No Good Deed 52

The day was relatively pleasant; the sky visible between the clouds being an approximation of blue rather than the customary grey. I decided to take a turn around the grounds of the grotesque building. Clemens was not to be shaken off, neither metaphorically nor literally. He continued to rattle nonsense in my ear without relinquishing a limpet-like grip on my arm. It transpired that the building was the Louisiana State Capitol, by which he meant that it was the seat of government for the state, I gathered. Quite why he felt this would be of interest to me, I could not imagine. It was mid-day judging by the position of the sun: Clemens grasp did not permit the removal of my watch from its pocket. In the distance I could see a steady stream of people leaving the Capitol building. We walked through an arcade of trees in the north-eastern quarter of the grounds. From our vantage point – one of the numerous hillocks in the park – the gateway to Louisiana power (I quote from Mr Clemens' over-ripe language) was clearly visible though it were at a distance of one half of a furlong.

I made my repose on the grass resting on one elbow and observed the snake of humanity emerging from the building. Mr Clemens remained standing, or at least shifting from foot to foot as though he had urgent need of bladder relief. The majority of people were men; stout, be-whiskered fellows in the prime of life. Some were dressed in dark frock coats and affected stove-pipe hats. Far more were in braided uniforms or in flamboyant cutaways and waistcoats of noisy pattern, as easily remarked as my own would have been at such a distance. There were few women. These seemed at most half the age of their male companions. I saw but one woman walking in solitude. She seemed bent on approaching our location and she was being followed at a distance not quite great enough to be discreet, by a man. There was something familiar about the confident stride of the woman, remarkably unhindered by the crinoline. Despite the relatively temperate weather, she was wearing both cape and bonnet. The woman passed close by the two of us, heading further up the hill to a spinney that crowned the top of the small hill. She hissed a whisper at me,

'I am passing, you may speak with me on my return.'

The change was remarkable, but the fine clothes and the white powder I discerned on her skin could not deceive me. It was Winona Shepherd, if indeed that were her true name. However, I was no closer to knowing if she were a lady or a lady's maid. In either event, I found the prospect of her company most stimulating. She had disappeared into the trees by the time the man's pursuit brought him level with Clemens and myself. My companion, if it were possible, became still more agitated, bowing, scraping, now leaping from one foot to the other as though attempting to stand in the grate of a dying fire. He sputtered out several 'Good Mornings' and an altogether unnecessary amount of 'Sirs' – certainly for so unprepossessing a figure as was passing us by. For pass us both by he did, the countenance between the suspiciously black hair and the strikingly white beard took no account of either of us. He affected a military style of dress, but I did not consider him a soldier, there was something quite slovenly about his bearing. He continued to trail Miss Shepherd, presently entered the spinney and was lost to view. The man was sufficiently impressive to render Clemens speechless, at least for a blessed few moments.

'Didja see?' He said, 'Didja?'

'What? An assignation? A tryst?' I could not account for Clemens' discomposure.

'It was the Governor of Louisiana himself, Thomas Overton Moore .'

Mr Clemens descended ever lower in my estimation, for being so affected by that most loathsome of creatures, a politician.