Husbands And Lap Dogs Breathe Their Last (4 page)

Next Cummings turned to the first page of
The Curse of Manley Abbey,
a novel by Otto Verissimo that Cummings had borrowed from Luther the previous day:

Master Hamilton is remarkable for his good humor. Were he even ugly, one could not help being pleased with him. He is possessed of a sterling sweetness of temper, and his person is genteel, his complexion fair, and his physique delightful. He is indeed a very fit young man to be taken off the town, as he would be an agreeable companion. The God of Love seems to have intended a better fate for his charms than prostitution.”

Such was Master Hamilton’s listing in Covent Garden Sodomites, or a man of pleasure’s calendar, for the year 1775, the London directory of gentlemen of the evening. It was this that first brought Sir Reginald Manley to seek out Master Hamilton’s acquaintance. Although Sir Manley was an esteemed and fine person, with a generous turn of mind, he was not above temptation from either the fair or the virile sex.

Even at the first, there was considerable felicity between them. This natural affection, along with Sir Reginald’s endowment of Christian virtue, led him to manly restraint when first he met the lad. Rather than taking his pleasure with Master Hamilton, Sir Reginald called for a pot of tea and inquired as to the young man’s upbringing and education.

“I possess a knowledge of Latin and Greek, sir,” Hamilton replied, “and of mathematics, the sciences, music, and drawing. As to my parentage, sir, this is unknown. I was taken in as a foundling and raised in a heathen land by a missionary and his wife. I would be with them still but that they were trampled by a distraught water buffalo whilst engaged in a particularly fervent baptism. After my benefactors were thus martyred, I used what little legacy they left me to return to England.”

“A great tragedy,” Sir Reginald said sympathetically. “Have you never sought a position as tutor to some well-bred family? Surely, such employment would raise you up from your present condition.”

“Alas, sir, my penury was so extraordinary that I had no recourse but to embark upon my present path. And now, having trod this path of despond, what good family may consider me suitable?”

“You must not despair for our Lord is just and gracious, and does not assent to the black passions of humanity. The mercy he has placed in each human bosom will, through pity, be awakened in all but the most cruel,” Sir Reginald replied, gracefully extending his patrician hand in the direction of the teapot. “I am a widower with two daughters, Pamela and Clarissa. Our home is Manley Abbey,” he continued, delicately emptying the amber liquid into porcelain cups emblazoned with the seven virtues, of which Sir Reginald most prized humility. “They are in need of instruction and guidance just now after the most unfortunate death of their late governess, a Miss Bentham, who disappeared suddenly from a cottage on the estate.”

“Disappeared, sir?”

“Indeed. We fear she belonged to an Irish secret society. More than that, I cannot say.”

“Most unfortunate,” Master Hamilton replied, not presuming to enquire further.

“I believe you to be a young man of rare quality and virtue,” Sir Reginald opined, “who wouldst well please my daughters and myself. What say you to coming into my service?” Sir Reginald proposed.

“Oh sir, I should be delighted,” the young man replied quietly but enthusiastically, his youthful, well-formed physique shivering slightly with gratitude.

Even though his aesthetic instincts were rudimentary, since Cummings hadn’t received the arts and culture genes seemingly so prevalent in the gay male population, he knew that this particular literary work was not destined for immortality.

Cummings abandoned Otto’s prose and moved on to the morning’s
Chicago Tribune.
On page three he discovered a brief report of Surendra’s death. This led him to reach for his cell phone.

“Rockland, it’s Cummings. I’m calling to check on Luther.”

“Why? Has he done something naughty?”

“He seemed quite shaken up by the Mathers fire.”

“I know. I’m being humorous. Yes, yes, he’s a sensitive boy. I am pleased to report that he’s fine and is on his way to work. Now, what’s all this nonsense I read in the
Tribune
about spontaneous combustion?”

“Don’t you think it’s possible?”

“Of course not.”

“I think there was an accelerant,” Cummings concurred. “I believe I smelled something suspicious.”

“Can you be more precise?” Rockland asked.

“It’s difficult to say because the air was full of incense and then smoke from the fire. However, I think I detected an oily undercurrent. I’m wondering if it was linseed oil. Rags soaked in it can self-combust. Of course, they’d have to be saturated and left to sit for a while, perhaps an hour or more, before they ignited. Linseed oil is sometimes used to finish wood. When I lived in Maine, someone left linseed-saturated rags on the floor in a shop in the village I lived in, and the place burned down.”

“Of course, there are many flammable substances,” Rockland suggested.

“Yes, there are,” Cummings agreed, “but let’s suppose someone wanted to kill Surendra. Everyone wears antique or reproduction clothes to the Mathers Society, admittedly augmented with Steampunk motifs. For women that means long dresses. If the murderer left linseed-saturated rags in the base of the lectern at which Surendra was standing, he might reasonably suppose her dress would catch on fire.”

“Wouldn’t she notice the smell?”

“Not necessarily. She might not have recognized the odor as a dangerous substance. Or perhaps her dress had been stored in moth balls, a very strong scent.”

“I suppose it’s possible,” Rockland said, “but it seems a particularly gruesome way to kill someone and, I might add, a rather questionable strategy. The flames could easily have been put out.”

“All of that is true,” Cummings agreed. “I’m just speculating, but I also have to say this: people like us, who tend to be rational, often assume that everyone else tends to be rational, too. We sometimes eliminate strategies as absurd because they’re illogical, but others may not view it that way. Does that seem overly cynical?”

“What you say reminds me of the Nero responses.”

“What’s that?”

“A joke I heard from a philosophy professor when I was an undergrad. I can’t tell jokes properly, but the idea is that in a crisis—Rome burning, in this instance—four possible responses emerge. The first is to fiddle, which is the accommodation of the idealist. The second is to let the city burn; that’s what the fatalist does. The pragmatist, the third option, puts out the fire. And the fourth reaction, that of the nihilist, is to the kill the fiddler. You will note that any of these four might argue that he is behaving rationally, but only one reaction seems objectively rational, that of the pragmatist, because it’s the only action that minimizes harm. People will always do what makes sense to
them
, but that is not always what makes sense.”

“True enough, though as jokes go, that one isn’t particularly amusing.”

“Perhaps it is if you’re a philosophy professor.”

“Please tell Luther I phoned.”

“I shall,” Rockland promised. “Don’t forget to phone me if you run into something less incendiary and more biochemical. Poison—that’s what gets my blood flowing!”

The next morning Cummings had an interview with a prospective consulting client. He put on his best dark suit and reflected on how nervous he was. Suspect interviews were one thing; selling himself was something else.

He drove to a large, modern apartment building in Lincoln Park, Chicago’s toniest neighborhood, parked his car and announced himself to the doorman. Cummings was directed to the elevator and soon found himself seated across from Mrs. Bernice Randall in her spacious home office.

She appeared to have the tight skin and loose thinking Cummings had come to associate with old money, along with the requisite elegant coif, tasteful tailoring, and slightly ostentatious jewelry. The apartment was on a high floor, and the room had magnificent views of Lake Michigan. There was a modern chrome and glass desk; bookcases dotted with family photographs and knick-knacks and even a few actual books; and on a nearby wall, an oil portrait of a woman in a beaded dress from the 1920s.

“Is that your grandmother?” Cummings suggested. “She must have been an inspiration to you.”

“Yes. How did you know that?”

“She’s wearing the same bracelet as you are. My assumption is that such an heirloom would likely pass across generations from mother to daughter. I surmise you are either your mother’s only daughter or her eldest daughter. Since you’ve given the portrait a place of prominence in your office, I imagine you admired your grandmother.”

“Aren’t you clever?” Mrs. Randall said, pleased. “I can see why you’re highly recommended.”

“Thank you,” he said. He wasn’t actually sure how she’d gotten his name, probably someone who knew someone who knew someone. He’d been working in philanthropy for a long time.

“You know, we’re a small family foundation. We’re not terribly strategic. We fund health care, education, the environment, the arts—the usual areas.”

“Yes. I’ve done a little research on you,” Cummings said.

“We’re looking for a consultant to help us evaluate the impact of our funding.”

“I see, and what kind of impact are you seeking to evaluate?”

“Well, we’ve given out twelve million dollars in the last five years, and we have no idea if it’s done any good.”

“I meant, what do you mean by ‘impact,’ and what do you mean by ‘good’? Do you mean you’d like to know if your money helped immediate circumstances or if it actually helped to solve difficult problems?”

“Those are excellent questions. That’s what we want to find out.”

“I see. Well, it’s fairly easy to assess if giving away money has an impact on current conditions, but it’s almost impossible to say if you’re helping to conquer larger problems. The problem is trying to connect the dots with straight lines, avoiding what they call confounding variables in statistics.”

“I assume you’re not saying that philanthropy is a waste of time?” Mrs. Randall said, a slight unease in her voice.

“No, no. Giving money to, say, disaster relief will certainly help to ease immediate suffering, but can you really know if your donation to, say, hurricane forecasting research is critical to a breakthrough that emerges? In most cases you can’t.”

“Then what is one to do?”

“That’s a good question. If I may use a metaphor, I’d say it’s like your failed marriage.”

“How did you know about that?” she said, startled.

“The slight puffiness around the ring finger on your left hand. There was a ring there that you’ve taken off.”

“What does hurricane forecasting have to do with my divorce?”

“Perhaps I’m not being clear. A better analogy might be your strained relationship with your son.”

“What?”

“I read your biography. You have a daughter and a son. I see many pictures of her but none of him. My point is, philanthropy is like a difficult relationship; you keep making the effort because it’s important and hope that eventually things will change.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, standing suddenly. “I don’t think this will be a good fit.”

“Oh,” Cummings said, surprised by her abruptness. “Well, thank you for your time.”

After this debacle Cummings stopped for a quick sandwich. He reflected painfully on what had just happened with Mrs. Randall. He set the timer on his wristwatch and considered why he always seemed to say the wrong thing in such circumstances. By the time the buzzer went off, he had concluded that perhaps relaxation techniques might improve his interpersonal skills. He determined to get a book on client interviewing and see if he could improve.

He looked at his watch and realized that he was due soon at Otto’s.

Otto Verissimo lived in the Prairie Avenue Historic District, the section of the near South Side that housed Chicago’s wealthiest families in the late nineteenth century. Today the area is part of Chicago’s South Loop. Where there were once mansions, there are now condominia, though a few of the old mansions remain. Otto lived in one of these, a house commonly known by architectural preservationists, of which there are many in Chicago, as the Ogalala Castle. A gothic curiosity, it was built in 1894 by Harrison Glendenning, a patent medicine magnate, and his wife.

Mrs. Glendenning designed the home herself after the famous Chicago architect Louis Sullivan refused to work with her. Her taste was more exuberant than informed; it was based on one grand tour of the Continent and a small collection of stereopticon slides. Local architectural historians often write that the house is a poor example of late Gothic Revival, but what they really mean is that it’s a monstrosity. Its facade is a cacophony of arches, flying buttresses, stained glass, martyrs and gargoyles. The interior is primarily ebony, so pervasive and dark that masses of electric light have little noticeable effect.

In 1920 all but one of the Glendennings perished in a boating accident on Lake Michigan. Only Ogalala Glendenning, ten years old at the time, survived by clinging to her mother’s lifeless but buoyant body. Ogalala was so traumatized that she never spoke a word again. She died in 1985 without heirs, and the house deteriorated until Otto and Sebastian purchased it in 1990.

It is difficult to say what attracted Otto and Sebastian to the Castle. One likes to imagine that Mrs. Glendenning’s passionate lack of discernment struck them as the perfect complement for Otto’s artless but heartfelt prose. However, this assumes a self-awareness that artists, particularly bad ones, rarely possess. More likely, Otto saw the grand where others saw the garish, and to keep the peace, Sebastian went along with Otto’s vision.

During a three-year rehabilitation, Otto and Sebastian updated the wiring and plumbing, put in a functional kitchen and generally restored the house to its original state of pseudo-historical Gothic hysteria. It had been their home since.