Diane T. Ashley (13 page)

“Shouldn’t you wait for the doctor?” Aunt Dahlia stood at the parlor door. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to take men like that into the bosom of your family.”

Camellia knew what her aunt meant. The man on the stretcher was black. She tried to remember that her aunt had been raised during a different time, but her temper flared. “He risked his life to help put out a fire threatening our home—the very room to which he is being carried. What would you have me do? Leave him on the front lawn?”

“I didn’t intend—” The glare Camellia tossed at her stopped Aunt Dahlia midsentence. She fell back a step, her eyes wide.

Trying not to feel guilty for her harsh tone, Camellia sighed. “Please send the doctor up as soon as he arrives.”

Aunt Dahlia nodded.

Camellia climbed the steps and found that the men had transferred the patient to the bed.

Nahum dipped his head as she moved toward the center of the room. “Your sheets may not come clean, Mrs. Thornton.”

“Don’t worry about that.” She spared a smile for Nahum before turning to the man on the bed. “We’ll have him comfortable in no time.”

Jonah and Nahum moved back as she investigated her patient.

His wary eyes watched her with doubt. His chest and arms had been burned. Although not deep, the large area of burned skin concerned her.

Camellia hoped the doctor would arrive soon. She could dress the wounds, but she had no laudanum to ease his pain. “What’s your name?”

“Simeon.” His skin was the color of café au lait, his eyes hazel.

“Well, Simeon, I want you to relax a little.” She reached for the bowl of clean water. “Have you ever been treated by a lady before?”

The frown on his wide brow eased a little. “No, ma’am. ‘Cept for my ma when I was a little boy.”

“My wife has a lot of experience.” Jonah stepped closer. “You’re in good hands.”

“Yes, sir.” His gaze swiveled from Jonah back to her. “I’m sorry ’bout your bed, ma’am.”

Camellia made a shushing noise as she continued her work. When she was satisfied that all dirt and debris had been removed, she sprinkled the wounds with flour. Then Jonah and Nahum helped Simeon sit up so she could wrap the cotton bandages around his chest.

The doctor arrived as she was tying the final knot, his black bag held in one hand. Jonah and Nahum left them alone. She held her breath as the doctor inspected her work, prying at the edges of the bandages and grunting as he checked Simeon’s pulse and temperature. Finally he glanced up at her over the edge of his oval spectacles. “If you ever wish to work at my practice, Mrs. Thornton, you are more than welcome.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” She watched as he measured out a dose of laudanum. “It’s been awhile since I had to deal with anything more serious than cuts and bruises.”

“I know you worked with patients during the war, and you’ve certainly not lost your touch.” He capped his bottle and left it on the dresser. “If he wakes during the night, you can give him one more spoonful.” The doctor closed his bag and moved to the door, inclining his head to indicate that Camellia should precede him. “What happened to him?”

Camellia told the doctor about the fire.

He shook his head. “Do you have other patients I should see?”

“I don’t know for certain. My aunt may have suffered a fit of apoplexy by now.”

He turned his chuckle into a cough. “Never fear, I will check on Miss Dahlia on my way out. I may have a little something to calm overwrought nerves. Why don’t you wash up? You look ready to fall over.”

“I concur with your diagnosis.” Jonah’s voice came from the shadowy hall. Bathed and in a fresh suit, her husband looked much refreshed. “And I intend to see that my wife follows your instructions to the letter.”

Shaking her head, Camellia watched as the doctor made his way to the first floor. “I should see to the others before—”

Jonah put a finger over her mouth. “You heard the doctor. You will not be allowed downstairs until you make use of the warm bath waiting in our bedroom.”

Recognizing the firm tone in her husband’s voice, Camellia nodded. Besides, the idea of washing the grime from her skin sounded blissful. “Are you sure no one else needs to be seen?”

Instead of answering, Jonah swept her into his arms.

“What are you doing?”

“Making sure you follow orders.” He stopped long enough to open the door before depositing her on the edge of their bed. “Do you need help undressing?”

Camellia could feel her cheeks heat. “I believe I can manage on my own.”

“If you’re sure …” The look in his eyes was positively wicked.

Fleeing to the dressing screen, Camellia began removing her clothing with racehorse speed. She heard the bedroom door close and giggled. As she climbed into the bathtub, she thanked God for bringing Jonah into her life. He was the only man in the world who could make her laugh on a day like this one.

David was led to the cell by Constable Louis Longineaux. He was young and looked like he needed to gain some weight so he could fill out his uniform—a double-breasted frock coat of a rather garish orange hue and matching trousers. The left lapel of his coat boasted a metal badge in the shape of a star with a crescent surrounding it, the standard emblem of the Metropolitan Police Force.

Ignoring the rude remarks of the prisoners they passed in the dreary hallway, David matched his pace to the young constable’s. His nose stung from the noxious odors of waste and filth. As a detective he’d seen the inside of many prisons, but none quite so grimy. The walls were streaked with water and green slime, and decay and hopelessness permeated the air. “Has the prisoner had any visitors?”

“No.” The constable stumbled over a loose brick in the floor, setting his ring of keys to jingling before he regained his balance. “I reckon he’s a loner. Or maybe none of his friends know what happened to him.”

Before he could ask more questions, they reached their destination in a dank corner of the jail. Longineaux rattled his keys and selected one to insert into the lock. “Wake up, Charlie. You got a visitor.”

Charles “Charlie” Petrie lay on one of the two cots in the cell, his hands under his head. When he heard the door open, he sat up and swung his legs to the floor.

Several days’ growth of a dark beard hid the shape of his chin. His hair was a mess, standing at odd angles around his head and giving him the look of a madman. His eyes reminded David of a cat—almond-shaped and so light a shade of brown they might be called yellow. They glowed in the dim light of the cell, tracking the constable’s movements even though the prisoner’s head didn’t move.

“Whatcha’ mean? I got no friends in New Orleans.”

David noticed the way he pronounced the city’s name. The prisoner said it as two separate words—New Orleenz. A native like Constable Longineaux would have said N’awlins.

“No one said I was a friend.” David stepped into the cell and gestured to the constable to lock him in. “You can come back in about half an hour. I should be done by then.”

“You sure you’ll still be alive?” Petrie’s feline gaze skewered him.

David resisted the urge to touch his gun. His holster was empty—a rule enforced with all visitors, even Pinkerton detectives—but he felt secure in his ability to protect himself, even in such close quarters. “I’m not worried.”

Longineaux left them alone, and David glanced around the room. It was sparsely furnished—a pair of cots, a chamber pot, and a narrow window so grimy it let in little sunlight. Deciding not to lean against the wall, David sat on the unoccupied cot.

Charlie Petrie didn’t say anything, but his gaze bored a hole into David’s chest.

Accustomed to anger and belligerence, David took his attitude in stride. He wasn’t here to make a new friend, after all. He took a moment to size the other man up before beginning his interrogation. “So you’re the man who planned and executed a successful robbery at Citizen’s Bank?” He put a hint of disbelief in his voice.

Petrie sneered, his face seeming even more catlike as he wrinkled his nose. “If you say so.”

“I’m asking.” David took a notebook from his coat pocket. “I have to complete a report. It would help me immensely if you would tell me about the robbery.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Petrie leaned against the wall behind him. “What do you want to know?”

“I don’t know.” Chewing on the nib of a pencil, David looked up at nothing in particular. He wanted Petrie to think he was a bit of a simpleton. “Why don’t you start with the number of men involved in the robbery.”

“Just me.”

David scratched his head. “Is that right? What about the others who came in with you and held guns on the staff? Are you telling me they were strangers you met on the street as you walked into the bank?”

“Yep. I had me an idea to slip in right quick and empty out the safe. Those fellows offered to help for a cut of the money.” Petrie relaxed as he talked.

“I see.” David wrote a couple of words down in his book.

“You could say I’ve got one of them friendly faces. Folks walk up to me all the time and ask if they can help out.”

David let the prisoner continue his story, inserting approving noises here and there to keep him talking.

“Say, what are you writing down in that book about me?”

“Hmmm.” David looked up. “Oh, it’s nothing much. Kinda boring. My boss likes for me to wrap things up in a nice package so he’ll know where to put the file after you’re dead.”

Petrie’s jaw dropped. “What are you talking about?”

“Armed robbery is a serious charge. I was hoping maybe we could talk about a reduced sentence if you knew something to lead me to the others who were at the bank.” David shrugged. “But since you didn’t know them, and you’re not a member of a gang, you really don’t know anything I can use.”

A crafty look entered the man’s yellow eyes. “I might be willing to talk a little more if it would save me from the hangman’s noose.”

Petrie was an example of the adage “There is no honor among thieves.” Few criminals possessed a high moral code. Most of them would be willing to sell their mothers for a jug of whiskey.

“You can talk your head off all the way to the gallows, and it won’t make a bit of difference.” David closed his notebook and returned it to his pocket. “It’s a shame really.”

Petrie pushed himself forward, leaning toward David. “You’ve got to listen to me.”

“Why should I?” David stood. “I have enough information for your file. Thank you for your time.”

“Wait.” Petrie’s jaw worked, evidence of the strong emotions passing through him. “What if I was lying? What if I really did know those men? What if I could lead you to them? What if you made a big arrest and got yourself a nice promotion? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course I would.” David met Petrie’s gaze. “But if you were lying then, how can I believe anything you tell me now?”

Petrie rocked back on the cot.

David could practically hear the wheels of the man’s brain grinding as he considered his options.

“I don’t know much. I ain’t been a part of the gang for long. Only since they showed up in New Orleans a few weeks ago.”

David’s pulse spiked. He’d lost hope that Charlie Petrie might be part of the gang that had been robbing banks up and down the Mississippi River valley. Anyone dumb enough to be caught in a bar with evidence on him didn’t seem like much of a mastermind. He had decided that at best Petrie was a junior member of the gang. At worst he would have no connection at all to the robbers David was tracking. He needed to keep his interest well hidden. “So you really don’t know anything at all, do you?”

“That’s not true.” Petrie thrust his chin up, defiance evident in every muscle of his body. Even his beard seemed to bristle with it. “I don’t know exactly where they hide out, but I can get a message to them … draw them out. Then you can spring your trap.”

“I don’t know… .”

The arrival of Constable Longineaux could not have been better timed. David could see the anxiety in Charlie Petrie’s yellow eyes. He would let the man sit for a day or two while he talked with the police chief. Together, they could work out a plan. Something that would stop Charlie Petrie and his gang from ever again preying on innocent people.

J
umping to her feet as the final curtain fell, Jasmine brought her hands together with enthusiasm. She didn’t care that none of the others in their box stood. Lily was probably frowning, but it didn’t matter. Nothing could undermine her delight in the performance. As the applause of the audience began to die down, she returned to her front-row seat. “I wish it wasn’t over.”

Sarah leaned toward her. “Kenneth and I are enjoying watching you enjoy the play. You’re a breath of fresh air. I had almost forgotten how much fun the theater can be.”

Jasmine felt a bit like a brown sparrow sitting next to a peacock. When she first walked downstairs this evening, she had been more than satisfied with her navy blue frock. Six flounces edged in bias-cut lace decorated the skirt. The bodice was unadorned except for a single row of buttons, a narrow collar, and a rosette of the same silk faille as her dress. Her jewelry was a single strand of matching pearls, and her hair had been pulled back in a simple style that allowed soft ringlets to touch her shoulders.