magistrate from St. Charles Parish in town? A M'sieu Bailey?"
As January had observed before, everybody always knew everything. Half an hour later he was being ushered by a hotel servant onto the rear veranda of the Hotel Pont chartrain, where Mr. Bailey rose politely from a wicker chair and held out his hand.
"Mr. Rillieux?" he said-Rillieux being the name on the business card January had sent in, one of several from Hannibal's extensive collection. "You asked to see me?"
"I did indeed, sir." He'd changed at Madame Clisson's back into the black coat, white shirt, and highcrowned hat again. "Please forgive the imposition, Mr. Bailey, but I'm a physician, doing research on the pathologies of various types of poisons, particularly those in use among the Negro slaves." What the original Monsieur Rillieux did for a living he had no idea, since the cards Hannibal collected were generally those bearing only a name. He used his best English, silently thanking the schoolmasters who'd drubbed it into him. It worked far better than any business card could have. "I understand that you've recently had a case of poisoning in your own parish."
"Ah!" Bailey's face darkened with genuine sorrow. The magistrate was a much younger man than January had expected, the breadth and strength of his shoulders according oddly with a build that was in fact rather slight. "A very sad case, that; quite tragic. Personal friends of mine..."
"I'm terribly sorry, sir. If you'd rather not speak of it..."
"No, no." Bailey shook his head, black hair shiny with pomade. "No, it's one of the griefs of my office to attend at the deaths of people I know. From the description it was quite clearly a case of some sort of vegetable poison. Monkshood was my guess, from the dryness and paralysis of the vocal cords-"
" `From the description?' " asked January, "You weren't there?"
"No, as it happens. I had gone to town the previous day on business, and stayed to oversee the delivery of a team of my carriage-horses. Due to a mixup I didn't re ceive word of the death until the day of the funeral. I suppose I should count myself fortunate, since I dined there the evening before my departure, but I can't convince myself I was in any danger. The attack-the intent of her attack-was all too clear." His neat fingers smoothed the slip of mustache. "From Mrs. Redfern's descriptions of her own symptoms, and the accounts of the servants, it was almost certainly aconite, or wolfsbane: monkshood is the common name for it in this country."
January nodded and sat patiently through a catalog of symptoms with which he was already familiar: burning and tingling of the tongue and face, vomiting, difficulty in drawing breath, a sensation of bitter cold. Monsieur Montalban, back in Paris, had displayed them all. Bailey, thank God, seemed a reliable witness, relating what he had heard with a minimum of speculation, aware of the significance of details.
"The first symptoms appeared, according to Mrs. Redfern, shortly after dinner on Wednesday evening.
The servants said the master complained of a burning in his mouth first, and within a quarter hour the mistress did as well. Either she had eaten more of the untainted food than he, or the alcohol remaining in his system-I understand he had been in town all the previous night-accelerated the effects of the poison, as well as rendering them more severe. He died later that same night; and though poor Mrs. Redfern was extremely ill throughout the night and the following day, she survived."
His lips pursed, and he shook his head. "It was a sad business, Mr. Rillieux, a sad business indeed, for he left her deeply in debt."
And with the Reverend Micajah Dunk buying her slaves and her cattle at the lowest possible prices, January thought dryly, as he thanked the magistrate and descended the gallery steps once more, it was unlikely that she'd get out of debt any time soon.
"And the girl herself?" he asked. "I understand one of the servants said he saw her about the house?"
Bailey looked surprised. "I'd heard nothing about that," he said.
The day was hot. The city would be wretched, thought January, taking off his hat as he walked back toward Madame Clisson's house along the level, sandy beach. The breeze from the lake flowed over his face, exquisite in his sweat-damp, close-cropped hair. The temptation was overwhelming to leave the dying in Charity Hospital to their own devices-let the dead bury their own dead-and remain here