Iron and Blood (13 page)

“Reverend McDonald,” Wilfred said in a voice loud enough to carry. “Please come in.”

Reverend Dennis McDonald was a tall man with a spare build, whose skinny legs and arms seemed too long for his body. His reddish-blond hair was thinning on top, and together with his spectacles, it gave him a scholarly look. To Jake’s surprise, the minister held a large, wrapped floral arrangement.

“A man was having some difficulty with his horse near the gate,” the minister said. “He asked me if I would bring this in to you.”

Jake cleared a place on a nearby table, and Reverend McDonald set the arrangement down, making sure to set the glass vase atop a doily. Catherine carefully pulled back the protective paper wrapping to reveal the flowers inside, and gasped.

A profusion of monkshood and foxglove blossoms with a stalk of calla lily made up the center of the arrangement, surrounded by belladonna, nightshade, and larkspur. Caladium, bloodroot, and hemlock spilled from the edges of the vase.

There was a card attached to the base, which read,
Our wishes for the Desmet family.

“Get that thing out of here,” Catherine demanded. She had gone pale, and her voice shook. Nicki blanched, and stepped closer to take Catherine’s arm.

“What’s wrong?” Reverend McDonald asked, clearly flummoxed. “I don’t know who sent them, but they’re lovely.”

“And every one of them is a deadly poison,” Catherine replied. “It’s a threat. That’s the sender’s wish for us. Death.”

“G
OODBYE,
T
HOMAS
,” C
ATHERINE
Desmet murmured as the pallbearers removed her husband’s casket from the house.

“Make damn sure he’s feet-first, mind you! I don’t want talk in the neighborhood of haunts!” Henry fussed at the pallbearers.

“Don’t tell me you actually believe in superstitions,” Jake snapped. After an entire morning of Henry pitching a snit over every detail, Jake’s patience was at an end.

Henry rounded on him. “It doesn’t matter whether I personally believe it keeps the dead from returning. It’s what the neighbors believe that matters, and whether they’ll ever visit the house again.”

Jake rolled his eyes. “I should have guessed. It’s real estate values you’re concerned about, not the afterlife.”

“Now is
not
the time,” Nicki grated. “You’re upsetting your mother.”

Jake took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. Even Henry had the good grace to look abashed. “Sorry,” he said, though his eyes remained on the pallbearers.

Jake took his mother’s hands. The loss in her eyes made his heart ache. “He’ll have a good send-off, a proper service,” Jake assured her. “And when we get back, I’ll tell you everything.”

Catherine met his gaze. “Thomas is gone. There’s no changing that. But I don’t want anything happening to the two of you. Be careful.”

Jake nodded. “We will. And we’ll get to the bottom of this—I promise.”

It was time for Jake to take his place alongside Henry, processing toward where the hearse and carriage waited. True to his word, Henry had spared no expense on the cortège. Six black horses were teamed to a large black hearse, through the glass sides of which the well-appointed casket would be seen. The hearse’s corners were embellished with gold, and there was an ostentatious canopy of ostrich feathers, in the European tradition. Jake ground his teeth, biting back criticism, but Henry looked as pleased as circumstances permitted.

Neighbors and onlookers were already beginning to gather along the sidewalk, and men removed their hats as the casket was placed into the hearse. It was impossible not to notice the mutes. As professional mourners, the mutes stood silently with sad expressions, forming an honor guard on both sides of the street and down the steps of the house. Jake counted at least twenty men dressed in long dark coats, their top hats covered with black crepe, sporting huge crepe sashes that hung from shoulder to hip. Each carried a long pole or ‘wand’ that spread, fan-like, at the top, shrouded in crepe and tied with a bow. They looked to Jake rather like cloth-wrapped rakes, but given that Kovach had hired the mutes, he was willing to bet the wands were rifles and shotguns. On closer inspection, he was certain that he recognized several ‘mutes’ as being among the security men from the previous night.

“The mutes are a nice touch,” Henry said in a brusque aside. “Adds a nice bit of pomp.” Jake shook his head and gave silent thanks that Henry had not decided to employ professional wailers as well.

Kovach stood somberly beside the black carriage that awaited Jake and Henry. The carriage was as opulent as the hearse, and Jake was certain Henry had rented it from the mortician instead of using one of the company’s vehicles. George and Rick would follow in a second, not quite so opulent, carriage. Jake was sure the driver was one of Kovach’s men, as was the footman. Odd bulges beneath their cloaks suggested to Jake they were both well-armed.

“It’s not quite what we had in London,” Kovach murmured as he helped Jake step into the carriage. “You might wish to stay back from the windows.”

“What the hell is he talking about?” Henry groused.

“We had especially lovely carriages on our last trip,” Jake lied smoothly as he found a seat. “And the windows had curtains, for privacy.” The answer pacified Henry, and Henry settled into his seat, taking up more than half, Jake noted.

Jake was mindful of the Peacemaker lodged in the waistband of his trousers as he seated himself. His sense of foreboding had come back this morning in full force; and while he thought it was probably from spending too much time around Henry, he wasn’t taking chances. The procession started off at a stately pace, and Jake bet Henry had instructed the coachmen not to go too quickly, to make the spectacle last.

Thomas Desmet was not a famous politician or an actor, nor was he one of the true elite among New Pittsburgh’s wealthiest men. So it was surprising to Jake that so many people thronged the sidewalks to gawk as the procession made its way toward Shadyside Presbyterian Church. Throughout it all, Henry sat with a satisfied half-smile, relishing the attention.

“Stop fidgeting,” Henry admonished.

“We could have walked faster,” Jake replied. “We could have walked faster even carrying the casket.”

“Don’t be disrespectful.”

“You know how much Father hated ostentation,” Jake returned. “He would have loathed this.”

“It’s good for business,” Henry said, glancing out the window at the gathered onlookers. “Did you know these carriages and the hearse are actually nicer than the ones Congressman Brewer’s family used a few years ago?”

Jake refrained from smacking his forehead in sheer frustration. He spared a glance from the carriage, but he was watching the mutes, not the spectators. Instead of trailing behind the hearse, most of Kovach’s men walked beside the carriage, their wands held like rifles in a drill parade. Jake got a good look at the mute nearest the carriage and bit back a chuckle. The man had the squashed nose of a boxer and the thick-muscled neck of a pub brawler, his beefy arms straining the seams of his rented outfit.

Finally, the carriage pulled up in front of the stately church. Kovach rapped on the carriage door, and opened it to allow Jake and Henry to get out. The pallbearers unloaded the casket and started up the church’s broad steps.

In the six years since its construction, Shadyside Presbyterian Church had already garnered notice as an outstanding example of Richardsonian Romanesque architecture. A central windowed tower—the lantern—was flanked by two transepts and a rounded tower on the side. Round-arched windows on the south transept and arched windows on the lantern gave the church a cathedral-like feeling, further increased by the carvings and grotesques around the main doorway.

The mutes were already in position, forming an honor guard flanking the steps. Even so, Jake and Rick kept a wary eye out as they climbed the steps. George kept his gaze straight ahead, as if resolved not to let Thomas’s murder get the best of him. Henry seemed oblivious to everything except for the details of the procession itself.

The guests were already seated. Reverend McDonald, dressed formally in a Geneva robe and cassock, drew Henry aside and spoke in hushed tones. Rick walked over to stand beside Jake. Jake scanned the crowd. Most of the men, Jake could easily identify as his father’s business associates, or friends of the family. A few he recognized as among New Pittsburgh’s most powerful industrialists, come to pay their respects. The company’s lawyer, banker, and accountant were in attendance, as were several of their Shadyside neighbors. All in all, he thought, it was a ‘Who’s Who’ of the New Pittsburgh business community.
Henry must be bursting with pride
, he thought drily.
We might make the society column
.

One man stood out in the crowd. The stranger was tall with broad shoulders. He was bald and had a well-trimmed mustache. The cut of his suit looked expensive, and something about the man gave Jake the distinct impression that he was European.

“Who’s that?” Jake whispered with a nudge to Rick.

“Don’t know, but I’ll find out.” Rick went over to where George stood and whispered in his father’s ear. A few moments later, he returned. “Drogo Veles. Father’s as surprised as you are to see him here.”

“Thwaites’s business partner. And Thwaites was one of the last people to see Father alive,” Jake muttered as the ushers seated the last of the mourners. “They’re first in line when it comes to suspects, at least in my mind. I can’t believe either one of them has the nerve to show up here.”

Any reply Rick might have made was cut off as the organ began to play and the pallbearers carried the casket to the front. Ushers returned to seat first Jake and Henry, then George and Rick, in the pews reserved for family. As Jake made his way up the aisle, Veles watched him pass, and Jake could feel Veles’s gaze on him even after he had been seated. The mutes filed in behind them, forming a line at the rear of the sanctuary. One look at the row of black-clad, brawny men standing at parade rest should have tipped off anyone that they were bodyguards rather than mourners, Jake thought, and wondered what the other attendees made of it.

A noise at the back of the church made Jake turn to glance over his shoulder. A man with the dark cassock and beard of an Orthodox Catholic priest entered. He seemed anxious to attract as little attention as possible, ducking into a back pew where he could observe without being seen.
What’s a priest doing at Father’s funeral?
Jake wondered, turning back around when Henry gave him a not-so-subtle jab in the ribs.

Jake’s thoughts were a jumble throughout the short memorial service, and he heard little of the eulogy. Questions cycled in his mind.
Who killed Father—and why? What was it the killer wanted badly enough to continue his attacks?

Jake realized how much his thoughts had wandered when the organ began to play the recessional and the congregation stood for the pallbearers to carry the casket to the hearse. Jake took the opportunity to scan the crowd once more, thinking about who was missing—and who was unaccountably present.

Andreas Thalberg had not attended because the funeral was held in daylight. Cullan Adair had slipped in at the last moment, his irrepressible good cheer dampened by the somber circumstances. He was sitting with Adam Farber, the genius inventor behind the airship’s mechanical arsenal. In front of them sat a scholarly-looking man in his middle years. Jake recognized him as Dr. Konrad Nils, head of acquisitions for Andrew Carnegie’s new museum.

The Catholic priest was gone.

Drostan Fletcher, the private investigator, sat in the back left corner of the sanctuary, a place that afforded the best view of the crowd. He was close to Jake’s height, maybe six feet tall, with reddish-blond hair and a bushy red moustache. The suit he wore was an older style, a good tweed that had seen heavy use. Jake had never needed to work directly with Fletcher before, though he had seen him at the Brand and Desmet offices. Now Jake was glad George had the detective on the case.

Jake and Henry followed the casket, stopping at the front door of the church to form a receiving line. George and Rick joined them a moment later.

“So sorry about your father.” One person after another murmured the same or similar words. Henry accepted their condolences with dramatic flair, as if he were barely holding on to his reserve. George stood to Jake’s left, and after the first few well-wishers moved through the line, Jake realized George was greeting each by name and making a bit of revealing small talk for Jake’s benefit, by way of introduction.

“I hear you’ll be stepping into your father’s role.” The speaker was an elderly, white-haired man who stood straight-backed despite his age. He had a piercing gaze and the dour look of an undertaker or a banker, but given the fine gold watch at his waistcoat, Jake decided on the latter.

“I’ve been telling Mr. Mellon about you, Jake,” George said. “I’ve assured him that you’re well-versed with our European acquisitions.”

“Yes, sir,” Jake replied. “Of course, no one could replace Father—”

“Your father was an exceptional man,” Thomas Mellon replied. “I expect you to be no less exceptional. In fact, I’m banking on it.”