A Free Man of Color - Barbara Hambly [59]
Hannibal was out of his chair and helping her rise before January could make even a belated move in that direction. Thérèse, the servant woman, entered in silence and cleared away plates and serving dishes as Dominique extracted a thick mass of yellow foolscap from yet another drawer in the sideboard, and in equal silence brought coffee things and a little pale brown sugar in a French porcelain bowl.
“So far as I can tell,” said Dominique, spreading the papers as the men cleared the cups to one side, “these are the people who were at the ball, and next door in the Théâtre d’Orléans. I checked with all my friends, and all their friends, and we figured out even the Americans and decided who had to be at least some of the people in the other ballroom.… We know Henri’s family had to be there, for instance, because that awful mother of his never lets him go out without taking her and his sisters and Aunt Francine, and we know Pauline Mazanat and the Pontchartrain Trepagiers had to be there because they’re the heads of the subscription committee that was running the ball.… That kind of thing.”
Her long, slim fingers shuffled neatly through the pile of foolscap scribbled with Shaw’s uneven lines and the guardsman’s pinched hand, sorting them out from the scented buff sheets of her own notepaper.
“The only ones we’re not sure of were the men downstairs in the gambling rooms, but of course without tickets, they weren’t allowed up the stairs. You can be sure Agnes Pellicot knew exactly who was asking her about her daughters. Can you believe that awful Henry VIII with his six wives is a man named Hubert Granville who’s been talking to Françoise Clisson about her daughter Violette?”
“Were all those six wives his?” asked Hannibal, interested.
“Oh, no.” Dominique laughed, and ticked them off on her fingers. “One of them was Bernadette Métoyer, who knows him through her bank—he’s the president of the Union Bank and he lent her the money to set up her chocolate business when Athanase de Soto paid her off. Two of them were her sisters who help her in the chocolate shop, one was Marie Toussainte Valcour—Philippe Cournand, her protector, had to attend his grandmother’s dinner that night—one was Marie-Eulalie Figes, who is plaçée to Philippe’s cousin, and he had to dance attendance on Grandma Cournand as well, and one was Marie-Eulalie’s younger sister Babette. Marie-Eulalie is trying to come to an understanding for Babette with Jean duBose.”
With that kind of intelligence system in operation among the plaçées and their families, January no longer doubted the accuracy or completeness of Dominique’s lists. Names were appended in Dominique’s small, flowery hand to all the witnesses who had remained to testify, and to all but perhaps twenty of the costumes listed by various persons as “seen.” Among those “seen,” January was unsettled to note, was “Indian Princess.” And she had been seen by at least three people in the upstairs lobby after the music had started playing.
Damn, thought January. The charge that she could have had anything to do with Angelique Crozat’s death was ridiculous, but Madame Trepagier had put herself in serious trouble by remaining. Why had she come upstairs after he’d told her to leave? Even without a ticket, a costumed woman could have slipped past the ushers, who were only there to keep out drunks and chance strangers from the gambling rooms. But it was, after all, a Blue Ribbon Ball.
Had she had second thoughts? Something else she had to tell him and was later prevented?
Had she decided to seek out Angelique herself?
In either case, she had lied to him Friday morning when she said she had gone directly back to Les Saules.
I was home by eight-thirty, she had said.
Why the lie?
He scanned the rest of the list.
There were only three other women unaccounted for, “seen” but not identified: “lavender domino,” “green-striped odalisque,” and “gypsy.” “Creole girls spying on their husbands,” said Dominique offhandedly, when January asked.
“Silly.” She returned his look of