Vital Secrets (16 page)

“What in hell're we gonna do with all these people? And a dead body?” Cobb said, back in control.

Without diluting the venom in his smirk, Spooner said, “I'm taking the ‘prime suspect,' as you call him, with me to Government House, where he will be placed under twenty-four-hour guard.”

“Not in irons, you ain't!” Sturges snapped.

“Then I'd like you to accompany me, sir. I don't want this disgrace to a uniform making a dash for the woods.”

“Okay,” Sturges said with a resigned sigh.

“What about everybody else?” Cobb said.

“The governor wants this mess contained at any cost. I'm using his executive authority to order this establishment quarantined—”

“You can't do that!” Ogden Frank rolled his rotund body into the room from the dining area. Sweat beaded his hairless dome. “I'll be ruined!”

Spooner ignored him. “I want all these actors placed in their rooms upstairs and a guard posted. Mr. Frank, you will see that they are fed and watered. No-one is to have access to them without permission from me or from Lieutenant Edwards. I want no loose-lipped chambermaids near that upper floor—”

“But who will—”

“Your good woman, Mr. Frank: she already knows what's happened. But no one else must get the slightest inkling of the grotesque events here tonight. No one. Lieutenant Edwards will remain here to question the witnesses in the morning. And I'll be back with fresh instructions from Sir Francis.” He gave Marc the courtesy of a final nod.

“I'll prepare sleeping draughts for these people before I leave,” Withers said through his fatigue. “They're in pitiable shape. The black fellow's got a wicked toothache, but if he can't get to the barber tomorrow, I'll try and pull it before I leave.”

“I'd like a sleeping draught for the wife,” Frank said.

“I'll make up two,” Withers offered.

Marc took Rick's arm. “You'll have to go with Lieutenant Spooner and the chief constable to Government House. Dr. Withers will come along as soon as he's finished here. I'll see you again before noon tomorrow. Tessa's going to be all right. Try not to worry.”

Sturges helped Rick across the barroom, and he was escorted out the front door of the tavern onto West Market Street, more like a man trudging off to the gallows than to the relative comfort of confinement in Government House.

But as badly as he felt for Hilliard, Marc realized that he must bring matters to completion here immediately, and start afresh in the morning. He went over to the entrance to the dining-room. Five pairs of glazed eyes looked up at him as if he were perhaps a kindly executioner come to put them out of their misery. “Dr. Withers will give you each something to help you sleep. Mr. Beasley, take Mr. Armstrong to your room for the night. Mrs. Thedford, would you be good enough to let Miss Clarkson share your room? And would you convey to Mr. Jefferson that he may return to his sleeping-place, where the doctor will attend to his aching tooth.”

“Are we under arrest?” Mrs. Thedford said, and the sudden resonance of her deep, authoritative voice seemed to revivify the others, who now turned to stare at her, then at Marc, with something resembling self-interest.

“No, you are not. But I will not be satisfied that Ensign Hilliard is guilty until I have questioned each of you carefully tomorrow morning. Until then, at least, the lieutenant-governor has ordered that all of you are to be held as material witnesses. Food will be brought up to you and maid-service supplied—”

Ogden Frank groaned behind him, wondering how he was to inform his “good woman” of this disquieting news.

“A police guard will be posted at the bottom of the stairs, but largely for your own protection,” Marc said unconvincingly. He saw Mrs. Thedford shake her head slightly.

“What about our Tuesday evening performance?” she asked with steely calm.

“Surely you can't be thinking of continuing?”

Mrs. Thedford smiled wanly. “We are a theatre company, Mr. Edwards.”

Ogden Frank tugged at Marc's sleeve. “Wouldn't it be best to carry on as if nothing has happened?” he suggested, hope rising improbably for the first time since the mute had pounded on the tavern door and he had crawled out of a warm bed to answer its grim summons. “If the tavern and theatre don't carry on normally, folks'll start to get mighty curious.”

“He may be right, Major,” Cobb said to Marc.

“We could tell the customers Merriwether took sick.” Frank looked to Mrs. Thedford for support.

But Marc said, “We'll make those kinds of decisions after I've interviewed all of you—including you and your wife, Mr. Frank—in the morning. Now please take your sleeping draughts from Dr. Withers.”

Withers had set a number of glasses of frothing liquid in a row along the bar. “Come and get it,” he called, tapping a spoon against the nearest glass.

When Cobb and Marc were left alone at last, Marc gave his comrade-in-arms a weary but welcoming smile.

“Constable Wilkie'll likely be sent along when he comes on duty at seven,” Cobb said. “Who'll watch that lot till then?”

“I'm going to curl up in a blanket at the foot of the stairs
through there. You trot on home to Dora now. I'd like you back at ten to sit in on the interviews.”

Cobb looked amazed. “But I'm just a ‘peeler,'” he said, “not an
interra-grater.
”

“You'll come anyway?”

“I'll be here, providin' Missus Cobb rolls me outta bed an' props my eyes open with pipe-stems.”

“In the meantime, I've got to give Merriwether's room a thorough going-over. There isn't a scintilla of doubt that he put the laudanum in Tessa's sherry, but if Spooner goes to the governor with that ludicrous story of Rick being a rapist, I've got to have physical proof to counter it. There's bound to be a vial somewhere up there. And if he didn't bring the stuff with him from Buffalo, we may be able to trace it to one of the chemists in town.”

“That Spooner!” Cobb snarled. “He's like a banty-rooster in a harem o' hens with its cock in a knot!”

Marc could have hugged him.

W
ITH EVERY CELL IN HIS BODY
crying out for rest, Marc let Cobb out the main tavern door, barred it, and with the aid of Cobb's lantern made his way around the bar and through the door into the dark recesses of the theatre. He heard Frank slip the bolt into place behind him. All was quiet on the upper floor. Jeremiah was asleep on a mat with the storeroom door
ajar, a bloody handkerchief tied in a sling for his jaw. He did not stir.

Merriwether's room was very tidy—Marc wasn't sure why he should have been surprised—and with several candles to aid his search, Marc combed through the drawers and cupboard of a high wardrobe, peering under linens, cotton vests, and silk stockings, and rummaging through the pockets of shirts, waistcoats, and frock coats. The man must have rented a barge on the Erie Canal for all this. Marc found no vial or stoppered apothecary bottle. Behind the door sat a large costume trunk, a fine wooden piece with copper straps and fittings and the initials
JDM
stamped on the top for all the world to admire. It was locked, but Marc had already found a key in one of the drawers. It opened the trunk on the first try. Inside, neatly packed in layers separated by swaths of fine paper, were costumes that appeared to belong to the Shakespearean program scheduled for Tuesday evening. Meticulously, Marc searched every pocket and sleeve, without success.

He stood up, frustrated, then stepped back and studied the trunk from a distance. He peered back inside, reached down, and stretched out his fingers till they touched the bottom. He repeated this crude form of measurement on the outside of the trunk. And smiled. It had a false bottom, there being at least a five-inch discrepancy between the depth inside and outside. Excited now, he ran his fingers lightly over the surface of the lid and then the sides. Often there was a hidden trigger to release
any latch holding a false bottom or secret drawer in place. But he found none. So he lifted the costumes out of the trunk until it was empty. He ran his fingers around the edges of the false bottom, but they seemed to fit the rectangle of the trunk neatly. Then, on the table that Merriwether used as a writing desk, Marc spotted a thin letter-opener. He slid it between the edge of the false bottom and one side of the trunk, and lifted. The false bottom came up towards him far enough for him to grasp it with three fingers and pull it all the way out. He held the lantern above the trunk and peered down.

There was no secret vial of laudanum, but something far more arresting: two brand-new French Modèle rifles—U.S army issue and the most sophisticated infantry weapon in the world—and a box of ammunition. And tucked under the polished hardwood stock of one of them was a folded note. Marc drew it into the light and read:

We understand that you have the merchandise with you. We have the money you require. Please bring a sample with you after the performance on Wednesday evening. Using the same means of communication, you will be supplied at that time with a map showing you the rendezvous point. In the meantime, we will be watching. Vigilance is the byword. Destroy this note.

Several thoughts raced through Marc's mind. These two guns were a sampler: Where were the others and how many were there? By what clandestine system of communication had this note been delivered? Was Merriwether a lone gunrunner
among the Bowery Company? To which group of treasonous dissidents were these weapons destined? With Merriwether dead, what chance would there be of setting a trap for the insurrectionists? And finally, did this discovery have anything to do with Merriwether's murder and the fate of Ensign Hilliard?

Marc found himself incapable of further thought. He closed up the false bottom of the trunk, then pulled two blankets off Merriwether's bed, trudged to the other end of the hall, stretched his six-foot length across the opening to the stairwell, and fell asleep.

W
hile Ogden Frank supervised breakfast for the “material witnesses,” Marc decided to begin his interrogations with Tessa Guildersleeve. He wanted to get as much accomplished in this regard as possible before Spooner returned and was necessarily apprised of what Marc had discovered in Merriwether's room—a discovery that was certain to throw Sir Francis into paroxysms of one kind or another. He rapped discreetly at the door in the tavern that led to the Franks' quarters. Madge Frank opened it a mere crack, grimaced, then opened it wide. She was a lean, angular woman who could have used her elbows, shoulders, or hips as weapons, with chestnut hair indifferently tamed, sallow skin, and dark, mistrusting eyes that seemed forever to be seeking something they didn't want to find.

“Whaddya want?” she said.

“Please take me to Miss Guildersleeve. It is imperative that I speak with her now.”

“People in fancy getups are always imperative about some-thin' or other,” she grumbled, but stepped aside to let him in. “I'll see if the poor creature's awake,” she said.

“If not, I'd appreciate it if you'd wake her for me.”

She glared at him, then heaved a woman's deep sigh that clearly conveyed a message about the incurable callousness of the male species. “Come with me.”

Tessa was sitting up in bed, dipping a piece of dry toast in the mug of tea on her lap. She was wearing one of Madge's flowered bathrobes three sizes too big for her. Her face seemed no paler than usual, but her eyes were puffy and her lips drawn tight with tension. However, there was no sign of lingering shock or the kind of trauma that might have been expected from the ordeal she had suffered. She gave Marc a smile with her eyes, much to the disgust of her nurse.

“Tessa's gone through the most horrible thing that can happen to a young lady,” Madge Frank said with a twist of her features to indicate that she was vicariously experiencing the horror of it.

For a moment Marc thought that Tessa might have winked at him, but her general expression was one of intense concern as she gave him her full attention.

“I'd like to speak to the girl alone. You wouldn't mind, would you, Tessa?”

“I ain't leavin' this room,” Madge Frank declared through clenched teeth as she set her arms akimbo and took her stand in the doorway.

“Suit yourself, then,” Marc said civilly, and sat down on the edge of the bed. Tessa showed no sign of being afraid, but he heard Madge suck in her breath. “I'm here as the governor's appointed investigator into the tragic events that took place in your room last night.”

Tessa's expression clouded over, and Marc could see a flutter at her throat where the robe parted. Even in distress she was incredibly beautiful in an innocent, unfinished sort of way. “I'll try to help you if I can,” she said bravely, though it was clear she had questions of her own she would like answered.

“First of all, I must inform you that both you and Rick were drugged last night. Someone put laudanum in your sherry decanter.”