All Bedlam Courses Past (part one hundred ninety-eight)

 

 

 

 

 

All Bedlam Courses Past

 

 

Chapter Eight

Things Relative

 

(part one hundred ninety-eight)

 

 

 

---

 

 

 

“He was married in her parish…in my opinion, because the women in Huy knew him. Under a dispensation, which possibly means he wasn’t a baptized Catholic.”

“Ah.” A voice, close at their heels.

“Or do I mean disposition?”

“No, no. Dispensation.”

“And so,” the stranger added, as both were looking at him, “may I introduce myself? You are Miss Gremot? I take the liberty.”

His small-mouthed face puckered, impish.

“Up to seconds on liberties,” Weem observed.

“I take them in the nature of my work. But in a moment we’ll all meet. I’d like to know you, sir.”

“Family friend. Phelan?”

“Ha, ha,” the man said. His complexion was scrubbed and pink, his hair pale blond. He was short, thin of build, and not dressed, in his double-breasted plaid vest and knife-edged trouser pleats, like a blender-in. Élucide told herself Owen would pay for joking with her.

“It’s always of an interest, how each of us ended up where we are.”

“And so, Mr. Phelan…”

“And so, Miss?”

“Have you charted your family tree?” Quackenbush had taught her this phrasing, not to ask strangers, “Where are you from?”

“I have not,” he said. “Dare I speculate on the sort of hole that produces a Phelan?” He began a noise, a private laugh.

And since he remained behind, they walked ahead. “Too many of these women are named Elizabeth,” Élucide said at last. “Jean was born in 1770. And yet Honoré, who is only his grandson, was born in 1850…that’s what? Eighty years later?”

Came the voice: “My own mother is an Elizabeth, born County Clare…in a year, so she claims, that would make me quite the prodigy.”

“My mother,” Weem admitted, “is an Elizabeth.”

“She’s alive? Weem! Do you go see her?”

Weem muttered, and the stranger overrode him. “The dear soul we have in the house with us. It’s the battle of royals between her and my wife.”

They reached the gate of Crownhaven. One of the staff straightened from the veranda railing, making quick steps to the door. But she stopped first, and bent to a seated figure. They saw a man of middle age rise, holding a derby hat to the swell of a brown-suited belly.

“I’ve not given you the impression,” the stranger said, “that I’m Mr. Phelan.”

“Oh?”

“Oh… I’ll allow I may have left room for it. Phelan went early to Crownhaven. You may call me Monaghan.”

“May I,” she said, flat. “But, Monaghan, the detective? Wasn’t I told…”

“Hearsay is useless. Ask Phelan himself to explain, if you care to. He’ll explain like a lawyer, and you will make of it what you can.”

 

 

210

 

 

---

Bedlam

All Bedlam Courses Past (part one hundred ninety-nine)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(2025, Stephanie Foster)