I urged Maxwell down Essex Street toward the city center, where the market stalls had already opened and a lively commerce was taking place. Baskets of squash, greens, and early apples; crates filled with honey and beeswax candles; bins stacked with lumpy hanks of wool. Beyond them, the relic vendors displayed tables loaded with knives and tools, delicate porcelain, clockworks, jewelry, and hair embroidery. Maxwell passed the grocers and craft vendors, barely glancing at the more tempting displays of relics and antiquities, before continuing on to Washington Square. There, I prodded him around the green to Oliver Street. When he reached the corner, I brought him to a halt. Obligingly, Maxwell paused. As the minutes passed and I offered him no further suggestions, Maxwell reached into his pocket and withdrew the Ovid. He leaned back in the shade of the corner house and began to read.
At precisely ten o’clock, a messenger from the Essex County Courthouse, discernible by his white badge, knocked on the door of the yellow house with lavender in the window boxes. Maxwell observed as a young woman came to the door and retrieved the envelope. “Is that all?” Maxwell murmured. I urged patience. Only minutes later, a gray coach came around the corner andslowed before the yellow house. Two well-dressed men alighted. The first, with cold eyes and a formidable nose, sniffed in distaste as he stepped onto the sidewalk. His large, square hands tapped a walking stick against the door, as if unwilling to sully his fine gloves with the task. The second, a younger man with golden curls and a smooth, languid air, settled his hat carefully: Simeon Trench. Behind him, a small servant girl, no older than seven or eight, stepped out and waited with a downcast air, hands clasped before her.
“Norbert Trench,” he murmured. “Is he one of them?”
Yes.
I had witnessed the entire conversation between Simeon and his father that had prompted this dreaded visit, and while I knew that Norbert Trench would keep his son in check, I did not feel easy at the idea of Simeoninsidethe Quinn apartment. Maxwell, reliable fellow that he was, needed no additional prompting. He made his way nonchalantly to the narrow space between the Quinn house and the neighboring building, where one of the upstairs windows had a long fire ladder. Maxwell raised his truncheon. He tapped the ladder and watched it silently descend. Then he climbed the rungs until he perched just below the open windows of the second floor. His positioning was ingenious, if somewhat precarious.
Within the apartment, the visitors were just reaching the upper floors. “Good morning, Uncle,” Clem said as the older man entered the room.
He gave her a hard look but replied courteously enough. “A good morning to you as well, Niece.”
Norbert Trench, as you may know, worked for the Bank of Boston. Managing the money of others over so many years had left him with a permanently proprietary air, as if charged by somehigher power with managing not only his clients’ finances but the affairs of everyone around him, too. He had only to walk into a room, and his very presence suggested a willingness and authority to rearrange its contents to his liking. Now, in Rosie and Clem’s apartment, he cast his eyes about with a gaze of barely contained disapproval. Unlike many men of his age and reputation, he still used tokens for his appearance. I noticed a pair of ruby cuff links and a silk cravat, and guessed that some aspect of the full head of hair, the luxuriant beard, and the smooth forehead had their origins in them. Trench held himself stiffly, moving with a deliberate restraint that conveyed disdain with every gesture. He removed his hat, smoothed his hair down, and held the hat and cane out to Clem wordlessly.
Clem placed them on a small table by the doorway. She ignored the little girl, who walked around the edge of the room and stopped by a window. The girl was dressed like a servant, with a dress and apron, and she stood silently at the very edges of the floorboards, staring down at her feet.
“Good morning, Cousin,” Simeon said. He no longer looked furious, seeming instead rather gleeful at the prospect of Clem’s comeuppance. “Howareyou?”
“I’m well, thank you.”
“I hope you’ve overcome yesterday’s unpleasantness,” he said, eyes glinting.
Clem smiled. “You’re very kind.”
“So good to see you, dear Rosetta,” Simeon said sweetly, handing her his gloves and his hat.
She placed them on the side table beside the open door and then crossed the room to join Clem. “Would anyone like tea?”
Norbert Trench sat down placidly in one of the yellow armchairs. “Thank you, Rosetta, but we won’t stay long.”
“What a shame. And I regret to see that Mariah and Aunt Jane couldn’t join you,” Clem observed.
“Today’s conversation isn’t one for my wife and daughter,” Norbert said heavily. “And, as it happens, I will ask Rosetta to give us a moment to ourselves.”
“That isn’t necessary,” Rosie protested.
“I’m afraid it is,” Norbert said.
“Anything you have to say to Clementine, you may say to both of us,” Rosetta insisted.
“No, my dear,” Norbert said to her. “Please oblige me by allowing Simeon to take you for a walk around the neighborhood while I speak with your sister. It isn’t good for your health to discuss difficult subjects.” As his tone grew sterner, the little girl by the window cautiously raised her head.
Rosetta didn’t move. “I have no wish for a walk,” she said primly. “I’m perfectly well. I haven’t had an asthmatic attack in quite some time, and I’m quite capable of participating in a ‘difficult’ conversation.”
“Be reasonable, Rosetta,” her uncle exhorted. He turned to the little girl. “That won’t be necessary, Principa.” But his words arrived a moment too late. The little girl had vanished as abruptly as a passing reflection in a window, leaving in her place a much taller, more formidable presence, with tendrils of loose hair, an angular face, and flowing skirts. It was Norbert Trench’s spirit thew, a legacy who had been in his family for three generations. She gazed at Rosetta with dull, menacing eyes.
“I’m the one who has asked Rosetta to stay,” Clem said with an air of apology. “You are right about the asthma, Uncle. I worry about her, and I much prefer to have Rosie within sight.”
There was a moment of silence. “Very well,” Norbert said unhappily.
The spirit thew Principa let out a little sigh, and in the next moment she once again appeared as a small, meek servant girl.
“Simeon has told me about what happened yesterday,” Norbert said.
“Oh, yes,” Clementine replied, leaning forward. “Simeon wassokind. In front of the entire class, and Professor Mead as well, he told everyone that he was my cousin. It was really so valiant of him, given the tenor of the room, and I haven’t been able to thank him.”
Norbert looked highly displeased. He gave Simeon a dark look and turned back to Clementine. “He didn’t mention that. But he did, of course, mention that you presented yourself as a student. I was most distressed to hear of it. It’s a very serious matter.”
