Camp Follower: A Mystery of the American Revolution (18 page)

"Still at
market, madam."

Helen peeped in
on the carpenter.
 
He spied her and
tugged the brim of his hat in deference.
 
Jonathan had tipped him to have the window installed, functional, and
lockable by nightfall.

At her entrance
to the parlor, Jonathan rose from the couch and bowed.
 
Peter closed his master and Helen in,
blocking some of the carpentry noise.
 
Helen motioned Jonathan to sit and took her chair.
 
"Stymied in his pet project by a pack
of rebels: I thought Badley would die of apoplexy when I told him Gaynes had
ordered me to remain in town.
 
I spared
him the detail that Gaynes dispatched a deputy to New Berne to question Mrs.
Hanley."

Jonathan crossed
his legs.
 
"Probably a wise
idea.
 
Besides, those four days
round-trip to New Berne give you more time to locate and hire an intelligent,
competent fellow to assist the Pearsons.
 
What progress has been made on your wardrobe?"

Jonathan seemed
to have accepted her assignment overnight.
 
"All ready on the morrow."

His jaw dropped
open.
 
"No wonder Phineas is
distressed.
 
That Samuel Kerr fellow
must have paid him quite an incentive."

"Remember,
according to Mr. Fairfax, there is no editor by that name on the
Chronicle
."

"Consider
Kerr a third party, then, employed by someone with another agenda."

She cocked an
eyebrow.
 
"Such as?"

"So many
agendas to chose from.
 
Hmm, how about
Banastre Tarleton's eye on Parliament?"

Helen felt a
sharp edge emerge on her smile.
 
"My stars!
 
Have I been
planted in the Legion to pass along muck about Tarleton so his opponents can
foul his budding political career?"

Jonathan
shrugged.
 
"It's a common procedure
in journalism.
 
I presume you know your
fate if you're implicated in such a scheme?"

She slapped her
knee and laughed.
 
"Badley, that
scoundrel!
 
I always suspected he wanted
to be rid of me.
 
Well, not this time.
 
Let someone else sully Tarleton's
reputation.
 
It won't be me."

Jonathan's
smile at her pluck submerged into sobriety.
 
"Don't allow the first probable agenda to blind you.
 
Other players inhabit the stage.
 
Mr. Fairfax, for example."

"Mr.
Fairfax?"
 
Helen grinned.
 
"An intriguing variation."

Jonathan
strolled to a window, hands clasped behind him.
 
Daylight from an overcast sky paled his skin.
 
"'What may man within him hide, though
angel on the outward side.'"

"William
Shakespeare."
 
Her grin faded.
 
"Angel on the outward side"
certainly described Fairfax.

"Excellent
recall.
 
I've been reminiscing.
 
Ratchingham purchased a cornet's commission
for his stepson but then hanged himself two days before Mr. Fairfax left for
America.
 
If I remember correctly, Lady
Ratchingham had died in childbirth the previous month."

Fairfax's
mother had been in her early forties when she died: in a high-risk, late
pregnancy.
 
Recalling Fairfax's air of
omniscience when he'd caught up with her on the street the previous afternoon,
Helen realized he'd baited her about Silas's death, as if he were already
certain it wasn't suicide.

That
was
when he'd mentioned his stepfather's suicide.

Chills crept up
her arms.
 
Had Fairfax blamed Lord
Ratchingham for his mother's death and taken a hand in his stepfather's
death?
 
Did someone in Wiltshire — one
of the Clancy brothers, perhaps — now want evidence unearthed against Fairfax?

Why not save us
all some time and tell me what old Badley is up to?

Jonathan's
voice softened.
 
"There are ways a
man might hang another, make it appear suicide."

More chills
quivered her.
 
"Why speak of
this?"

"You've
plans to spend time with Mr. Fairfax."
 
He turned to her, his expression inscrutable.
 
"You must find a reliable man to help you, someone to assist
the Pearsons."

"Roger
inquired of his contacts.
 
Perhaps he
shall have luck today."

"Luck is
often created.
 
You
inquire of
all your business contacts, including the clothiers."

She
fidgeted.
 
"I'd planned to help you
examine the letters for clues on that business of perjury."

"Thus far,
I've found nothing to substantiate Silas's fears, but I shall continue reading."

"I also
planned to study records of Silas's debts and claims from his creditors for
discrepancies."

Jonathan
indicated a bound record book on the table.
 
"I shall assist you at that.
 
Run along."

She glanced at
the clock.
 
"And I've a meeting
here with Mr. Fairfax at noon."

A sharkish grin
spread Jonathan's lips.
 
He strolled
over and helped her stand.
 
"Not to
worry.
 
When he arrives, I shall make
profuse apologies for your inattendance and act as host until your return.
 
Now go out and thrash the brush until you
find a man to help Roger and Hannah."
 
He strode to the doors and flung them open.
 
"Peter, fetch the lady's cloak and hat!"

***

An embroidery
client's seventeen-year-old son had lost work in timber less than a week
earlier, but hardworking, reliable fellows such as he didn't go unemployed for
long.
 
As Helen and the lady were
talking, the lad jogged back home with a happy smile to inform his mother that
he'd taken a job unloading turpentine and rosin barrels poled down the Cape
Fear by rafters.

By
mid-afternoon, Helen had chased three more leads to oblivion.
 
Frustrated at the unavailability of reliable
help, she purchased a hat and placed it on Badley's tab before heading home.
 
The new hat upon her head, she executed a
slow pirouette for Jonathan.
 
"Do
you like it?"

"Lovely."
 
The word barely escaped a stiff upper lip.

"You're
quite the moody one this afternoon."

His nose
twitched.
 
"Mr. Fairfax checkmated
me twice, rot him.
 
I've never seen such
audacious moves with rooks and knights."

Helen couldn't
suppress a laugh.
 
Never had she thought
Jonathan would meet his match at chess.

His upper lip
curled.
 
"And that fellow can
really dance."

"You
danced
with Mr. Fairfax?"

"Dash it
all, Helen, not literally.
 
No, he
danced all around details of his upbringing at Redthorne while trying to
squeeze me for information about your background.
 
And he sniffed a good bit around the murders of Charles and Mr.
Layman."

She replaced
her hat in its package, uneasy.
 
"He'd love to uncover the truth about my common birth."
 
The clock struck four.
 
They sat.
 
"Where is he now?"

"Ill
humored by your absence, returning on the morrow at noon."

"Well,
thank you for pulling the hound off me for awhile."

"Don't
mention it.
 
You're the one privileged
to spend so much time in his company."
 
Pensive, he regarded her.
 
"He wanted to see more of your watercolors.
 
I said I didn't know where you stored them."

She expelled a
breath.
 
"Good.
 
He follows the old ways."

Jonathan
slapped his forehead.
 
"I should
have guessed.
 
Another scion from the
Ratchingham druid brood."

"No.
 
The
old
ways."

"Oh."
 
The pensiveness in his eyes deepened.
 
"Let us hope he doesn't remember
details from Beltane '67.
 
May Queen
isn't usually the sort of honor conferred upon a gentlewoman."

Beltane
'67.
 
Sixteen years old.
 
Flowers twined in her loose hair and circled
her wrists and neck.
 
The scent of
crushed petals ascended to the heavens from her Queen's litter.
 
When her bearers lifted her high, a great
cheer rose from the men, women, and children assembled on the plain.
 
Amidst a torrent of flower petals, she was
conveyed to the Maypole.
 
Wood smoke
from bonfires, the air heavy with wine and laughter, drums throbbing and pipes
screeling, an enormous moon in full sail come unpinned from cloud tatters and
agleam on hundreds of sweaty breasts and buttocks...

"Helen,
what luck have you in finding a man to assist Roger?"

She cleared her
throat, propelled forward in time more than thirteen years by Jonathan's
question.
 
"Ah.
 
None.
 
What luck have you on the issue of perjury?"

"None."

They sighed in
unison.

"Jonathan,
perhaps there was no perjury.
 
Perhaps
Silas's mind manufactured it."

"Yes."
 
He frowned.
 
"His mind was so clouded by drink that he grew distrustful of
everyone.
 
He had delusions that all his
chums like Phineas conspired against him."

"He
mistrusted you, too."
 
She watched
Jonathan look away to hide the score of disappointment in his expression.
 
Sorrow pinched her heart.
 
"No one cared for his company.
 
He drank, grew isolated and suspicious, drank
more, became more isolated, suspicious."

They fell
silent.
 
Helen could envision Silas's
concerns a product of his ravaged mind only, not of reality.
 
But Isaiah Hanley's secretary had suggested
that Silas send him something tangible for safekeeping, and Charles had
suspected something hidden and tangible connected with her as incriminatory to
a third party, and Widow Hanley had attempted to contact her.
 
To be sure, it was a great puzzle that had
yielded too few pieces thus far.

Jonathan agreed
to remain for supper — beefsteaks that he'd purchased — and spend another night
as Helen's guest.
 
Even with the window
in the study repaired and a cheery fire in the parlor fireplace, Helen couldn't
shake a sense of doom.
 
The household
retired to bed before nine.

At midnight,
they were awakened by a pounding on the front door reminiscent of the
Committee's spy hunt several nights earlier.
 
Flanked by Enid, Jonathan, and Peter, Helen opened the door to deputies
with lit torches, the scowl of George Gaynes at their forefront.

The
committeeman looked her over once, his expression the wary regard of a man with
a troublesome tooth for a surgeon's tongs.
 
Then he flicked his gaze to the three faces around her.
 
"Where have you been for the past six
hours, Mrs. Chiswell?"

Ire stung her
voice.
 
"Right here in my
house."

"You have
witnesses, I presume."

"I'm a
witness."
 
Jonathan's tone was
dry.
 
Enid and Peter joined him.

With a growl,
Gaynes thrashed around the contents of his tote sack, yanked out a dueling
pistol, and suspended it by its barrel.
 
"Is this your husband's?"

She stared at
it, astonished.
 
"Yes, it is!
 
Where did you find it?"

"In
Arthur Sims's house, beside his body.
 
Apparently he shot himself in the head with it sometime in the past six
hours.
 
Another suicide.
 
Fancy that.
 
We'll be keeping the pistol awhile for evidence, but it looks as though
you're free to go about your business.
 
Pleasant dreams tonight."

Chapter Seventeen

"SO, THE
COWARD took his own life.
 
Too bad he
didn't hang for murdering Papa."
 
Hannah kneaded her lower back and shot Helen a glance.
 
"Are your gowns finished yet?"

"This
afternoon."

She stopped
rubbing her back, surprised.
 
"Huzzah!
 
We're off first
thing on the morrow!"

"Only if I
can find a man to help Roger."

"Pshaw.
 
I'm able to do a man's work and a good shot
with a musket.
 
Between the Pearsons,
you'll be well cared for.
 
Let's be
off."

Sadness sifted
into Helen's heart.
 
How splendid if
adventure was all one needed to swallow the portion that grief flung out.
 
"Jonathan advised me to find a second
man, and I've learned not to ignore his advice.
 
I'd like you to ponder the possibility that Sims didn't kill
himself yesterday but was killed by the person who hired him to murder your father."