Skylark Hill.
From the top of the levee he saw that there was, in fact, an old landing sheltered behind a tree-grown bar at Black Oak, as well as the one at Spanish Bayou. Easy to come there, to walk up to the house, to wait ... or simply to leave a small red-and-gold candy tin, and walk down to the landing again. And later, easy for a small, stout woman to walk down from the Big House-for instance, on the day when her husband had gone into town to advertise for his runaway mistress-to collect the tin. Particularly when the hours stretched out into a familiar absence that meant the gambling tables yet again.
If that was in fact what had happened.
January was very interested to see what the actual death certificate-and the parish magistrate-cum-coroner -would have to say.
He settled his official-looking beaver hat more firmly on his head, and turned his steps inland once again at the tidy, oyster-shell road that bore the sign SKYLARK HILL.
"Mr. Bailey, sir?" The butler at Skylark Hill spoke the English of one raised among the Americans. There were more and more in Louisiana who spoke no French at all.
He handed January his card back and made his bow, but not as much of a bow as if the caller had been white. "Mr. Bailey's gone to Milneburgh, Sir. He should be back on Monday, if you'd care to come then."
January thanked the man, but something of his thoughts must have showed in his eyes, for the butler added, "If you wish to go on back to the kitchen, I'm sure Polly can get you something to eat, to set you on your way."
It was slaves' fare, but not bad for all that: black-eyed peas with a little ham, rice and ginger-water, for the day was hot. After a little thought January changed clothes again in the back room of the Skylark Hill kitchens-the old Creole-style house had been pulled down and replaced by a moderate American dwelling, but the original Marmillon kitchen survived-and set off walking, first along the top of the levee as far as Carrollton, then inland till he reached Bayou Metairie, and so along the shell road through the dense green shade of the swamps toward the lake.
Where the McCarty lands ran into those of the Allard and Judge Martin plantations, the bayou joined the greater Bayou St. John. January crossed at Judge Martin's stone bridge there and continued along the Bayou Road. He felt a little safer, this close to New Orleans, but never ceased to listen before him and behind. Each time he heard the crunch of hooves approaching from either direction he quickly left the oyster-shell pathway and waited in the woods until whoever was passing him had vanished from sight.
Stopping to rest frequently, for the day's heat was savage, he reached Milneburgh shortly after three in the afternoon. The first place he sought was Catherine Clisson's little house, on London Avenue near the lake. As he expected, he found his mother on the porch with her cronies, fanning herself with a painted silk fan and systematically destroying every reputation they could lay tongue to. While still some distance away, hidden by the scattering of pines, he heard Agnes Pellicot's voice: "... heartless as a cat. And positively helping herself to the funds..."
"Well, you could tell that just to look at her." The sweet, throbbing tones belonged to Euphrasie Dreuze, who fancied herself the victim of the world. "If you ask me, Agnes, you really were too trusting to let your daughter-"
"Is that you, Ben?" Catherine Clisson rose from her chair and shaded her eyes, slim and straight and lovely as the night in her gown of simple white lawn. "Nothing's happened, has it? To Olympe? Or the children?"
"Not that I've heard," January replied. "I've been out of town since yesterday afternoon. I'm looking for a man named Bailey, a white man, magistrate of St. Charles Parish. He's supposed to be in town."
The women looked at one another, frowning and shaking their heads. Even January's mother was stumped, but she raised her nose loftily and said, "What would you want with some white magistrate, Ben? An American, too, he sounds like. They all are, these days." She had a way of pronouncing the word American that implied a world of lice and tobacco stains.
"Binta!" Madame Clisson rose, and called back into the house. When her maid appeared-considerably lighter-skinned than she, January noted-she asked, "Have you heard of a