Page 74 of The Cabinet of Dr. Leng

“We do, but the extradition of an Ecuadorian citizen is forbidden by their constitution.”

“You said he was Venezuelan.”

“He was. But with all his money, he finagled Ecuadorian citizenship.”

“So—are you saying we’re shit out of luck?”

As the squad car came to a halt at the security entrance, Coldmoon leaned toward D’Agosta. “No.”

“I’m all ears.”

“The guy doesn’t know he’s a suspect. He doesn’t have any reason to fear coming to the States. So what we do is lure the bastard back to the U.S. and nab his ass when he steps off the plane.”

“And just how are we going to do that?”

Coldmoon smiled. “Leave that to the FBI—amigo.”

46

December 22, 1880

Saturday

AT AROUND EIGHT THIRTYPM, a series of gleaming carriages began to arrive at the encrusted-limestone mansion occupying the entire frontage of Fifth Avenue from Fiftieth to Fifty-First Streets. The carriages stopped at the mansion’s grand entrance, illuminated by hundreds of candles within brass lanterns, their wicks specially treated to emit a reddish flame. The occupants of the carriages descended onto a blood-colored carpet that led past the entrance columns into the house itself. They were dressed in costumes that ranged from the eccentric to the ghoulish, loosely based on the Gothic theme of the Red Ball. As the hour of nine approached, the number of carriages swelled, until half the avenue had become a traffic jam, as coachmen and valets scrambled to escort the gaudily clad heiresses, captains of industry, and men of finance into the mansion.

Inside, Carlotta Cabot-Flint stood at the top of the twin set of marble stairs curving up from the reception hall to the second floor. She was surrounded by a gaggle of women of a certain age, talking avidly as the guests arrived, guessing who they were and what they were dressed as. Jeweled bracelets and rings flashed in the lights as they gestured this way and that with their plump arms. One woman was dressed as Eurydice, with the viper that killed her, fashioned of dyed foxtails, draped over her shoulder. Another was costumed as Salome, carrying a Venetian-style mask in the likeness of John the Baptist, set on a golden stick. The rest were clad in similarly macabre fashion, depicting figures from history or characters from the novels of Horace Walpole and Matthew Gregory Lewis. The group of women at the top of the stairs were beyond excited. Even at this early hour, they could sense the Red Ball was destined to bethediversion of the season.

Mrs. Cabot-Flint inwardly rejoiced. At just this moment, none other than Evangeline Rhinelander was pressing her hand in two white gloves and singing her praises—the same Mrs. Rhinelander who, two years ago, had not even deigned to recognize her at the Brunswick.

A hush fell over the group as Caroline Astor, doyenne of New York society, entered the reception hall on the arm of her husband. She was dressed head to toe in white satin, with traceries of rubies forming elegant patterns through the material. She, too, held a Venetian mask before her face, but she was nevertheless identifiable by the unique coiffure no other woman dared imitate. The mask she held was also white, and the hush in the room grew as they saw it was the face of Janus, the two-faced Roman god, mouth drooping in the universal visage of tragedy.

Mrs. Astor stopped in the middle of the reception room. She raised her head and mask, looking up through the eyeholes at her hostess. For a moment, all was still, as she lowered the mask and curtsied to Mrs. Cabot-Flint. Then, with a light movement, she raised the mask and twirled it around to reveal the other—the merry—face of Janus.

A gasp of admiration rippled through the crowd, followed by a scattering of applause. Once again conversation rose, and the orchestra in the adjoining salon struck up another Hungarian waltz.

Carlotta Cabot-Flint stood quite still as what had just happened sank in. Caroline Astor had come dressed as the Woman in White from the famous Wilkie Collins novel. By pausing to recognize her hostess in such a public manner, she’d just bestowed on Mrs. Cabot-Flint the very highest acknowledgment of social approval possible in the glittering firmament of Gilded Age New York.

As her mind once again returned to the buzz of excitement around her, she thought for a moment of the duchess. She had to admit the young woman was responsible for much of the evening’s success. She had promised to supply decorations for the ball, and that morning, workmen dressed in outfits bearing the Ironclaw coat of arms began bringing in some select ornaments, several fire braziers, gigantic clocks, and as a centerpiece, two massive, muscular legs of sculpted stone—as if from a ruined statue of antiquity—made of papier-mâché but looking strikingly real.

Directing this procession of fabulous things, in French-accented English, had been a woman named Féline, in the employ of the duchess. Mrs. Cabot-Flint, though surprised at the rather brusque arrival of workmen, felt too astonished to object, and her momentary aggravation melted away as the finished space took form. Within six hours, her vast ballroom had been transformed into an exotic palace in scarlet and crimson. Féline had also changed the musical program. Handel, Beethoven, and Brahms were tossed out in favor of the thunderings of Liszt and music from various composers she had never heard of—Fauré, Saint-Saëns, Dvorák.

The duchess had suggested—quite cleverly—that although this was to be a costume ball, each guest should be asked to wear a fourragère—a braided cord of the military fashion—of a particular, assigned color around their left shoulder. This would allow the duchess and Mrs. Cabot-Flint to identify who each guest was, without them being able to identify each other. The duchess had explained that when she finally revealed the reason for these colored fourragères, it would be seen as a cleverbeau geste, to be no doubt imitated at parties for the rest of the season. Lastly, the duchess had persuaded her to hire male and female dancers from La Scala, who happened to be in town preparing for holiday performances: a troupe that included the prima ballerina Alessandra Legnani. They were dressed as figures both arabesque and grotesque, and they danced pas de deux among the masqueraders, their gossamer-thin costumes and supple, muscular bodies adding a frisson of sensuality to the fête.

As the hostess looked down over her entertainment with enormous satisfaction, she saw—among the masked and costumed revelers laughing, drinking, and dancing—the duchess herself, dressed, she could see, as Lucrezia Borgia, the poisoner. She stood in a corner near the entrance to the ballroom, speaking to a young woman. Mrs. Cabot-Flint peered more closely and was able to identify the girl as Edith Jones, who’d been introduced into society the year before. She came from an old patroon family and was Mrs. Astor’s niece. What a shame, Mrs. Cabot-Flint thought, that the girl should be of such plain appearance. Nevertheless, with her breeding and background, she was sure to make a good match despite her looks. She wondered what on earth the duchess was doing, half-hidden at the entryway instead of mingling with the guests—and why she was speaking to the girl.

Constance stood in a discreet location that afforded a view of the arrivals without herself being seen by them. She couldn’t help but relish the outrageous spectacle she and the sharp-witted Féline had helped create. Had circumstances been different, she might have allowed herself to savor fully the grotesque cavalcade of expense and vulgarity that was passing before her eyes. But there was a reason for her to be where she was, and she had to remain watchful and guarded.

As she scanned the crowd, glass of champagne in one hand, a man caught her eye. He was dressed as a harlequin, with a sequined mask and the obligatory cap and bells and no fourragère to indicate his identity. She hadn’t seen him come in. He was in earnest conversation with a portly gentleman in the garb of a medieval executioner, and they were about to move into the second chamber and out of her sight. She felt a chill of horror: something about him—the height, build, or was it the way he moved?—reminded her of her quarry. Could Enoch Leng have somehow crept in while she wasn’t looking? That seemed impossible. Not everyone had followed the instructions to wear a fourragère. But on closer examination, the man was too tall to be Leng, and she returned her gaze to the entrance.

A high voice intruded on her thoughts. She turned to see a girl of about eighteen approaching. Her hair was put up in the fashion of young ladies newly introduced to society. Therobe de gaulleshe wore, identical to the one in Vigée le Brun’s 1783 portrait, made it clear she was costumed as Marie Antoinette. The girl had added a gruesome touch: a white silk ribbon tied around her neck, dotted with crimson.

“We are both like Mr. Huxley,” the girl said archly, a hand straying to the ribbon around her throat, “observing a savage ritual and hoping we won’t be boiled in a pot for dinner.”

Constance stared at the girl, dismayed that her watchful stance was so obvious but surprised at the observation. “I should be careful not to untie that ribbon if I were you.”

The girl laughed and held out her kid-gloved hand. “My name is Edith. Edith Jones.”

Constance took the hand with amused gravity. “And I am the Duchess of Ironclaw.”

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