The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution (43 page)

He sighed and glanced again over
his shoulder.
 
"You don't strike me
as a gossiping sort of woman.
 
Perhaps I
may indeed trust you with the story of my misfortune.
 
I hope I can also trust Lieutenant Fairfax, because he didn't
believe my story about making poor investments and prodded me until he got the
truth about my financial adversity."
 
Carter paused.
 
"In October
of '76, my wife caught a fever.
 
Two of
our four children succumbed and died by the end of the year."
 
A spasm of grief shot over his face.
 
"Deborah lingered through the winter.
 
I scarcely left her side.
 
They said she wouldn't last until spring.

"In February she rallied, but
it became evident that she would remain an invalid in some ways.
 
Understand that I'm overjoyed to have her
with me still, and my love for her has become more profound since I almost lost
her, but I'm a man, after all, and men have certain — ah —"

"Certain needs."
 
Betsy stared out into the crowd, intuiting
the rest of his story, almost unable to believe it.

"Mrs. Branwell was but
nineteen, but she knew what to do to precipitate the situation, and Mr.
Branwell knew how to take advantage of it.
 
He found me in her bedroom after arriving home a day early from a trip
to Charles Town.
 
There was no doubt as
to the recreation I'd been pursuing with his wife.
 
I feared for Deborah's frailty and what the news of my misconduct
would do to her, and so I paid.
 
And I
paid and paid, and damnation, I'm still paying, although I've naught left to
pay with."

Good gods, Abel and Emma had been
working their scam for four years, a couple of fat spiders squatting in their
Camden spider web, snagging the cream of the crop who passed through.
 
Was Tom buzzing the same spider web?
 
If so, the joke was on the Branwells,
because he had no money.

On second thought, the Branwells
were shrewd enough to find ways to blackmail anyone, regardless of their income
level.
 
Neither she nor Tom was exempt
from the Branwells' machinations.
 
They'd best proceed with caution.

Sarcasm scored Carter's tone.
 
"I've heard they landed their biggest
catch this year.
 
The cousin of a
congressmen."

"You'd think folks would hear
rumors and avoid Camden."

"Can't do that.
 
It's on the main roads."

"This really must stop.
 
It's time someone terminated that particular
business venture of the Branwells."

He laughed.
 
"Ah.
 
Madam Mystery, I suppose you're in a position to do that, eh?"

She didn't answer his question,
imagining Abel catching Tom with Emma.
 
"Such an unfortunate thing to have happen, Mr. Carter.
 
You have my complete sympathy.
 
And to think you've had to sell off most of
what you own to satisfy those people."

"I'd rather not think about it
too much, else I'd be tempted to acts most nefarious."

An unrelated idea popped into her
imagination.
 
"Have you a horse for
sale?
 
It doesn't have to be a well-bred
animal, just one sturdy enough to serve as a packhorse."

Some of the gloom left his
expression.
 
"Why, yes, I've a
horse I could sell you."

And she'd get a good deal from him,
too, because he needed the money.
 
"I'm not prepared to purchase for another week or so, but surely by
mid-August.
 
Tom and I will appreciate
the opportunity to come out and inspect the horse this weekend.
 
Will that be convenient for you?"

"Yes."
 
He captured her gaze.
 
They stopped walking.
 
"Where are you and the horse
going?"

Her lips twisted to seal in the
destination.
 
"Someplace where
armies aren't stomping about."

He nodded.
 
"Were it not for Deborah, I'd have left
this area long ago.
 
You haven't asked
me yet about your furniture."

"That's because I'm not in a
financial position to compensate you for storage fees."

"Do you intend to abandon your
property when you leave Camden in a week or two?"

She bit her lower lip almost in
time to prevent it from quivering.
 
All
her grandmother's china.
 
Ah, gods.
 
"Little as I care for the idea, I must
do so.
 
Someday, when this war is over,
I shall have a home again.
 
But right
now, my immediate need is for my safety and that of my unborn child."

No, she wouldn't beg Josiah Carter
to hang onto her furniture out of the goodness of his heart.
 
He'd been scorched enough to have little use
for goodness, but he sure could put to use the ready money he'd receive from
the sale of her property.
 
So she must
let it all go, for she wouldn't find safety unless she quit dragging the
furniture around with her.
 
But by god,
nobody in the world could convince her not to grieve over it.

Carter studied her, his expression
inscrutable.
 
"Well, I must be on
my way.
 
I shall expect you this weekend
to look over the horse."
 
He
lowered his voice.
 
"And should you
care to lose that dark-haired lieutenant back there who's been following you
through the market, I recommend taking a left at the milliner's stall up ahead,
a quick right onto the street, and then waiting out his passage in the
apothecary's shop.
 
Good day,
madam."

She was being followed?
 
Betsy resisted the immediate urge to look
behind or run.
 
After Carter blended
with the crowd, she sashayed to the milliner's stall, pretended to examine hat
pins, and tilted her hat to allow a peek at her pursuit: Michael Stoddard, all
the way from Alton.

Panic jiggled her pulse a second or
two before reasoning returned its rhythm.
 
If he were in league with Thomas Brown and intended to arrest her, he
wouldn't be dawdling over stationery at a stall in Market Square.
 
Curiosity prodded her.
 
Why was he in Camden?
 
She drew a deep breath, mustered courage and
a grin, and walked over.

"Why, Lieutenant Stoddard,
what a pleasant surprise!
 
I never
expected to see you here."

When he swept off his hat and
bowed, she recognized the wring of fatigue and determination in his face.
 
"Madam, the pleasure is
mine."
 
He replaced his hat.
 
"May I have the honor of your company
for a stroll?"

Pleasure, bah.
 
Stoddard hadn't cracked a smile: all
business.
 
Still, he didn't seem
inclined to arrest her, so she took his elbow, and he escorted her among the
pedestrians.

"I'm relieved to find you
well."
 
He lowered his voice.
 
"Considering that your husband is a
member of the Ambrose spy ring."

Annoyance and alarm shoved a sigh
from her.
 
"Well,
I'm
not a
member of the ring."

"Fortunately not."

"And I haven't the slightest
idea where to find Clark.
 
We're
estranged.
 
He hasn't confided in me, so
if you're hoping I will lead you to him, I must disappoint you."

"Mrs. Sheridan, I already know
that."

She studied him, puzzled.
 
"Then why have you been following
me?"

"I'm investigating the Ambrose
ring."

"Good hunting, sir.
 
Between you, Mr. Fairfax, and Mr. Neville, I
expect the Ambrose ring to collapse within days."

"Ah, Mr. Neville.
 
I've a need to consult with him, but he's
quite a mobile fellow."
 
Stoddard
released her arm.
 
They paused, and his
dark-eyed gaze pinned hers.
 
"When
was the last time you saw him?"

She blinked at the vehemence in his
expression.
 
"Last Sunday, I
believe."

"Where?"

"He and six Rangers were
calling at the office of two surveyors in town."

"Van Duser and der Waal?
 
Of course.
 
Did you see Mr. Neville elsewhere last Sunday?"
 
Betsy glanced away for a second and felt
Stoddard lean into her hesitation.
 
"Mrs. Sheridan, was he at the Leaping Stag?
 
I know you're living there."

She sucked in a breath of fear and
met his stare.
 
"How did you
discover that?"

His gaze upon her was level,
direct.
 
"The O'Neals told
me."

And Betsy understood why, even
though her reason tried to buck against it.
 
From her first encounter with him in Augusta, Stoddard projected a quiet
level-headedness and integrity that said
trust me
.
 
"For god's sake, please don't tell Mr.
Fairfax where I live."

Some of the fervor left his
expression.
 
"I assure you that
isn't my intention."

She exhaled in relief.
 
"Thank you.
 
Yes, Mr. Neville was at the Leaping Stag."

"And with whom was his
business?"

"Abel Branwell."

"The husband of your
cousin."
 
The lieutenant nodded as
if he'd expected her response.
 
Betsy
relaxed a little.
 
They walked another
quarter minute in silence.
 
He said,
"Horrendous business, the murder of that Spaniard in Camden just before
you arrived."

Betsy tensed again.
 
"The murderer hasn't been caught
yet.
 
But another Spaniard was murdered
the same way in June, in Alton.
 
I heard
you'd solved that murder."
 
Beside
her, Stoddard stared ahead, jaw stiff.
 
Through flutters in her stomach, she remembered Joshua's theory about
the murder in Alton.
 
She pitched her
tone with care: even, calm.
 
"Do
you suspect the perpetrator is here?"
 
Stoddard said nothing.
 
Fear
cratered Betsy's stomach again.
 
"If so, why did you let him go in Alton?
 
Someone who tortures people to death.
 
Ugh!
 
He may kill
again."

Stoddard's voice sounded thick, as
if he'd just coughed up a chunk of inedible gristle stuck in his throat.
 
"I assure you I'm as appalled by
injustice as you are."

And powerless, Betsy realized with
consternation and empathy, comprehending what had happened in Alton.
 
Stoddard, the junior officer, had solved the
murder but been duty-bound to swallow policy delivered by a superior.
 
Her logic linked his line of questions then,
transformed her dismay to horror.
 
"Is Mr. Fairfax a spy, a member of the Ambrose ring?"

"Mr. Fairfax visited the
Leaping Stag a few days ago.
 
Did you
see him there?"

She nodded, bit her lip, and turned
away in terror.
 
Stoddard hadn't
answered her question — or perhaps he
had
, by not answering it — and he
was tailing Fairfax.
 
"I hid from
him."

He walked a semicircle to face her,
again pausing their stroll.
 
"A
wise decision.
 
Was his business also
with Mr. Branwell?"

"No.
 
He visited one of the prostitutes."

"And her name?"

"Margaret."
 
Guilt flicked her.
 
She hoped Margaret wasn't in trouble.

"Thank you, Mrs.
Sheridan.
 
If you see either Mr. Neville
or Mr. Fairfax again, I will appreciate your sending word to me immediately
through Mr. Bledsoe, the tailor on Littleton Street.
 
He's in the shop next to the printer where you're employed."

Where you're employed
.
 
Winter raked her ribs.
 
She
hadn't the slightest awareness that Stoddard had been tailing her and wondered
whether Fairfax knew he was under surveillance.
 
Stoddard also seemed interested in the Branwells.
 
Did he know of their blackmail scheme?

He said, "Colonel Brown
informed me that bandits ambushed your party during your return to Augusta from
Alton and that the Spaniard who killed the Givenses was among them."

"The Spaniard wasn't exactly
one of them, sir.
 
He was following,
watching the event."

"But he was the same Spaniard
that you and I saw in Alton, and the same man who threatened you at the
O'Neal's house?"

"Yes."

"Think back for me, if you
will, to the attack of the bandits.
 
Aside from the presence of the Spaniard, did anything strike you as
curious about the attack?"

The vortex of memory flung her to
those dreadful moments when, immobilized, the bandit's knife to her throat, she
gaped down the barrel of Fairfax's pistol.
 
The devil damn you black for a liar
.
 
She shuddered.
 
What a
peculiar thing for one stranger to say to another — unless the bandit and
Fairfax hadn't been strangers to each other.
 
"It was almost as if Mr. Fairfax knew the bandits."

A thin smile of predatory resolve
chiseled Stoddard's face.
 
"Curious, indeed."

In the swelter of sunlight, ice
scraped her.
 
Weeks before, on the road
to Alton, Stoddard had enjoyed watching a hawk stoop for a field rat.
 
Stoddard had become a hawk.

The big picture assembled for Betsy
and left her shaken.
 
Fairfax, realizing
that Stoddard had implicated him in the murder of the Spaniard in Alton, had
commissioned ruffians to kill Stoddard during his trip to Augusta and disguise
the deed as the work of highwaymen.
 
That Stoddard and his men emerged the victors from the encounter didn't
deter the ruffians from pouncing on Fairfax two days later in attempt to
collect their commission.
 
Stoddard's
honor as an officer prevented his outright admission of the treachery, so he'd
steered her to the conclusion, that she might comprehend the magnitude of her
own precarious position in Camden.

He exhaled a deep breath and said
in a mild tone, "You may be in danger at the Leaping Stag.
 
Should you need help, send for me through
Mr. Bledsoe.
 
I shall see to your safety."

With all the surveillance he'd
performed, he must know about Tom.
 
But
he hadn't mentioned helping him.
 
Not
for anything in the world would she abandon Tom.
 
"Why should I trust you?"

"A shrewd question to ask,
madam."
 
A quirky smile snagged one
side of his mouth before it sank back into the seriousness.
 
"But one you must answer for
yourself.
 
You know how to reach
me.
 
Unless I'm occupied with an
emergency, I shall come immediately."
 
He touched his cocked hat.
 
"I must be off.
 
Thank you
for the conversation.
 
Good
day."
 
After a curt bow, he strode
away, leaving Betsy to her doubts.

Chapter Thirty-Five

"BETSY!
 
WHAT A wonderful surprise!"
 
Tom the journeyman navigated benches of
apprentices hammering and sewing at Wade and Gamble's, hugged her, and eyed her
basket.
 
"Dinner?"

She nodded and rubbed her temple at
all the pounding in the shop.
 
"This isn't the place to be if you've a headache, is it?
 
Might we find a spot in the shade of the
porch and eat together?"

"Certainly.
 
Give me a few minutes to finish a piece of
cowhide, and I shall meet you there."

Outside, she removed her hat, sat
in the shade, and fanned herself, trying to shove away anxiety over Stoddard,
Fairfax, Neville, and the Branwells.
 
Manage one problem at a time, she told herself.
 
In about ten minutes, the hubbub within the
shop dwindled.
 
Four apprentices filed
out and scampered home for a midday break, joyous to be soaking up
sunlight.
 
In another minute, planks
creaked behind her.
 
Tom knelt to plant
a kiss on the back of her neck.

They ogled each other until his
smile slanted off into a grin of apology.
 
"What's for dinner?
 
I'm
starved."

She laughed and shoved at his
chest.
 
Moments later they were
devouring the bread, cheese, and ham Hattie had packed.
 
"I shall spoil you if I bring dinner
every day."

"Oh, I can never be spoiled
enough by you."
 
He swigged
ale.
 
"By the by, did you hear the
news?"

"Oh, no, what is General Gates
up to now?"

"Not Gates.
 
One of van Duser's slaves found both his
bodyguards' corpses in the pond on the property this morning."

She stopped chewing and reached for
her ale, her mouth gone dry.
 
"Abel's complained for two days that van Duser is avoiding him, not
keeping appointments."

Tom's eyebrows rose.
 
"Both bodyguards' throats had been slit
sometime late yesterday afternoon or early evening.
 
Do you suppose van Duser met the same fate?"

She suspected the Dutchman,
deprived of the protection of his bodyguards since late Wednesday, may very
well have met a different fate, and one neither as quick nor as tidy.
 
"I'd rather not ponder it while I'm
eating dinner."

"Ah.
 
My pardon."

For the time, she'd decided to keep
news of her encounter with Stoddard to herself.
 
Upon hearing of it, Tom might seek the hero's ground, insist that
she accept the lieutenant's protection and abandon him in Camden.
 
She wasn't in the mood to debate it with
him.
 
"Since we're trading news,
I've some you'll find quite interesting.
 
Abel and Emma haven't made their fortune solely from the tavern."

"I figured as much."

"They live like nobility and
support rebel spies because they also operate a blackmail business."

Tom lifted his tankard.
 
"Here's to Abel, the consummate
businessman.
 
Who are they blackmailing,
and how?"

"Emma becomes irresistible for
wealthy men passing through Camden.
 
When they're in her arms, Abel plays the outraged, cuckolded
husband.
 
The result being one of many
charitable donations ranging from 1,200 to 2,800 pounds I found recorded in
Abel's ledger dating back three years."

Tom's jaw dangled open.
 
"Zounds!"

"I realize Emma's providing
you with great sport these days, but I think it wise for you to discontinue
your recreation."

He snickered.
 
"Why?
 
No money means no blackmail."

"Think again.
 
Abel has a connection with Adam
Neville.
 
We could wind up in Camden
jail and be hauled back to Augusta."