The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution (58 page)

Peckham, Howard H.
 
The
Toll of Independence: Engagements and Battle Casualties of the American
Revolution
.
 
Chicago: The University
of Chicago Press, 1974.

Scotti, Anthony J.
 
Brutal
Virtue: the Myth and Reality of Banastre Tarleton
.
 
Bowie, Maryland: Heritage Books, Inc., 2002.

Tunis, Edwin.
 
Colonial
Craftsmen and the Beginnings of American Industry
.
 
Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University
Press, 1999.

Follow Lieutenant Michael
Stoddard's journey as an investigator

in Book 1 of an exciting new series
available October 2011

Regulated
for Murder

A
Michael Stoddard American Revolution Thriller

by

Suzanne
Adair

For ten years, an execution hid murder. Then Michael Stoddard came
to town.

Bearing a dispatch from his commander in coastal Wilmington, North
Carolina, redcoat Lieutenant Michael Stoddard arrives in Hillsborough in
February 1781 in civilian garb. He expects to hand a letter to a courier
working for Lord Cornwallis, then ride back to Wilmington the next day.
Instead, Michael is greeted by the courier's freshly murdered corpse, a
chilling trail of clues leading back to an execution ten years earlier, and a
sheriff with a fondness for framing innocents—and plans to deliver Michael up
to his nemesis, a psychopathic British officer.

Read
the first chapter now

Chapter One

A MESSAGE SCRIPTED on paper and
tacked to the padlocked front door of the office on Second Street explained how
the patriot had come to miss his own arrest:

Office closed due to Family
Emergency.

Family emergency? Horse shit!
Lieutenant Michael Stoddard hammered the door several times with his fist. No
one answered. He moved to the nearest window and shoved the sash.

Two privates from the Eighty-Second
Regiment on the porch with him pushed the other window sash. It was also
latched from within. One man squinted at the note. "What does it say,
sir?"

Michael peered between gaps in curtains.
Nothing moved in the office. Breath hissed from him. "It says that the
macaroni who conducted business here sold two clients the same piece of
property and skipped town with their money under pretense of family
emergency."

"A lout like that wants arresting."
The other soldier's grin revealed a chipped front tooth.

"Indeed. Wait here, both of
you." Michael pivoted. His boot heels tapped down the steps.

Afternoon overcast the hue of a
saber blade released icy sprinkle on him. He ignored it. Ignored Wilmington's
ubiquitous reek of fish, wood smoke, and tar, too, and trotted through the side
yard. At the rear of the wooden building, two additional soldiers came to
attention at the sight of him. The red wool of their uniform coats blazed like
beacons in the winter-drab of the back yard.

He yanked on the back door and
found it secured from the inside, rather than by padlock. The young privates
had no luck opening a window. Michael looked inside, where curtains hadn't
quite covered a pane, and confirmed the stillness of the building's interior.

A plume of white fog exited his
mouth. He straightened. Ever since Horatio Bowater had grudgingly dropped
assault charges against Michael and his assistant days earlier, Major Craig had
bided his time and waited for the land agent to supply him with an excuse to
take another rebel into custody. A disreputable business transaction presented
the ideal pretext for arrest.

And when James Henry Craig ordered
someone arrested, it had damn well better happen.

Michael squared his shoulders. By
god, he'd nab that bugger, throw his dandy arse in the stockade, where the
premium on real estate that past week had risen in direct proportion to the
number of guests incarcerated.

Surely Bowater had left evidence in
his office. Business records or a schedule. Without facing his men, Michael
regarded the back door anew, attention drawn to the crack between door and
jamb. "The men sent to Mr. Bowater's residence should be reporting
shortly. However, I suspect our subject has departed town." He half-turned
toward his soldiers. "Henshaw."

"Sir."

"Fetch a locksmith from the
garrison, quickly. Tell him we've a padlock on the front door."

"Sir." Henshaw jogged for
the dirt street, the clank of his musket and cartridge box fading.

The other soldier, Ferguson,
remained quiet, awaiting orders. A wind gust buffeted them. Glacial sprinkle
spattered Michael's cheek. Another gust sucked at his narrow-brimmed hat. He
jammed it back atop his dark hair. He and the men would be drenched if they
didn't complete their duties soon and seek shelter.

He shrugged off February's breach
beneath his neck stock and ran fingertips along the door crack. The wood was
warped enough to reveal the metal bolt of the interior lock. He wedged the
blade of his knife into the crack and prodded the bolt with the tip. Wood
groaned and squeaked. Splinters shaved from the jamb. In another second, he
felt the bolt tremble. He coaxed it, one sixteenth of an inch at a time, from
its keeper until he found the edge and retracted the bolt.

He jiggled the door by its handle
and felt it quiver. At the edge of his senses, he registered an odd, soft groan
from inside, somewhere above the door.

But the warmth of enthusiasm buoyed
him past it. There was no bar across the door on the inside. The latch was
free.

Satisfaction peeled his lips from
his teeth. Horatio Bowater was such a careless fool. Had the agent replaced the
door and jamb with fresh wood, an officer of His Majesty would never have been
able to break in like a common thief.

He stepped back from his handiwork
and sheathed his knife. Ferguson moved forward, enthusiastic. Michael's memory
played that weird impression again, almost like the grate of metal upon metal.
Careless fool indeed, whispered his battlefield instincts. He snagged Ferguson's
upper arm. "Wait." He wiggled the latch again. Skin on the back of
his neck shivered. Something was odd here. "Kick that door open first,
lad."

Ferguson slammed the sole of his
shoe against the door. Then he and Michael sprang back from a crashing cascade
of scrap metal that clattered over the entrance and onto the floor and step.

When the dust settled and the
cacophony dwindled, Michael lowered the arm he'd used to shield his face.
Foot-long iron stalagmites protruded from the wood floor. Small cannonballs
rolled to rest amidst scrap lumber.

The largest pile of debris
teetered, shifted. Michael started, his pulse erratic as a cornered hare. With
no difficulty, he imagined his crushed corpse at the bottom of the debris pile.

Bowater wasn't such a fool after
all.

Ferguson toed an iron skillet
aside. His foot trembled. "Thank you, sir," he whispered.

Words hung up in Michael's throat
for a second, then emerged subdued. "Indeed. Don't mention it." With
a curt nod, he signaled the private to proceed.

Ferguson rammed the barrel of his
musket through the open doorway and waved it around, as if to spring triggers
on more traps. Nothing else fell or pounced. Michael poked his head in the
doorway and rotated his torso to look up.

A crude cage stretched toward the
ceiling, a wooden web tangled in gloom, now clear of lethal debris spiders.
Bowater hadn't cobbled together the device overnight. Perhaps he'd even
demonstrated it for clientele interested in adding unique security features to
homes or businesses.

Michael ordered the private on a
search of the stable and kitchen building, then stepped around jagged metal and
moved with stealth, alone, past the rear foyer. The rhythm of his breathing
eased. He worked his way forward, alert, past an expensive walnut desk and
dozens of books on shelves in the study. Past costly couches, chairs, tables,
brandy in a crystal decanter, and a tea service in the parlor. He verified the
chilly office vacant of people and overt traps, and he opened curtains as he
went.

In the front reception area, he
homed for the counter. The previous week, he'd seen the agent shove a
voluminous book of records onto a lower shelf. No book awaited Michael that
afternoon, hardly a surprise. Bowater was devious enough to hide it. And since
the book was heavy and bulky, he'd likely left it behind in the building.

Wariness supplanted the
self-satisfaction fueling Michael. A suspect conniving enough to assemble one
trap as a threshold guardian could easily arm another to preside over business
records. Michael advanced to the window beside the front door. When he
unlatched it and slid it open, astonishment perked the expressions of the
redcoats on the front porch. "I've sent for a locksmith to remove the
padlock." He waved the men inside. "Assist me."

While they climbed through and
closed the window, Michael's gaze swept the room and paused at the south
window. Through it, the tobacco shop next door was visible. The owners of the
shop kept their eyes on everything. In contrast to Bowater, Mr. and Mrs. Farrell
hadn't griped about the Eighty-Second's occupation of Wilmington on the
twenty-ninth of January, eight days earlier. If they'd happened to notice
atypical activity in Bowater's office over the past day or so, he wagered
they'd be forthcoming with information.

How he wished Private Nick Spry
weren't fidgeting, restless and useless, in the infirmary, while his leg
healed. But for the time, Michael must make do without his assistant. He
signaled his men to the counter, where Ferguson joined them. "Lads, I think
Mr. Bowater left his records book in this building. I want the entire place
searched for it."

Michael's hands sketched dimensions
in the air. "The book is about yea high and wide. Medium brown leather.
Heavy and large. Pick any room to begin your search." He checked the time
on a watch drawn from his waistcoat pocket. "Going on three o'clock."
He rapped the surface of the counter with his knuckles. "Help yourselves
to candles here if you need some light." He replaced his watch and turned
to Ferguson to receive the private's report.

"Sir. The stable was swept
clean. From the looks of it, months ago. No straw, no dung, just reins and a
broken old harness hanging on the side, gathering dust. Dust in the kitchen,
too. I found an old broom and bucket and some cracked bowls. That's all."

Flesh along Michael's spine
pricked. "My orders, lads. If you believe you've located the records book,
don't touch it. Fetch me first."

***

The privates dispersed to search
the office. Henshaw returned with the locksmith, a slight fellow about three
inches shorter than Michael. Pick in hand, the civilian contractor squatted
before the padlock. Michael directed Henshaw to the tobacconist's shop to learn
whether the Farrells or their apprentices had witnessed recent unusual activity
associated with Bowater.

As Henshaw clanked down the front
steps, the locksmith stood and brandished the freed padlock like a severed
head. Michael sent him to the back door to assess how to secure it. Then he lit
a candle and strode to Bowater's study. One of the privates was already
inspecting books and shelves, his examination meticulous, cautious.

Moments later, the scuff of shoes
in the doorway interrupted Michael's scrutiny of bills and letters he'd spread
open before him on Bowater's big desk. "Sir," he heard Ferguson say,
"I believe I found the records book."

Michael swiveled and spotted the
bleak press of Ferguson's lips. His tone snapped at the air. "You didn't
touch it, did you?"

"No, sir, not after what
happened out there. I did as you ordered. Told the others to stand back."

Thank god his men weren't rash.
Michael relaxed his jaw. "Good." He caught the eye of the soldier in
the study with him and jutted his jaw at the door. "Let's have a
look."

In the parlor, soldiers and the
locksmith had withdrawn a prudent distance from where a plush rug had been
rolled away and three floorboards pulled up. Michael regarded the floor, then
Ferguson. "However did you find this hidden compartment?"

"The floor sounded peculiar
when I walked over it, so I pulled away the rug and realized that the boards
weren't quite flush with the rest of the floor."

"Excellent work." Michael
knelt beside the hole in the floor and gazed into gloom.

"Here you are, sir." One
of the men handed him a lit candle.

The faint glow enabled him to
resolve the shape of a book lying flat about three feet down in the hole.
Something lay atop it: an open, dark circle that appeared to contain a smaller,
closed circle in its center. Without sunlight, he doubted that even a torch
would provide him with enough illumination to identify what lay atop the book.

The gap in the floor howled at him
of the cage above the back door, loaded with projectiles. Foulness wafted up
from the hole. Like feces. Like death.