Camp Follower: A Mystery of the American Revolution (26 page)

"See here,
Badley and I never liked each other, but that's no reason for him to want me
dead."

"Think
base desires, darling.
 
Comfort.
 
Security.
 
Money."

"
Money
?
 
He has plenty of money."

"And a man
might sleep quite well atop his mountain of coin if he were comfortable that he
could hang onto it, and no one would dispute it with him.
 
Who probated your late husband's will?"

"Maximus
Prescott."

"How
neatly he fits in Badley's pocket.
 
Did
you suspect nothing was amiss when the will was probated to your
disfavor?"

Out of
defensiveness, she firmed her jaw.
 
"My husband never pretended affection for me.
 
I had no reason to expect more than the
dower and residence when the estate was settled."

"Who was
executor for the estate?"

"Badley."

"Badley
was executor.
 
Prescott was
probator.
 
They're wealthy men, and
you're a pauper, and you suspect nothing?"

Helen felt a
snarl rip across her face.
 
"What
good would it do me to fight?
 
Both are
powerful men, and I have neither money nor proof that Badley misappropriated
assets, or lied under oath —"

"The word
you seek is
perjury
."

"
Perjury
!"
 
Eyes wide and sightless, she stared over his
shoulder.
 
If perjury is still a
fear, we shall keep it safe for you
.
 
Did Isaiah Hanley's widow possess documents proving that Silas had never
intended to be so generous to Phineas Badley?
 
If so, why had she come forward with them nine years after Silas's
death?

Clearly, Badley
had wanted her and Enid out of the house.
 
Did he suspect that Silas had hidden a copy of Hanley's documents
there?
 
A shudder climbed through
her.
 
Enid.
 
No!

"Perjury."
 
Fairfax grinned.
 
"Helen, are you very certain you know nothing of Badley's
association with Adam Neville?"

Twice Fairfax
had fished for information of Neville from her.
 
The provincial lieutenant must be pivotal to Fairfax's
schemes.
 
Now she wondered if Neville
were involved in the business with Badley and Isaiah Hanley's widow.
 
She shook her head.
 
"As I said before, I've never met him,
and I've never heard Badley mention him.
 
But see here, if Campbell spots us in such a compromising position,
it'll be obvious we aren't siblings."

"From this
distance, I assure you that Campbell will interpret such a compromising
position as a brother comforting his sister after a frightful encounter with
foes."

Their isolation
registered on her, then, and she stiffened.
 
"I want to go back.
 
I'm
sleepy."

His fingertip
traced the shape of her lips.
 
"You
had no community.
 
You lost the
gods.
 
And now you don't trust yourself.
 
What did Chiswell do, make you give it up
for marriage?"

Pagan
rubbish...she'll be an Anglican wife
.
 
Her heart hammering, Helen pushed herself away from the memory, away
from Fairfax.
 
How in Hades could he
read her mind?

By starlight,
his eyes gleamed.
 
"If you don't seek
clarity, the manifestations of war will only confuse you more deeply."

Seconds
earlier, his idea of clarity had pressed to her groin with the subtlety of a
burning oak knot.
 
Were his gods her
gods?
 
"Escort me back.
 
I'm exhausted."

His lips
pursed.
 
"As you wish."

The sentinel
awaiting their return resolved into both Campbell and Jonathan.
 
"All quiet here, sir," said the
dragoon.

Fairfax handed
Helen to Jonathan, whose face held no expression.
 
"Take my sister back to bed.
 
Campbell's eyesight is excellent at night, but even he might miss
a predator lurking in the grass."

Jonathan bowed
and presented the deference of a servant, but after he and Helen had walked
away, his exhale hissed.
 
"I
suppose that predator in the grass eased your mind?"

She shook off
his arm and eyed him with disbelief.
 
"You're envious."

"You're
losing perspective after less than a week out here in the wild."

Acid trickled
into her voice.
 
"I had plenty of
perspective in George Town.
 
You refused
me, you regret it now, and you're angry."

"I'm not
angry.
 
I'm afraid for you.
 
I have remembered something."
 
The way his voice softened spiked the hairs
on her neck.
 
He led her close to the
pine barren where the Pearsons and three dragoons slept.
 
They stopped walking and faced each other,
and he said low, "After Silas died in '71, I returned to Wiltshire on
business.
 
I encountered Ratchingham's
former butler at a tavern."

Her attention
perked.
 
"Jedediah?"

"His
employment was terminated in 1766."

"He was
discharged
?
 
I thought he was considered reliable.
 
What were the circumstances?"

Jonathan's tone
tightened.
 
"Lady Ratchingham's
jewelry turned up in his saddlebags on a day he was headed to town."

Her memory
replayed the scene at the study in Redthorne: Fairfax's dismissal of Jedediah's
credibility, and the butler's vow,
You little shit, I'll get you for this
.
 
Warfare had ensued between Fairfax and
Jedediah.
 
In 1766, Fairfax had won.

"There's
more."
 
Jonathan expelled a
breath.
 
"Jedediah told me
Ratchingham hired almost a completely new staff in '71.
 
That year, many old servants had left
terrified.
 
They'd been dealing with
mutilated carcasses of small animals tortured to death.
 
In '71, the perpetrator graduated to larger
animals such as sheep and goats."

Revulsion
squeezed air from Helen's lungs.
 
In
1771, Fairfax would have been anatomically strong enough to subdue sheep and
goats.

"Helen,
surely you must see that this moment, as in George Town, this is about you
finding guidance within yourself."
 
He seized her hands in his.
 
"You must learn to trust yourself.
 
And do not discount the insight of Helen Grey."

***

At six-thirty
Tuesday morning, while eating porridge, she reviewed the canvas with its
scattered pieces.
 
Badley in league with
Prescott to defraud her of Silas's estate: Fairfax's theory ordered a good
portion of the chaos.
 
If those two
suspected Charles and Jonathan of knowing about their scheme, and if they
suspected that Silas's death hadn't been suicide, they might have hired Sims to
steal the pistol and kill both men.
 
Use
of the dueling pistol hearkened back to the roles of Charles and Jonathan in
the duel, framed her for murder, and might have gotten her jailed.

Why had Mrs.
Hanley withheld information of such a crucial nature from Helen for so
long?
 
Had she been threatened to hold
her tongue?

Steam from the
porridge thawed Helen's nose, opened her mind to a subtle problem.
 
While managing the turpentine plantation,
she'd learned the breadth of her husband's wealth.
 
Had Badley and Prescott defrauded her and split almost all of his
wealth between them, they'd be far more wealthy, and to a conspicuous
degree.
 
They wouldn't have remained in
Wilmington.
 
At the least, they'd have
moved to an affluent city such as London to live it up.
 
Badley wouldn't have continued to plod away
at a magazine on the edge of the frontier.

They might have
disguised the money in investments elsewhere such as the Caribbean to avoid
suspicion.
 
Still, nine years was a long
time for two avaricious men to delay gratification.

Fairfax paced,
unhurried, beyond dragoons who squatted near the fire to eat.
 
Aware of her scrutiny, he awarded her that
faint smile.
 
Wood smoke wafted in her
face.
 
Smoke.
 
Yes.
 
He'd promoted his
theory about Badley at the precise moment when she'd revealed that she understood
why he slaughtered Marion's men, steering her curiosity away from the demons
that rode him.

Shoulders
thrown back in confidence, she carried her cup and mug to Hannah, who scrubbed
dishes.
 
"Blasted porridge sticks
to everything," Hannah muttered.

Concern panged
Helen at tautness on Hannah's face.
 
How
ill she'd become after witnessing the gruesome skirmish.
 
Not that Helen hadn't almost puked herself.
 
She gave Hannah's shoulder a pat.
 
"How are you?"

"I shall
sort through it soon enough, madam.
 
Please
don't worry for me."
 
She eyed
Helen.
 
"I'd a memory last night of
Papa."

Helen wasn't
certain how well Hannah worked through her father's death, but she knew the
woman needed a compassionate ear.
 
"Tell me about it, if you wish."

Hannah wiped
hands on a towel and faced her.
 
"He used to read
Badley's Review
to us after supper, before
he'd secure the house for the night.
 
Mama, my brother, and sister were still alive then.
 
We laughed at stories in the magazine."

She pressed her
lips together.
 
"We didn't laugh
over your husband's estate settlement.
 
Papa called it unjust, said it wasn't what Mr. Chiswell intended.
 
He spoke of times he'd helped Mr. Chiswell
up to bed after he'd drunk too much brandy and gone maudlin.
 
Madam, Mr. Chiswell babbled about people
stealing his money, people he trusted.
 
He thanked Papa for being a good servant and said he'd made arrangements
for Papa's comfort after he died."

Helen's skin
prickled.
 
"Did Charles specify
what arrangements, Hannah?
 
A bequest in
my husband's will, perhaps?"

She shook her
head.
 
"Papa never said.
 
He and Mama decided to keep quiet about
it.
 
Papa didn't have proof that he
might have been a beneficiary, and you know judges and lawyers.
 
They'd have cast him as a greedy servant
trying grab some of his master's wealth, and then they'd likely have laughed
him out of the courthouse."
 
Hannah
straightened her shoulders.
 
"After
that, Papa hired an attorney, had him draw up his own will, gave each of us a
copy.
 
He wanted no doubt as to the
distribution of his estate and said he'd make sure none of us was left out like
him and Mrs. Chiswell."

Nothing in
Hannah's story constituted substantive evidence of fraud, yet it was just as
suggestive of fraud as Charles's words to David had been.

They'll kill
Madam if they find it
.
 
Charles may
not have told his family all he knew, but he'd suspected wickedness.

If Badley and
Prescott had defrauded her and Charles of substantial estate benefits, they'd
covered their tracks well.
 
It sure
sounded as though some recent event had threatened exposure of a scheme.
 
Widow Hanley was bound up in the mess, and
Charles and the widow's messenger had been killed to silence them.

"Mrs.
Chiswell, do you think this has anything to do with my father's death?"

"Yes, I
do."

The crease of
worry across Hannah's brow deepened.
 
With a glance around, she lowered her voice.
 
"That could mean Mr. Badley's involved, being that his
magazine was the main beneficiary of the estate.
 
He's one of Wilmington's wealthiest merchants."

And he kept one
of Wilmington's smartest lawyers in his pocket.
 
Anxiety tunneled into Helen's chest.
 
If Badley had sent her through the Santee hoping she'd be killed,
could she expect a bank draft from him to await her in Camden, as promised in
the contract?
 
Without more funds, she'd
be stranded in the backcountry.
 
Depending on where she was stranded, death might be welcome —

No.
 
Fairfax wanted her to panic so he could keep
her controlled.
 
She sucked in cold air
and whispered, "Hannah, let's walk one step at a time and not try to
rush.
 
In truth, all we have are
suspicions and no solid evidence.
 
And
let us not forget that today, this moment, the assignment with the Legion
demands priority."