The Constable's Tale (12 page)

The racetrack bore only the broadest resemblance to the one in New Bern. The course itself looked about the same size, a mile loop, but fancier. The viewing stand was sheltered by a shingled roof to keep sun and rain off spectators. Banners the size of bedsheets, including a Union flag, flew at intervals, giving the place a look similar to prints Harry had seen in books about medieval times. Men and women in working clothes filled most of the seats, but a sizeable faction wore rainbows of silk-and-brocade finery and, in the case of the men, powdered wigs. Negroes mixed freely among the crowd.

A lull in the activity coincided with the arrival of Harry and Noah while jockeys, Negro boys and slightly built young whites, brought in fresh mounts for the next race. Harry asked around for Bannerman until someone pointed to a man wearing a jauntily cut jacket with white silk lace at the throat and a consternated look on his face. He was standing on the ground at an entrance to the stands with a group of other well-dressed people. Among them Harry spotted Maddie and, beside her, the Anglican minister Fletcher.

Seeing that Bannerman might be in an ill temper, Harry gave a fleeting thought to saving his business until later. But he already had been seen by Maddie, who was staring at him as if she had just seen a Chinaman. Knowing he could not escape without notice now, he nodded toward Maddie, then headed over toward Bannerman. Begging his pardon, he said, “Someone told me you might be able to identify this for me.” Holding up the Masonic badge.

Barely giving the object a glance, the merchant said, “Young man, I do not conduct appraisals at the racetrack. Just now I have lost a great deal of money. If you would like me to evaluate your little gewgaw with a more dispassionate eye, I suggest you make an appointment at my shop.”

“I apologize if this is an inconvenient time,” said Harry, reaching deep into the bag of wordings he saved for important occasions. “But I am not seeking an appraisal. This article was found at the scene of a murder. I am told that you may be able to enlighten me as to its origins.”

“A murder, you say?” The question came from a tall young man with a large pockmarked face. He was standing next to Maddie puffing on a clay pipe. “May I ask where?”

“In North Carolina.”

Bannerman turned and began walking away. “Call on me on the morrow and we shall have a look,” he said without bothering to turn his head. “If we haven’t hanged ourselves by then.”

A thin, patrician-looking sort in his midfifties stepped forward. “I am Francis Fauquier,” he said with a slight bow. “I wonder if I might be of service.”

“The governor of Virginia?” asked Noah.

Fauquier made another mannerly bow. “Officially speaking, my title is ‘lieutenant governor,’ much like that of your own Arthur Dobbs. But the gentlemen who bear the loftier titles have never set foot in America. So the good people of Virginia and North Carolina have to make do with us, the less exalted but more directly serviceable agents of the king.”

While the rest of the company tittered their admiration of Fauquier’s self-effacing wit, Harry raked through his memory for a Rule of Civility that could guide him. He had been brought up by his grandfather never to make any gesture of servitude toward anyone, on the ground that no one was better than a Woodyard. That was certainly not the spirit of the
Rules
, and it was all he could manage to keep his hand
from rising toward his forehead of its own will. He recalled something about needless flattery and affectations of ceremony. These were to be avoided on the whole but should not be neglected when due.

“Governor Dobbs sends his compliments,” he said.

Thankfully, Fauquier appeared flattered and maybe impressed by Harry’s supposed connection to the North Carolina executive. It seemed a safe bet he would never find out that Dobbs had never sent any such thing.

“Sir,” Harry continued, “I am looking into the murder of a British family.”

“An entire family?”

“Husband, wife, and child. It happened about a week ago. I discovered this piece of jewelry on the floor. I’m sure it did not belong to the victims.”

Several standing closest leaned in for a better look as Fauquier plucked it from Harry’s hand.

“Here on its face is the sign of the Freemasons,” the governor observed, pointing for all to see. “On the back is a pine tree. Although we have many pines in Virginia, as I am sure you do in North Carolina, I believe this is the accepted symbol for New England.”

“They are a different species,” Noah commented in a quiet voice, almost to himself. Then, noticing he had gained their attention, he said, “In the South you have
Pinus palustri
s, longleaf pine. New England has northern white pine, or
Pinus strobus
.”

Harry introduced him to the company as a schoolmaster in New Bern, originally from Pennsylvania.

“Would you by chance be related to Peter Burke of Philadelphia?” asked Fauquier.

“He is my father. Do you know him?”

“I know of him.” To the company he said, “Peter Burke is one of our country’s finest students of natural history. In London I sit on the Royal Society board, which has approved publication of several of his letters.”

Noah’s face colored. “I hope one day to be known for my own works, not those of my father.”

Fauquier registered this with a single blink, then turned his attention back to the badge. “As to these markings underneath the tree, from their appearance they are a Masonic code.”

“I’ve been told that Mister Bannerman deals in jewelry especially made for Freemasons,” said Harry. “He may even have been the one who sold it to the person I seek.”

“Are you a relative of the victims?”

“They were dear friends.” Then, an afterthought: “I am the constable for Craven County.”

A woman in the company with a pleasing French accent said, “Is it not unusual for a constable to be pursuing a killer for so long a time after the crime has been committed? In my country, if the
hu e cri
is not immediately successful, the perpetrator is rarely discovered.”

She looked a few years older than Harry and was outfitted in a lavender silk taffeta gown whose tight bodice exposed a subtle swell of breast. A parasol shielded her pale features from the sun. Harry took in at a glance her small but sharply defined nose, pronounced cheekbones, and silky black hair done up in a tower of swirling curls. Her eyes nearly matched the subtle purple shade of her gown. They seemed large for the rest of her face but somehow the overall effect was perfect.

“An old Indian has been arrested and charged with the crime,” Harry said, trying to make himself sound casual, as if he often treated with such unnerving beauty. “I believe him to be innocent. I am not only trying to catch a killer, I am trying to prevent a wrongful execution.”

“May I present Madame Jacqueline de Contrecoeur, Baroness de la Roche?” Fauquier said. “But before you arrest her as a spy, you should know that she is a fellow Huguenot. She opposes both the popish religion and King Louis’s intentions in America.”

Fauquier turned to Maddie as if to introduce her, but Harry headed him off by saying that they were old friends. Maddie, who first had
appeared surprised beyond measure to see Harry, now seemed just annoyed.

“You may already have met Reverend Fletcher,” said Fauquier. “He has recently arrived from your city on his mission of assessing the condition of the Anglican Church in His Majesty’s American plantation.”

“Good day, Mister Woodyard,” Fletcher said. “I must say I am finding these Virginians considerably more generous with their clergy than your countrymen in North Carolina.”

“The saving of souls is a more luxurious occupation here than anyplace else on this side of the ocean, I do believe,” said Fauquier. “In Virginia, Anglican clergy are potentates.”

As Fauquier and Fletcher continued bantering, Harry had a closer look at the tall, thin young man with the clay pipe. He looked roughly Harry’s age, regally dressed, standing at least a head above the rest of the company in an erect military fashion. Stovepipe legs encased in tight leggings. A ribbon fastened his thick dark blond hair in back. Gray-blue eyes. Other than the pits on his face, an all-too-common blemish, he was a picture of youthful, masculine vigor.

Noticing Harry’s appraising look, Fauquier said, “I have the honor of presenting to you one of Virginia’s most notable citizens, a distinguished war hero, now the newest member of our House of Burgesses and a newlywed besides. Messieurs Woodyard and Burke, meet Colonel George Washington.”

The young colossus stuck his pipe in his mouth and seized Harry’s hand with a grip that might have crushed an apple. “I hope you will forgive our friend Bannerman’s contretemps,” he said. “I myself am well acquainted with the pain of losing money on a horse.” He waved a small ledger book in the air, grinning with the gaiety of one who has learned the value of joking at his own expense.

“The colonel was with my fiancé at the Battle of the Monongahela,” said Maddie. Finally, speech.

“Quite right,” said Washington. “As I recall, Richard was with the baggage train during the initial attack by the French and their savages
and thus escaped injury. But he did his duty as bravely as any man there.”

Fauquier resumed his introductions. The party included a Reverend Maury of Gordonsville, Virginia, and Maury’s wife, and a gangly, red-haired teenaged boy who, Fauquier said, had been placed by his family under the reverend’s tutelage for the year. Young Thomas Jefferson, it seemed, was a talented fiddler: he had entertained a gathering the previous evening at the governor’s palace. Harry wondered if he had yet been introduced to the
Rules of Civility & Decent Behaviour.

“We are all proud of our George for his conduct at the Monongahela,” said Maury. “He had two horses shot from under him and ended the battle with several musket-ball holes in his jacket.”

“It was my great fortune to escape harm,” said Washington. His attention shifted back to Maddie. “Fortune has favored your gallant fiancé as well, Miss McLeod.”

“I’ve heard that Colonel Ayerdale has been lucky indeed,” said Jefferson, his raw adolescent voice eager and bright. “He was later detached to Fortress Oswego but rode out for another assignment the day before the French overran it.”

Washington succumbed to a fit of coughing. By his face Harry guessed he had been Jefferson’s source for this information. Oswego had been a costly defeat. Ready to believe the worst about Ayerdale anyway, Harry perceived that his having managed to avoid combat both there and at the Monongahela reflected no credit on him. Jefferson’s expressive face darkened as he recognized his faux pas.

“Well, our side has been winning more than its share of victories since those early days of the war,” said Fauquier, breaking the awkward stillness. “Having recently arrived on these shores myself, I can tell you that His Majesty entirely shares the commitment of his government to finally throw Louis’s minions off this continent. Perhaps General Wolfe will put an end to the whole matter before the summer is out.”

Nods of approval greeted his mention of Wolfe. Harry had heard only a smattering about the young British officer who had been given the task of driving the French from their stronghold at Quebec. But all the tidbits were good.

Fauquier said, “I read a dispatch only this morning that more of the general’s ships have left Louisbourg and are heading for the Saint Lawrence. By now they should be well on their way, perhaps even arrived by now, depending on winds and tides. I understand Colonel Ayerdale has volunteered to catch up with them there.”

“And I have decided to accompany him,” said Maddie. “I shall not be content to while away my time amid the comforts of New Bern or Williamsburg, while our country is at war. I wish to share the same privations as my beloved during this difficult time.”

Fauquier’s eyes crinkled with good humor. “I salute your patriotism, Miss McLeod. I have observed that soldiers often perform better on the battlefield when they are well cared for.”

Although Maddie already had told him of her plan, Harry felt suddenly warm, as if taken by a fever. He had heard bawdy tales of what members of the New Bern militia referred to as camp followers, unmarried women who accompanied men to war. They tended to be prostitutes and scullery servants. He thought to take Maddie aside and urge her to have the ceremony before leaving or maybe aboard their ship. Then he wondered if that would not be the greater of two evils, as it would be less easily undone. Maybe if they spent more time together before marrying, Maddie could discover for herself what Harry until now had only suspected: that Ayerdale’s nature had a dark side.

“You must tell me more concerning your pursuit of criminals,” said Madame Contrecoeur, turning again to Harry. “If I were to go astray, would you arrest me? I am certain I would be helpless to resist such a strong man.” This drew titters from all except Harry, who was helpless to keep blood from rushing to his face. “Opposition being futile,” she boldly pressed, “I would be inclined to surrender willingly to my fate.”

Maddie said, “Mister Woodyard’s wife back in North Carolina might have something to say about that.”

This drew more laughter, though Maddie was not smiling. It took no gift of insight to see she was upset. But by what right? As one betrothed to another, she had no standing to question Harry’s fidelity. Then he thought of his own position. What authority had he to question her? She had every right to do as she pleased. Should he even mention the episode at Rosewood? She might take it as an act of jealousy, a spiteful attempt to deny her whatever bit of happiness their marriage might bring.

Another question began to gnaw at him. What if he were not married? If he were free, would he have any chance of starting over with Maddie? Of winning this now grown-up, worldly wise woman? At the same moment the thought entered his mind, he felt he had sinned against Toby.

Lacking anything witty from Harry to prolong the teasing chatter, the party began breaking up. The horses were assembled at the gate and now awaited the starter pistol. Still chuckling over the Baroness’s naughty remarks, Fauquier said to Harry in parting, “Beware of French intrigues.”