Camp Follower: A Mystery of the American Revolution (12 page)

At the end of
her exhale, Fairfax's voice penetrated the door.
 
"They skipped church, just for you.
 
Fortunately, you've the broken window as
evidence in your behalf.
 
It may be
enough to exonerate you and calm a mob that intends to hang you on
circumstantial evidence."

Enid appeared
and gave the door a tight nod.
 
"He
arrived a couple minutes before you did, seemed miffed that I wouldn't let him
wait for you in the parlor."

Resigned, Helen
stepped back from the door.
 
"Show
him in."
 
Turning on her heel, she
strode in and tossed her hat on the couch.

The servant
made as if to clear her throat, but in a more uncouth manner, and yanked open
the door.
 
"Mistress will see you
now."

While examining
another embroidery project, Helen heard Fairfax enter and Enid shut the front
door behind him.
 
She kept her face
averted.
 
"Brevity, sir."

He stepped into
the parlor.
 
"Five minutes, yes, I
know.
 
What was the nature of your
relationship with Mr. Landon?"

"He was
the butler here, before my husband died."

"How
satisfied were you with his work?"

"Very much
so.
 
He is — was efficient, courteous,
and kind to visitors and the household.
 
I cared for his well-being.
 
He
was a good man.
 
Loyal.
 
Devoted."

"Ah.
 
Then he was someone who would 'stand by
you.'"

Fairfax loaded
the phrase with double meaning.
 
In a
manner of speaking, Charles had stood by her when he'd acted as David's
Second.
 
She kept her voice
neutral.
 
"Yes."

"Would Mr.
Landon have stood by Mr. Chiswell, too?"

No, Jonathan
Quill had accepted
that
task.
 
Apprehension flooded her.
 
Fairfax's fishing into the past had grown on-target, productive.
 
He mustn't have the truth confirmed about
Silas's death.
 
Dueling had been just as
illegal in 1771 as it was in the present.
 
She flicked lint off the fabric.
 
"As my husband has been dead for nine years, your question is
immaterial in the investigation of Charles's death."

"I suspect
not.
 
If Mr. Landon was indispensable,
why was he no longer under you employ?"

She nibbled her
lower lip.
 
"After my husband died,
I could no longer afford him."

"So Badley
got him instead.
 
Fascinating how his
financial star has risen as yours set."
 
Black humor slathered Fairfax's tone.
 
"What do you know of Badley's association with Lieutenant Adam
Neville?"

"The
mutual acquaintance that introduced you to Mr. Badley?
 
I've never met him."

"He's
riding with the Legion on detached duty from Thomas Brown's Rangers.
 
Perhaps you encountered him late last year
or early this year when you and Badley met to discuss an assignment?
 
Mid-twenties, dark hair and eyes, an inch or
so taller than I am, lean build."

Peculiar,
Fairfax's line of question.
 
She
wondered what role Lieutenant Neville played in the assignment.
 
"I've never encountered Mr.
Neville.
 
Nor have I heard Badley speak
of him."

"I
see."
 
Disappointment submerged the
humor in Fairfax's voice.
 
"And
when was the last time you saw Charles Landon?"

"About
three o'clock in the afternoon, two days ago."

"And his
mood?"

"Preoccupied,
worried.
 
He intended to call upon Enid
here yesterday at one o'clock.
 
I felt
he wished to speak with me, too."

"He never
kept that appointment because he'd been dead about twelve hours by then.
 
Where were you between eleven two nights ago
and one-thirty the following morning?"

"In my bed
sleeping."

"You've a
witness to that?"

"Enid."

"Your
servant was abed with you, awake, watching over you during that entire
time?"

She allowed a
silence to pass before she finally faced him.
 
"Enid was asleep in her bedroom, and I was asleep in mine."

"I'm
afraid your word won't be enough.
 
The
testimony of the gentleman who shared your bed that night is your immutable
alibi that you weren't down at the wharf shooting Mr. Landon in the
head."
 
Fairfax's gaze held hers
pinioned.
 
"The gentleman's name,
please."

Exhaustion and
horror hiked the pulse in Helen's throat.
 
Unable to extricate her gaze from his, she felt the pressure his will
exerted on hers, ensorceling it in ice.

At a rap on the
front door, Enid sprang to open it from her eavesdropping position in the
foyer.
 
George Gaynes stalked in without
invitation, followed by committeemen and hangers-on.
 
Fairfax stepped aside, ignored, as they and their zeal filled the
parlor and formed a semicircle around Helen, backing her toward the fireplace.

Victory
stretched Gaynes's lips.
 
"Mrs.
Chiswell, we're here to question you about the murder of Charles
Landon."
 
No "good
afternoon," from Gaynes, and no "excuse the interruption."
 
"And we've evidence to implicate
you."

Chapter Ten

"EVIDENCE?"
 
DESPITE JITTERS, Helen squared her
shoulders.
 
"I didn't kill
him!"
 
Many of the men she didn't
recognize.
 
In the eyes of none did she
see leniency.
 
Gaynes had rum on his
breath.
 
No doubt others had fortified
their courage likewise.
 
She flicked a
glance at Fairfax.
 
He yawned.
 
No help there.
 
"How dare you swagger into my house and accuse me of
murder?
 
On
Sunday
!"

"Murderers
hold no day of the week sacred."

She glared at
Gaynes.
 
"Get out, all of
you!"

"Let's see
how high and mighty she feels sitting in a jail cell," said one man.

"And I
wager she was his mistress and didn't want it known that she serviced the
servants."

"Lads, let
us have clarity here."
 
Gaynes
simpered, and the mob took its cue from him.
 
"Madam, you look a bit pale.
 
Sit down.
 
Please, give the lady
room."
 
He sprawled in her chair.

She sat on the
couch.
 
Palms on his knees, the
investigator leaned toward her.
 
"Mrs. Chiswell, where were you two nights ago between eleven and
one-thirty?"

"Abed,
asleep."

"And I
shall witness to it."
 
Enid waved
from the foyer.
 
"Mistress and I
were both abed asleep in our rooms that night."

Gaynes's grin
revealed brown teeth to Helen.
 
"You cannot be a witness for each other if you were both
asleep.
 
We've a murder to solve, and
with the evidence we've collected, you're a top suspect."

"That's
the second time you've mentioned evidence.
 
What evidence?"

Gaynes
snickered.
 
"Nine years ago, the
surgeon who autopsied your husband after he — er — shot himself removed and
kept the ball.
 
Yesterday, the surgeon
removed a ball from Mr. Landon's head.
 
It was the right size for Mr. Chiswell's dueling pistols, so he compared
it with the first ball."
 
Gaynes
beamed at her.
 
"They appear to
have been fired from the same pistol."

Men grumbled
and nodded, satisfied of her involvement in the crime to some extent.
 
Gaynes held up his hand to calm the buzz.

She realized
her hands had clenched and tried to relax them.
 
The throb in her head increased in tempo.
 
"Mr. Gaynes, no one can match a ball to
any firearm with absolute certainty."

"True.
 
The surgeon suggested that we examine the
pistols, make some shots with them, and recover, study, and compare the
balls.
 
Have your servant fetch the pistols."

Helen signaled
Enid, who returned to the parlor with the case of dueling pistols from the top
shelf of the study.
 
Enid handed the
case to Gaynes, who opened it in his lap.
 
Curiosity lit his face.
 
"Madam, where is the second pistol?"

"Whatever
do you mean?"
 
Helen rose.

He stood and
turned the case toward her.
 
"If
these were a pair, one is missing.
 
Where is it?"

She gaped at
the empty space in the case.
 
"I
don't know!"

"She's
lying!"

"She shot
Landon with the pistol and hid it!"

Gaynes tossed
the case upon the couch and growled.
 
"You murdered Charles Landon."

"No, no,
absolutely not, I —"
 
The
semicircle tightened, and the grumble of men elevated in volume.
 
Truth slammed her then.
 
Panicked, she spread her hands.
 
"There was an intruder in my study two
nights ago!"

"Intruder?
 
Likely story!"

"What did
I tell you, fellows?
 
In cold blood, she
shot Landon."

"Lads, I
insist that you lower your voices."
 
Gaynes timed his imploring to incite rather than calm the mob.

Helen staggered
to the opposite end of the couch.
 
That
no one seemed eager just yet to clap her in irons was small comfort.
 
Too many men present volunteered scenarios
of how she might have lured Charles to the warehouse at midnight and blown his
brains out with the pistol.
 
Motives
were ventured and details were imagined, waxing more grotesque with each
moment.

Her knees
knocked.
 
She crept around the men until
she stood beside a granite-faced Fairfax and whispered, "Tell them what
your investigation uncovered about the forced study window."

Arms crossed
over his chest, he ignored her to maintain scrutiny of Gaynes's mob.

She squeezed
her fists but sustained the whisper.
 
"Ye gods, will you stand aside and allow me to be jailed, or
perhaps hanged?
 
I'm innocent!
 
You know I didn't murder Charles!"

"Lads,"
said Gaynes, "nothing is settled.
 
We've further questions of Mrs. Chiswell."

Helen stared at
the impassive man beside her.
 
"Have you no honor?"
 
She recognized his price, then, felt her heart rent by a decision she
never dreamed she'd face: to sell out.
 
Everyone did have a price at which they might be bought.
 
A piece of her soul withered, and an acid
taste formed in her mouth.
 
She felt
like vomiting.

"Damn
you!" she said instead, just loud enough for him to hear.
 
"My guest two nights ago was, indeed,
David St. James."

A glacial smile
slipped over Fairfax's mouth before receding into granite.
 
The Carolina gentry accent rang out.
 
"No one heard the lady!
 
A burglar stole the pistol!"

The hubbub in
the parlor dwindled, and the mob oriented on Fairfax, of a mind to string
someone
up.
 
From the toxicity of their
expressions, Helen doubted that hovering near a "special agent" who'd
usurped Committee authority aided her cause.
 
She inched away from him.

Gaynes
frowned.
 
"Where'd you come from of
a sudden, and who made you her advocate?"

Fairfax sprang
away from the wall toward the cluster of men, his expression frigid.
 
As one, they shuffled backward half a
step.
 
"Do you plan to solve
Charles Landon's murder, or will you play at investigation the way you play at
the government of this town?"

"Why that
son of a —"

"Quiet."
 
Gaynes pushed his way into the forefront and
sneered.
 
"Special Agent
Black.
 
Why do I get the impression that
you have knowledge of a related crime?"

"Mr.
Gaynes, I've examined the scene of the burglary, in Mrs. Chiswell's study.
 
Two nights ago, before midnight, a man broke
in and stole the other dueling pistol.
 
He left behind boot prints and textile and hair evidence."

Several rebels'
jaws hung slack.
 
Gaynes stared in disbelief.

"Your
suspect is about five feet four inches in height and has brown hair.
 
He's plump, limps on his left leg, and wears
a dark blue coat."

Gaynes
scratched the back of his neck.
 
"How do you know?"