“Did she get an abortion?”
Fitzgerald shook his head. “No. Harry wanted her to have one, but she refused. They had a terrible scene. He told her he loved her and wanted to marry her. Of course, he had told that to dozens of women. But Emily overheard their conversation, and in the middle of that same night she committed suicide.”
“That’s awful. What happened to the governess?”
“Rosemary Nelson disappeared. We know that she had a daughter she named Julia, at St. Joseph’s Hospital in Milwaukee. She sent a note to Stanford, but I don’t believe he even bothered to reply. By then, he was involved with someone new. He wasn’t interested in Rosemary anymore.”
“Charming…”
“The real tragedy is what happened later. The children rightfully blamed their father for their mother’s suicide. They were ten, twelve, and fourteen at the time. Old enough to feel the pain, but too young to fight their father. They hated him. And Harry’s greatest fear was that one day they would do to him what he had done to his own father. So he did everything he could to make sure that never happened. He sent them away to different boarding schools and summer camps, and arranged for his children to see as little of one another as possible. They received no money from him. They lived on the small trust that their mother had left them. All their lives he used the carrot-and-stick approach with them. He held out his fortune as the carrot, then withdrew it if they displeased him.”
“What’s happened to the children?”
“Tyler is a judge in the circuit court in Chicago. Woodrow doesn’t do anything. He’s a playboy. He lives in Hobe Sound and gambles on golf and polo. A few years ago, he picked up a waitress in a diner, got her pregnant, and to everyone’s surprise, married her. Kendall is a successful fashion designer, married to a Frenchman. They live in New York.” He stood up. “Steve, have you ever been to Corsica?”
“No.”
“I’d like you to fly there. They’re holding Harry Stanford’s body, and the police refuse to release it. I want you to straighten out the matter.”
“All right.”
“If there’s a chance of your leaving today…”
“Right. I’ll work it out.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
On the Air France commuter flight from Paris to Corsica, Steve Sloane read a travel book about Corsica. He learned that the island was largely mountainous, that its principal port city was Ajaccio, and that it was the birthplace of Napoleon Bonaparte. The book was filled with interesting statistics, but Steve was totally unprepared for the beauty of the island. As the plane approached Corsica, far below he saw a high solid wall of white rock that resembled the White Cliffs of Dover. It was breathtaking.
The plane landed at Ajaccio airport and a taxi took Steve down the Cours Napoléon, the main street that stretched from Place Général-de-Gaulle northward to the train station. He had made arrangements for a plane to stand by to fly Harry Stanford’s body back to Paris, where the coffin would be transferred to a plane to Boston. All he needed was to get a release for the body.
Steve had the taxi drop him off at the Préfecture building on Cours Napoléon. He went up one flight of stairs and walked into the reception office. A uniformed sergeant was seated at the desk.
“Bonjour. Puis-je vous aider?”
“Who is in charge here?”
“Capitaine Durer.”
“I would like to see him, please.”
“And what is it of concern in relationship to?” The sergeant was proud of his English.
Steve took out his business card. “I’m the attorney for Harry Stanford. I’ve come to take his body back to the States.”
The sergeant frowned. “Remain, please.” He disappeared into Capitaine Durer’s office, carefully closing the door behind him. The office was crowded, filled with reporters from television and news services from all over the globe. All of them seemed to be speaking at the same time.
“Capitaine, why was he out in a storm when…?”
“How could he fall off a yacht in the middle of…?”
“Was there any sign of foul play?”