assembled. I always
tend to feel subdued and reverential in any church or cathedral, even
if the religious beliefs of the celebrants don't happen to correspond
with my own. Biggs suffered no such inhibitions. He spent several
moments glad-handing his colleagues in hushed but exuberant tones,
and introduced me to various reporters from the Times and
the Herald. I
slipped behind a column to jot down their names, hoping that I might
call on them to publicize Harry's next engagement—should he
happen to secure one.
Biggs
motioned me forward and we leaned against a wooden railing that
commanded a view of the front rows of the nave. He kept up a running
side-of-mouth commentary as each mourner was led up the center aisle.
"The tall, grim-looking fellow is Michael Hendricks, but of
course you met him last night. There have been rumors that the two of
them were trying to patch up their differences. Hendricks is said to
be desperate for capital. And there's his good wife Nora—look
at her! Waving and nodding like some sort of duchess! She's much
admired for her charity work amongst the lower orders, although
said to have a weakness for French wines. Who's that behind her? The
little fat fellow with the battered top hat?"
"That's
Dr. Blanton," I whispered. "He was also there last night."
"Ah!
So that's the good doctor. The Screech's lap-dog. I've heard all
about him. Nearly half of his practice is absorbed in drawing up
powders and potions to soothe Mrs. Wintour's delicate nerves. No
doubt he's been kept on the go since the unhappy event."
Biggs
and I both scribbled a few notes on our pads. "See the young
swain coming up behind?" he continued, indicating a bluff and
hearty-looking fellow carrying a swagger stick. "That's Mrs.
Wintour's younger brother Henry, the family wastrel."
"I
don't recall seeing him last night," I said.
"I
wouldn't have thought so. Wintour couldn't stand the sight of him,
but his wife was grooming him to step into the family business. He's
just back from a grand tour of Europe, which was supposed to give him
some seasoning. Look at that smirk! Can't wait to get his hands on
his brother-in-law's fortune. His sort always makes me want to—well,
well! You would seem to be in luck, Dash! Unless I miss my guess, the
young lady moving up the aisle is none other than Miss Katherine
Hendricks, the late Mr. Wintour's old flame." He indicated a
slender figure in a black, close-fitting frock, wearing a low hat
trimmed with netting.
"Steady,
Dash," Biggs said, elbowing me in the ribs.
"She's
extraordinary," I said. "I've never seen anything to
compare."
"There
are many who would agree with you, including that tall fellow just to
her left—who, if I'm not mistaken, is her current beau."
I
fixed my attention on the gangly figure Biggs had indicated. "Who
is he?" I whispered.
"I
can't
"A
funeral service? Already?"
"Apparently
the Widow Wintour is in something of a hurry."
"But
the police can hardly have completed their investigation so quickly.
There was talk last night of giving the body a thorough medical
examination."
"My
thought exactly," Biggs said, cinching up his necktie. "All
the more reason to go and have a look at the mourners. In any case,
it'll be a chance to see all the wealthy and powerful friends lined
up in a row. New
York
society wouldn't dare to miss this send off. Come along, I might just
take you to lunch afterwards."
Biggs
chatted amiably about his recent turf losses as we made our way
uptown in a horse and trap. Soon we found ourselves at the newly
built Church of the Holy Trinity, high on Second Avenue. "New
York wasn't meant to hold so many people and buildings," Biggs
said, gazing up at the church's soaring Gothic tower. "Soon
they'll have to start putting them all underground."
We
climbed the wide steps and Biggs made himself known to a church
official stationed by the door. We were shown into one of the
transepts where other members of the press had assembled. I always
tend to feel subdued and reverential in any church or cathedral, even
if the religious beliefs of the celebrants don't happen to correspond
with my own. Biggs suffered no such inhibitions. He spent several
moments glad-handing his colleagues in hushed but exuberant tones,
and introduced me to various reporters from the Times and
the Herald. I
slipped behind a column to jot down their names, hoping that I might
call on them to publicize Harry's next engagement—should he
happen to secure one.
Biggs
motioned me forward and we leaned against a wooden railing that
commanded a view of the front rows of the nave. He kept up a running
side-of-mouth commentary as each mourner was led up the center aisle.
"The tall, grim-looking fellow is Michael Hendricks, but of
course you met him last night. There have been rumors that the two of
them were trying to patch up their differences. Hendricks is said to
be desperate for capital. And there's his good wife Nora—look
at her! Waving and nodding like some sort of duchess! She's much
admired for her charity work amongst the lower orders, although
said to have a weakness for French wines. Who's that behind her? The
little fat fellow with the battered top hat?"
"That's
Dr. Blanton," I whispered. "He was also there last night."
"Ah!
So that's the good doctor. The Screech's lap-dog. I've heard all
about him. Nearly half of his practice is absorbed in drawing up
powders and potions to soothe Mrs. Wintour's delicate nerves. No
doubt he's been kept on the go since the unhappy event."
Biggs
and I both scribbled a few notes on our pads. "See the young
swain coming up behind?" he continued, indicating a bluff and
hearty-looking fellow carrying a swagger stick. "That's Mrs.
Wintour's younger brother Henry, the family wastrel."
"I
don't recall seeing him last night," I said.
"I
wouldn't have thought so. Wintour couldn't stand the sight of him,
but his wife was grooming him to step into the family business. He's
just back from a grand tour of Europe, which was supposed to give him
some seasoning. Look at that smirk! Can't wait to get his hands on
his brother-in-law's fortune. His sort always makes me want to—well,
well! You would seem to be in luck, Dash! Unless I miss my guess, the
young lady moving up the aisle is none other than Miss Katherine
Hendricks, the late Mr. Wintour's old flame." He indicated a
slender figure in a black, close-fitting frock, wearing a low hat
trimmed with netting.
"Steady,
Dash," Biggs said, elbowing me in the ribs.
"She's
extraordinary," I said. "I've never seen anything to
compare."
"There
are many who would agree with you, including that tall fellow just to
her left—who, if I'm not mistaken, is her current beau."
I
fixed my attention on the gangly figure Biggs had indicated. "Who
is he?" I whispered.
"I
can't
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