“Was there nothing else in the valise?” Asia asked.
“No,” Tooke said. “Nothing of importance. A few personal things. Books. Newspapers. Unfortunately, Inspector De Brule has the valise.”
“De Brule?” Fitz said.
“The Crown Inspector. I approached him several times to assist us. He was very polite but absolutely useless. He is a very odd person.”
“This adventure is filled with odd people,” Fitz said, prepared to be unimpressed.
“De Brule is quite wealthy, and he counts many influential people as his friends. People say that he has his position because of his ability to gather information, embarrassing information, about high-ranking officials. He is also decidedly anti-Union, and vocally pro-Southern,” Tooke said. “He always appears to be helpful, but in the end it is only an appearance.”
“How did he come to have Professor Abbott’s valise?” Asia asked.
Tooke hesitated. “He took it from me, as I was leaving Abbott’s rooms. It was by good fortune that I had slipped his notebook into my pocket.” Asia was about to hand the book to Tooke, but the young man shook his head. “Please keep it. You might be able to divine some meaning from its contents. I can’t.”
“Do you know the Southern agents in the city?” Fitz asked. “Could they be involved in Abbott’s disappearance?”
The carriage stopped, and Tooke wiped the condensation from the window and looked out. “Here is the St-Denis.”
The carriage bucked as the driver alighted. The door flew open and a blast of cold air announced they must abandon the warmth of the vehicle.
The lobby of the St-Denis was small, Fitz noted, not as luxurious as Willard’s but comfortable, inviting, with a scattering of divans, tables, and surprisingly, given the intense cold outside, potted plants. Fitz was about to ask Asia what kind of plants could possibly survive this extreme weather, but decided against it. She had chided him on his lack of knowledge about flora. In a pique his only reply had been, “I know grass and trees. That should suffice.”
“I’ll see to your rooms,” Tooke said, hurrying to the front desk.
“How are you?” Fitz asked. He had been planning his questions carefully the entire trip, knowing that his efforts to inquire after Asia’s well-being often had ended in disaster. She would lapse into silent periods, sometimes emerge in a defensive mood, and then seeing that he was hurt and confused, become contrite. He had been watching her closely, sensing that whatever troubled her in Washington had made the trip with them. When her attention drifted away from their journey to the passing countryside, he began to develop his strategy. He vowed to keep his temper in check and to mask the irritation that arose when he found himself sinking deeper and deeper into the morass of misunderstood emotions.
Asia Dunaway looked at her husband, surprised at the suddenness of the inquiry. “Well, Fitz. A little tired, of course.” Her smile told him she was aware there was more lurking behind that question. “Why?”
Fitz stepped aside as a cart bearing their luggage passed by.
“You were—” Fitz began. “You don’t seem yourself.”
Her sadness returned. “It is nothing,” she said. “The length of the journey.”
“It was before we came to Quebec City,” Fitz said, trying to keep his thoughts in order. He would be logical about this, he reminded himself, and not let his feelings intrude. “Sometimes I find you as you have always been, but then a cloud comes over you, and I suspect I have done something.”
“It is not that, Fitz. Let us not speak of it now.”
“But when I ask, you change the subject, or—”
“Well, here we are,” Tooke said, suddenly appearing. “Room 221. Your bags should be there now. All we need do is follow the porter. Is something wrong?”
Fitz felt defeated. He was tired and his arm throbbed, and he knew he did not have the reserve to wage a campaign that required delicacy and understanding. And yet here was the woman he loved, at times so distant she might have been a stranger, deflecting his attempts to reach her. He realized he had failed her somehow, and for the first time a thought emerged he had done his best to keep submerged: Was there someone else?
“Perhaps if you retire to your rooms for a brief respite?” Tooke suggested.
“Why don’t you go on,” Fitz said, struggling to remain calm. He was angry at Asia, with her secrecy, with his inability to return his wife to the person she was.
“Yes,” she said, following the porter.
“Let us go to the consul offices,” Fitz said before Tooke had a chance to speak. “I want to know about Southern agents, and I must inform my superiors of my arrival.” Fitz could not stand being at the mercy of doubt. He needed the comfort of acting without hesitation, of bringing a situation to a quick resolution. Doubt was an illness, a creeping, insidious sickness that weakened a man to the point of inactivity. And now, it had a firm grip on him.
Chapter 8
The Beaufort Asylum for the Insane
Five Miles from Quebec City, British Canada
The artist worked in limited colors, painting five dark figures on a canvas of bright snow and lining the umber trunks of regimented naked trees on the edge of the frosted field. Dominating the background was the dull gray bulk of the asylum, heavy with misery, two-story stone buildings facing one another across a commons. They were joined by palings—stout wooden posts that denied the inhabitants entrance to the world that had discarded them. On the left were three comfortable houses, the largest belonging to the superintendent, and smoke curling from chimneys into a sky that was nearly as white as the fields. The only true colors that existed in the scene were those of the two sleighs—red for one, and yellow for the other.
Silence could have been another color, all sounds muted to whispers on the monochromatic canvas—those that escaped did so in respectful hushed tones.
Goodwin stood with two men, far enough from January and the Confederate agent Provine to give them privacy. Sorrel was a small squat man, angry about something, everything. Locker was taller, even tempered—the kind who paces easily through life. They were both a good head shorter than Goodwin, as were most men.
Goodwin offered the two men cigars. “How long have you been up here?”
Both men took the cigars, Sorrel jerking his from Goodwin’s hand. “Too damned long,” the shorter man said, waiting for a light. He puffed on the cigar, drawing smoke from the tip that mixed with his frozen breath. “We don’t do nothing but talk. All we do is talk.”
“A little over a year,” Locker said, rolling the cigar over the match, patiently nursing the tip until it glowed red. One more speck of color on the canvas.
“And we’ve done nothing,” Sorrel said, watching January and Provine talk near the sleighs. It was obvious he wanted Goodwin to understand their trials. “Mr. Provine there isn’t the kind of man who wants things done quickly.”
Locker was prepared to be more charitable. “He’s thoughtful.”
“Do they pay you well?” Goodwin asked.
Both men answered, “No.”
Sorrel elaborated. “I think Mr. Provine’s feathering his own nest.” He looked at the landscape in disgust. “He likes it up here.”
Provine and January stopped some distance from the others.
The Confederate agent marveled at the scene. “Isn’t it beautiful, Mr.