Chapter 33
The first passenger steamship out of Shanghai was bound for Bangkok, and the idea of Siam appealed to Eleanor more than Singapore
or Tokyo, so Bangkok was where she disembarked. The climate was hotter than anything she’d ever experienced, but the wicker
peacock chair was more comfortable than a velvet-padded seat, and under the shelter of a canvas awning, the terrace’s marble
tiles were cool under her bare feet. As evening approached, a breeze came off the Chao Phraya River and it was almost refreshing.
A pair of palm trees spread their leaves like large fans and lent privacy, shielding her from any eyes straining for a glimpse
of the mysterious, wealthy woman who had checked into the Oriental Hotel.
Such freedom.
She closed her eyes, enjoying her solitude, the knowledge that from now on, no one would disturb her unless she allowed it.
During her last days in Shanghai, staff at the Astor House Hotel had been instructed to give Mrs. Stanton complete privacy;
they were all aware of the recent tragedies she had suffered. They’d even managed to turn away Mrs. Easton—although that had
required the hotel manager’s intervention. She’d had only one visitor, one she couldn’t avoid, but it had been useful: an
officer from the Shanghai Municipal Police force.
He wanted her help to understand how the fire at Lennox Manor might’ve started.
It was deliberately set, he said, apologetically.
So she explained that after her husband died, she had felt very uncomfortable living there on her own with a man who wasn’t a blood relation, not only because of how things might look but also because Mason Burnett was behaving strangely.
“You know his son died under very tragic circumstances three years ago,” she said to the sympathetic young officer, an Englishman.
“Mr. Burnett grew very close to Thomas and put all his hopes on their business partnership. I believe he regarded my late
husband as a second son. When Thomas died, Mr. Burnett seemed all right until after the funeral, but I realize now he was
just barely hanging on.”
Mason, she explained, was a heavy drinker who became very difficult and abusive when inebriated. His alcohol habit had become
so bad their servants had left. On the day of the fire, he started drinking at lunch, and became increasingly morose, saying
there was no point in life anymore.
“Frankly, I felt alarmed by his behavior,” she said, “so I packed very quickly, just a few things, and left as soon as I could.
My maid stayed behind to pack the rest of my belongings. I was going to send a carriage back for her, along with a porter
to carry away trunks and larger pieces of luggage. Oh, I blame myself for not taking her with me.”
“Now, now, Mrs. Stanton,” the officer said, “how could anyone have known that Mr. Burnett would burn down his own home? Obviously,
he was suicidal. I imagine it runs in the family.”
The resulting piece in the North China Herald had been most satisfactory.
The story put all the blame for the fire on Mason, while also stressing that he had been grief-stricken and not in his right mind.
She left a few farewell notes for the hotel concierge to send before boarding her ship; nobody would question her desire to leave Shanghai, a place that had brought so much sorrow.
She had been living in the suite at the Oriental Hotel for the past two weeks. The riverside hotel was the most modern and
luxurious in all of Siam, the management and staff discreetly considerate of her situation. She required solitude, she explained,
she was in retreat and needed to be away from other guests. Her suite on the upper floor featured a large terrace with a view
of the river and the gleaming orange roofs and gilded, bell-shaped towers of Bangkok’s many temples. It was all so pleasant
she had stayed a week longer than planned.
But it was time to move on. Andrew Grey had given her a nasty scare, a reminder that she could never let down her guard. Grey
and his evidence. She shook her head, recalling how much anxiety it had caused her, but in the end it turned out Mason had
done her a favor by getting it from Grey’s hotel.
The first thing she’d done after locking Lisan and Mason inside the small parlor was run to Mason’s rooms and rummage through
his belongings. She didn’t have to search very long to find Grey’s envelope of evidence. Mason had no imagination. He’d slid
the brown paper package into his desk drawer—the top drawer, no less. It had been locked, but the key was under the blotter.
A quick look inside the envelope confirmed it contained the information from Grey’s detective, information he definitely could’ve
used to control her. She tucked the envelope inside her valise, then went to the garage to start up her motorcar. After bringing
the vehicle under the porte cochere, she put her luggage inside and went back to the house.
She began setting the fire.
From the time she and Lisan had made an inventory of all the food and supplies, she knew there were metal cans of lamp oil in the storage room, enough to soak several carpets and the hems of drapes.
Fire in the attic, she suspected, would speed things along.
She made sure to pour enough onto the crates containing what she most wanted destroyed. She hoped the rats burned too.
She drove away feeling quite pleased. Her frugal head servant had kept a collection of candle stubs in a tin can, and after
she had finished with the lamp oil, she lit a few candles on each floor. They’d burn down and set the flames going, but only
after she was safely out of the house.
It was time to give the contents of the brown paper envelope a final farewell. She took out the papers and spread them on
the wicker table. She hadn’t wanted to carry that sort of documentation on her, not until she was safely out of Shanghai.
As soon as she’d booked her stay in Bangkok, she had posted the package to herself, care of the Oriental Hotel, Bangkok. Hold for Mrs. Stanton.
The papers were familiar to her now: copies of photographs and documents, an invoice for services rendered, and a covering
letter from the detective agency Grey had hired to hunt down this information.
Dear Mr. Grey:
Your instructions were to: identify a blond maidservant who worked for the Dominics in New York and who was killed in the
same avalanche as the Dominics; trace her origins and determine how she came to work for the Dominics; provide photographs
of both this servant and Caroline Vessey.
I spoke to one of the Dominics’ former servants and learned that the young woman was Eleanor Fontaine, Caroline Vessey’s maid and companion.
The two were classmates at Miss Fielding’s Finishing School for Young Ladies in Boston, but Miss Fontaine’s parents died and their debts left her virtually penniless. Miss Vessey took her in.
At the school, I was able to find photographs of both Miss Fontaine and Miss Vessey.
Enclosed are copies of:
Miss Fontaine’s birth certificate
Photographs of Miss Fontaine and Miss Vessey from their time at school
Obituary for Miss Fontaine’s parents
Obituary for Mr. and Mrs. Dominic, mention of Miss Fontaine also perishing in the disaster
All documents and photographs are copies of the originals, notarized on the back to attest that they are faithful copies.
I trust these are sufficient to your needs. If we can be of further assistance in this or other matters, please do not hesitate
to use our services again.
She studied the photographs, remembering when they’d been taken. Two graduation pictures. The first one almost made her wince
at the memory of hair pulled back so tightly it hurt. She turned to the second one, a group photograph. A notary’s stamp in
red ink marked the bottom right corner. A typed list of names on a slip of paper was glued above the stamp. Class of 1905. Front row, left to right, the students arranged in alphabetical order. Her own face in the front row, Caroline in the very back row.
A photograph of her onstage, the caption on the back clear and unequivocal: The Pirates of Penzance, spring musical 1905, Eleanor Fontaine.
The third photograph was the most damning of all, a close-up of six girls standing behind a table piled high with blankets, Caroline beside her, looking glum as always; the caption read: The Helping Hands Club with blankets knitted for St. Francis’s Orphanage.
L to R: Caroline Vessey, Eleanor Fontaine . . .
Grey had spotted the deception only because he had seen her and taken notice of her that one time in New York. Few others
would’ve paid attention to a maidservant. In Grey’s hands, this information would’ve allowed him to squeeze a fortune out
of her; in Mason’s hands, it would’ve forced her to sign over control of her fortune. One thing was certain: after all she’d
done to secure her life, she wouldn’t put up with any more threats. Not after she’d confronted Andrew Grey face-to-face. Of
all her acts of self-preservation, that had been her boldest.
On the day of her dreaded rendezvous, she’d arrived well before the appointed time and slipped into the alley between the
hotel and the bar next door. The alley was paved in brick, but only for the first ten feet or so. Farther in, the ground was
all mud and filth. Stacks of wooden crates as tall as her head were piled around the side door of the hotel. She took the
carving knife out of her bag and tucked it between two crates. Then she walked out of the alley and crossed the intersection
to the tea shop, where she waited at the corner under a black umbrella, well back under the awning, anonymous and unnoticed
by people hurrying out of the rain.
As she had suspected he would, Grey came out of the hotel and looked around. He stood on the sidewalk in front of the hotel
to wait, looking around from under the faded canvas awning. He wasn’t even wearing a raincoat; after all, they would be going
inside. She took a deep breath and crossed the street.