Camp Follower: A Mystery of the American Revolution (65 page)

While they
climbed through and closed the window, Michael's gaze swept the room and paused
at the south window. Through it, the tobacco shop next door was visible. The
owners of the shop kept their eyes on everything. In contrast to Bowater, Mr.
and Mrs. Farrell hadn't griped about the Eighty-Second's occupation of
Wilmington on the twenty-ninth of January, eight days earlier. If they'd
happened to notice atypical activity in Bowater's office over the past day or
so, he wagered they'd be forthcoming with information.

How he wished
Private Nick Spry weren't fidgeting, restless and useless, in the infirmary,
while his leg healed. But for the time, Michael must make do without his
assistant. He signaled his men to the counter, where Ferguson joined them.
"Lads, I think Mr. Bowater left his records book in this building. I want
the entire place searched for it."

Michael's hands
sketched dimensions in the air. "The book is about yea high and wide.
Medium brown leather. Heavy and large. Pick any room to begin your
search." He checked the time on a watch drawn from his waistcoat pocket.
"Going on three o'clock." He rapped the surface of the counter with
his knuckles. "Help yourselves to candles here if you need some
light." He replaced his watch and turned to Ferguson to receive the
private's report.

"Sir. The
stable was swept clean. From the looks of it, months ago. No straw, no dung,
just reins and a broken old harness hanging on the side, gathering dust. Dust
in the kitchen, too. I found an old broom and bucket and some cracked bowls.
That's all."

Flesh along
Michael's spine pricked. "My orders, lads. If you believe you've located
the records book, don't touch it. Fetch me first."

***

The privates
dispersed to search the office. Henshaw returned with the locksmith, a slight
fellow about three inches shorter than Michael. Pick in hand, the civilian
contractor squatted before the padlock. Michael directed Henshaw to the
tobacconist's shop to learn whether the Farrells or their apprentices had
witnessed recent unusual activity associated with Bowater.

As Henshaw
clanked down the front steps, the locksmith stood and brandished the freed
padlock like a severed head. Michael sent him to the back door to assess how to
secure it. Then he lit a candle and strode to Bowater's study. One of the
privates was already inspecting books and shelves, his examination meticulous,
cautious.

Moments later,
the scuff of shoes in the doorway interrupted Michael's scrutiny of bills and
letters he'd spread open before him on Bowater's big desk. "Sir," he
heard Ferguson say, "I believe I found the records book."

Michael
swiveled and spotted the bleak press of Ferguson's lips. His tone snapped at
the air. "You didn't touch it, did you?"

"No, sir,
not after what happened out there. I did as you ordered. Told the others to
stand back."

Thank god his
men weren't rash. Michael relaxed his jaw. "Good." He caught the eye
of the soldier in the study with him and jutted his jaw at the door. "Let's
have a look."

In the parlor,
soldiers and the locksmith had withdrawn a prudent distance from where a plush
rug had been rolled away and three floorboards pulled up. Michael regarded the
floor, then Ferguson. "However did you find this hidden compartment?"

"The floor
sounded peculiar when I walked over it, so I pulled away the rug and realized
that the boards weren't quite flush with the rest of the floor."

"Excellent
work." Michael knelt beside the hole in the floor and gazed into gloom.

"Here you
are, sir." One of the men handed him a lit candle.

The faint glow
enabled him to resolve the shape of a book lying flat about three feet down in
the hole. Something lay atop it: an open, dark circle that appeared to contain
a smaller, closed circle in its center. Without sunlight, he doubted that even
a torch would provide him with enough illumination to identify what lay atop
the book.

The gap in the
floor howled at him of the cage above the back door, loaded with projectiles.
Foulness wafted up from the hole. Like feces. Like death.

No way in hell
was he was sticking his arm down there. He rocked back on his heels, stood, and
gave the candle back to the soldier. "Ferguson, fetch the broom from the
kitchen."

"Sir."
He sprinted out and returned with the broom in less than a minute.

Michael
inverted the broom, handle first, straight into the hole. As soon as the end of
the broom made contact below, he heard a loud clap. The broom vibrated, gained
weight. His arm jerked, and he tightened his grip. Men in the room recoiled.

He brought the
broom up. Metal clinked, a chain rattled. Affixed to the handle, approximately
where a man's wrist would have been, was a metal leg trap used by hunters to
snag wolves and bobcats. Its teeth, smeared with dried dung, had almost bisected
the broom handle.

A murmur of
shock frosted the air. "Damnation," someone whispered.

Revulsion
transfixed Michael. His stomach burned when he thought of anyone catching his
wrist in the trap. Almost certainly, the victim's hand would need amputation, and
the filth on the metallic jaws would encourage the spread of general infection,
resulting in slow, agonizing death.

The locksmith
coughed. "Mr. Stoddard, sir, I've a question of you."

Michael
blinked, broom and trap still in his grasp, and pivoted to the locksmith. The
wiry man held a metal chunk that he must have pried off the floor while
inspecting the rear door. Hair jumped along Michael's neck when he recognized
the metal as a bayonet, its tip broken off.

A muscle leaped
beneath the locksmith's eye. "Who designed that trap at the back
door?"

"The
owner, Mr. Bowater, I presume."

"Sir, with
all the valuable property in this building, there's no reason Mr. Bowater
shouldn't have secured the rear as well as he did the front, except that
he..." The locksmith trailed off. His lips pinched, as if to seal in
disgust.

Michael leaned
into his hesitation. "Except that he what?"

"Inferior
workmanship, warped wood on the door. I believe Mr. Bowater intended to lure
someone in with the promise of an easy entrance, then kill him horribly in a
rain of debris. You've a madman on your hands." The artisan glanced over
the redcoats. His empty palm circled air twice, fingers open. "Battle
places its own gruesome demands on you fellows. But outside of battle, have you
tried to lure a man into a trap and kill him?" He caught Michael's eye.

Michael's
expression and body stilled. He held the man's gaze. Winter crawled over his
scalp and down his neck. The artisan didn't know, Michael told himself. How
could he know?

"You see
my meaning." The locksmith raised the bayonet for emphasis. "A decent
man like yourself would never set up such a snare."

End of Chapter One

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About Suzanne Adair

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