“There’s another meeting at the capitol this afternoon,” Placide offers. “Mayor Tate’s presiding.”
“Are you going?” Anderson asks.
“I’ve got to lie down.”
“Do you want me to go?”
Placide gives him a hesitant nod, as if he doesn’t enjoy being so reliant on Anderson, but has realized he has little choice in the matter. “First, wake Caulfield and send him on his way.”
Anderson rises, and Jack follows suit. They’re almost to the back stairs when Placide stops them. “Go over his statement with him a dozen times if you have to. He’s got to get it right.”
SALLY
When Sally knocks on thedoor of the Marshalls’ house and Tom comes bounding to answer it, she is so surprised, she can scarcely sputter a greeting.
She knows what Mr. Marshall said—that his nephew was no worse the wear—but there’s something about seeing Tom in such fine form that makes her want to hit him.
“Tom,” she says, adopting the names they used as children.
“Sally.”
“Your uncle said I’d find you here.”
“Come in, come in,” he says, ushering her into the large dining room, which doubles as an entryway. It’s been years since Sally visited the Marshall family’s home, but the interior is much the way she remembers it. A large mahogany bookcase sits on the wall opposite the fireplace, and Sally is reminded of the time Tom was nearly skinned alive for tearing all the frontispieces out of his father’s books. The chief justice had signed his name on most of them, as a matter of bookkeeping, and Tom was discovered to be making a pretty penny selling the signatures to all his classmates at Princeton.
It shouldn’t surprise Sally that he’s still a dandy prat.
Tom deposits her in the parlor, then waits for one of the house servants to ask if she wants something to drink. While this dance is performed, Tom stays busy sorting a stack of mail. “Father must get more correspondence than any man alive,” he says casually as he tosses the pile of letters on a nearby card table. “Now, to what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Your uncle thought you might know something about Alexander Scott.”
“Oh, bugger. I haven’t even thought about him. Do you know if he made it out all right?”
Something tells Sally this is going to be an excruciating conversation.“He did.” She wants to add,No thanks to you, but instead, she says, “But with some serious injuries.”
“That’s no good,” says Tom, but his cheerful countenance does not change.
Tom doesn’t ask anything more about Mr. Scott’s fate, but Sally volunteers the information anyway. “He’s got some bad burns on his face and neck, and a nasty gash on his back.”
“Poor man. Where is he?”
“Over at Mary Cowley’s, just down the street. As you probably know, some of the residents who live near the green have opened up their homes to the injured.”
“I did hear something about that.” He is picking pieces of lint off the leg of his trousers, so Sally gets to the point.
“I’d like to locate Mr. Scott’s next of kin.”
“Oh dear. That does sound serious.”
“I know he attended the performance alone, but your uncle thought you might be able to tell me more about his family. Does he have a wife at home?”
“He doesn’t,” Tom says.
“Oh?”
“She died several years ago. Can’t remember the exact details.”
Sally doesn’t know why it should bother her that Mr. Scott’s wife is dead, but it does. She reaches into her pocket and removes thefausse montre. “Is this her?”
