by Mark J Rose
“Have Sutton come,” Franklin instructed. “He’s no agent provocateur, but I think we might imply some strategy for subtlety in the young hemp’s investigation.”
“Anyway, he owes me,” Matt said.
Chapter 39
David Sutton
David Sutton knocked on the door of the house at 7 Craven Street. He scanned the four stories of the brick rowhome. He could count the number of times that he had been there on one hand. Sutton had hoped that Dr. Franklin would offer him accommodations and keep him close, but it made no sense once Franklin had found a position for him at the dock. It paid well and was minimally interesting, but he knew his random visits to Franklin’s house were no substitute for being around all day.
Mr. Miller answered the door. It had been almost a week since he’d come down to visit Sutton at the shipper. “Young Sutton,” Miller said. Miller reached out to shake his hand hardily. He placed his palm gently on Sutton’s other shoulder in the way that men sometimes embrace each other during a handshake. It was the same arm where they had removed the musket ball. “Fully healed?” Miller asked him.
“Yes, sir,” Sutton replied.
Miller let go of his shoulder and pulled him into the entryway of Franklin’s home. “Let’s see it then.” Sutton unbuttoned his cuff and rolled the sleeve up. The scar was still puffy where they had sewn the flesh, but the redness was nearly gone. “It’s healed perfectly,” Miller said.
Sutton could see that Miller was very proud of his helping to save his arm, but Sutton allowed that he too was very thankful. A shudder went up Sutton’s spine as he thought of the ship’s surgeon the day after the battle, standing there holding his saw, as Miller pleaded with him to extract the ball and sew the wound. Gangrene was almost certain with such an injury, and once it set in, a man had less than two weeks before they put him to bed tucked with a spade. “I am in your debt, sir,” Sutton confessed.
Miller nodded happily. “Your continued health and success are all you owe,” he said while shuffling Sutton into Franklin’s home. “We have a new affair that pays well. Franklin may offer you a prize as well, should your intelligence be sound.”
Matt motioned for Sutton to follow him into the back of the house and Franklin’s sitting room. Franklin was there at his desk writing frantically. Franklin put his finger up in the air to motion in that way Sutton had seen him do on the first day they had met. Miller looked at Sutton, rolled his eyes, and then made a twisting motion in the air with his index finger. Sutton wasn’t very familiar with Franklin, but he had spent enough time with the old man to know he was a stiff rump. Growing up, he and his boys would have had no trouble fleecing a fat cull like this.
They stood there, waiting patiently while Franklin finished the last sentence. He dumped fine sand on the parchment, paused for the ink to be absorbed, and then cupped the letter so that he could collect the brackish powder back into a box. He set it all aside and smiled at them. “Mr. Sutton! How does it with you, young fellow?”
“Well, Dr. Franklin,” Sutton replied. “And you?”
“Well, my lad, also well. Take a seat so we can explain your task.” Franklin pointed to a short coffee table with a sofa and some chairs. There was a note on the table. Franklin reached to give it to Sutton and motioned that he should unfold it. There were six names inside.
Joshua Tucker
Samuel Pepys
John Newcomb
John Rann
George Smith
William Bell
“We’d like to know a thing or two about these gentlemen,” Miller said. “They may have booked passage to America. Ask around the dock.”
“Square toes?”
“They could be your age,” Franklin said. “We don’t want these men to know we are looking for them. Not a squeak to even your most trusted fellows about myself or Mr. Miller.”
“They’ll stand buff,” Sutton said, “but ‘twill take some silver.”
Franklin reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a cloth purse with a drawstring. He hefted it to demonstrate its weight. “This should loosen a few tongues,” he said. “None for your own pocket. You’ll be well paid when your task is complete.”
“What about my place at the docks? I’ll want more time than the Sabbath to daub the proper scabs.”
“I’ve already spoken to Mr. Longfellow,” Franklin replied. “You position at the dock will resume when you’ve located these men. I’m paying double your salary. You’ll receive an extra prize, should you spy the cloven foot.” He gave the purse to Sutton. There was a look of optimism on Franklin’s face.
“Anything else?” Sutton asked.
“These men may be in the employ of Sir Ferguson,” Miller replied. “Be careful who you speak to.”
“Sir Ferguson?” Sutton asked surprised. “He’s a fat cull; there’s no doubt. Controls the dock, he does.”
“We’re aware,” Franklin replied.
“Twice my salary is beggar’s pay,” Sutton said. “Should anyone catch me standing budge, they’ll put me to bed.”
“Triple your salary, then.”
Sutton shook his head.
“I saved your arm,” Miller said.
“And fiddler’s pay for that sir,” Sutton said calmly. “Arm’s no use if I’m stone dead.”
“Four times,” Matt said. “But that’s as high as we’ll go.”
Sutton nodded and now stuffed the purse with the bribes in his pocket. “Anything else, sirs?”
“Report back to us on the week to let us know what you’ve found.”
Sutton nodded.
“I’ll walk you out,” Miller said. He stepped to Sutton to escort him and opened the door while he talked.
“Remember, total secrecy.”
Sutton put his finger to his lips. “Strictly on the lob, sir.”
Sutton heard the door click shut behind him as he took his first step down Craven Street. He felt the coins in his pocket and thought of his new salary. It was a dead set if he planted the books right. He pulled out his pocket watch to check the time. He needed to run, or he’d be late for his interview with Mr. Trent.
Chapter 40
Deception
It was just after the noon hour and the midday sun was streaming through the windows into Ferguson’s office. Four days had passed since the masquerade party and London was still abuzz. Ferguson smiled as he thought of his wife’s demeanor since the party. Many of her old friends, even those from the London aristocracy had decided to attend. It was a dramatic contrast to previous parties at Ferguson Manor, where their absences had been conspicuous and intentional.
Ferguson had had his reasons for putting people in masks, but he had not considered that a minute degree of anonymity was enough to excuse the curiosity of the London aristocrats. His visions were still muddled, but he suspected that this was a first step to regaining the familial prominence that Celia craved and that his plans required. Ferguson reached up and massaged his temples. The pain had gradually diminished throughout the week as it usually did. His visions this time, though, had vanished quickly. He suspected this had something to do with the empty spaces left by his interacting so intimately with Matthew Miller, but there was something—somebody else—obscuring his vision—a blot that he couldn’t see past. Is there another traveler?
“It’s fine,” he said to himself. He had wished lately to wean himself from his craving to predict every detail. When he had allowed the obsession to take root and blossom in Philadelphia, it had resulted in his complete mental breakdown. He knew enough, now, to push it away when it began to take a firm hold on his mind. He’d already made his plans and set the gears in motion, so wouldn’t need another treatment anytime soon.
There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” Patrick said. Patrick knew it was Trent. Even without treatments, he had learned very early after his arrival in the colonies that he could predict the immediate future easily, and it came with few side effects. Unexpectedly though, Trent was ac
companied by a young man. The thorough surprise was both exhilarating and disconcerting. Is he connected to this shadow, or is he the shadow? Patrick searched his mind for some clue, but the empty blot obscured almost everything.
“Sir,” Trent said seeing the look of contemplation on Patrick’s face. “This is David Sutton.”
Patrick stepped from around his desk and shook Sutton’s hand. “Pleased to meet you,” Patrick said. Sutton’s rough and calloused skin was noticeable in the handshake, and Patrick tried to guess his occupation. He caught himself and consciously backed away from searching his memory for trivial details normally revealed by asking simple questions. Patrick glanced at Trent.
“Mr. Sutton works for you,” Trent said. “He was a crewman on the Norfolk, the American frigate that brought Matthew Miller to London.”
“Explains many things,” Patrick said. The men looked back at him puzzled. “What is it that you have for me, Mr. Sutton?” Patrick asked. Trent began to answer, but Patrick waived him off, preferring to hear directly. Trent nodded at Sutton, and he stepped forward to gather himself. The young man’s hesitation went a long way in convincing Patrick of his sincerity. His interaction with Miller is the reason this man is a mystery!
“Sir Ferguson,” Sutton said. He waited for permission to continue
Patrick nodded.
“Sir Ferguson,” he repeated. “Mr. Trent hired me to watch the doings of Mr. Miller on his journey to London. I kept an eye on him, I did.”
“And what did you learn?”
“He’s a skilled fighter, sir. Stopped them from taking my arm.”
“Speak of what has befallen since, Mr. Sutton,” Trent said annoyed.
The young man gathered himself again, reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded piece of parchment and handed it to Patrick. Patrick opened it to see a list. He read it calmly and then said, “How did you come by this?”
“Dr. Franklin gave it to me,” Sutton replied. “It was him and Mr. Miller.”
“And how did they come by this list?”
“Neither spoke of it, sir,” Sutton replied. “I’m in their employ to reveal the whereabouts of these men and their intent in some scrap.”
“And did they give you a clue to this scrap?”
“No sir, but they believe these men have nefarious intent.”
“And you gathered this how?”
“They asked me to investigate these names down at docks and learn whether they’d booked passage to America. Go gingerly, they said, because you’d be tweaked to learn that someone was asking questions.”
“To what end do they believe these men sought passage to America,” Patrick demanded.
“Nefarious intent, sir,” Sutton repeated.
The room went silent for a very long time. Patrick looked Sutton up and down. “Can you tell me anything else about Mr. Miller?”
“Ain’t no loggerhead, sir. Bit fancy—maybe a swell that don’t know the struggle of—” Sutton went quiet as he resumed his gaze upward looking at Patrick and then around at the opulence of the office.”
“Of the what, Sutton?” Patrick asked.
“The poorer types,” Sutton replied simply.
“He’s a fat cull in Virginia.”
“Good in a fight,” Sutton added. “Saved our ship from pirates, and my arm.”
Trent, who had been struggling to remain silent, finally spoke. “Mr. Sutton, I think that’s all we want for now.” Trent reached into his pocket, took out a purse and gave it to Sutton. The young man took it without note. His manner dispelled any thoughts that Patrick had as to his loyalty; it went to the highest bidder. Trent looked directly at the young man. “You are not to ask any questions at the docks.”
“They’ll expect something from me,” Sutton replied.
Trent said, “Come back tomorrow morning, and you have your cock and bull story.” Trent nodded to indicate that their interview had ended.
“Thank you, sirs,” Sutton said. “Tomorrow morning, then. Good Day,” He gave a slight bow, turned and was gone.
Patrick waited until Sutton had closed the door behind. “How the hell did they get this list?” he asked.
“I know not,” Trent answered simply. “Some connection has been made between these names and the grander scheme.”
“This list was stolen from your records somehow,” Patrick said.
“I never transcribed it from the ledger.”
“They were locked in my safe,” Patrick replied, “and never left this room.” Patrick searched his memory for some clue as to who was involved, but nothing—nothing at all was visible. “There is someone else,” he said. “Someone significant, somewhere, who is working against us.”
Trent waited for him to explain, but Patrick remained quiet. Trent knew that his boss had an unexplained ability to sense people and events in a way that others could not. “Sir, I should assure you that I was not responsible. I alone have spoken to the men on this list. I can understand one name, but all of them?”
“I do not believe you are responsible.”
“Then who?”
“Is there someone suspicious who had access to the office within the last week?”
“Many as we prepared for the party, but you are the only one that can open the strongbox.”
“Our servants are well compensated and loyal. I do not see them so easily turned. Any suspicious activity?
Trent gave Patrick a look of revelation. “The drunk lady,” he said simply.
“Drunk lady?”
“The wife of Thomas Mifflin. Mr. Weatherly griped about a woman who occupied the powder room. He believed her to be drunk. She locked herself inside suffering from lady’s sickness and wouldn’t come out.”
“Thomas Mifflin is the cotton merchant from Philadelphia,” Patrick said thinking aloud.
“A modest merchant from Philadelphia,” Trent explained.
“And the name of his wife?”
“They signed as Mr. and Mrs. Mifflin.” Trent saw that Patrick wasn’t listening. His eyes were darting around the table and chairs.
Patrick walked to the balcony door, unlocked it and stepped onto the balcony. Trent followed close behind. They stood together looking at the side of the building along a ledge where pigeons were roosting. Patrick pointed at the foot-shaped smudges along the dust and pigeon waste that coated the ledge that led around the building. “She stepped out onto the ledge from the powder room, made her way along the side of the building, procured access to my office, and somehow opened my safe,” Patrick said.
“What kind of lady would crawl out onto the ledge of a building?”
“Mrs. Mifflin, I believe,” Patrick replied.
“She did this to reveal a list that no one knew about?”
“She may have been here to take something else.”
“And she knew the combination of your safe?”
“She may have had a way to open it.”
“A lady?”
“Someone was in here the night of the party,” Patrick said. “The chairs were arranged incorrectly when I entered the office with Miller.”
“You think he had something to do with it?”
“He delayed our conversation so the theft could take place,” Patrick replied. “Of course he had something to do with it.”
“What was she here to take?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Patrick replied. “Her full name is perhaps Sarah Morris Mifflin. She is a woman of ill repute known to me from Philadelphia. She came here as a burglar and by some unfortunate accident, found our ledger. She wrote the names down.”
“And she knew enough to take our plans to Dr. Franklin?”
“She is most certainly operating as an agent for Dr. Franklin,” Patrick said. “We must assume that Sarah and Thomas Mifflin are working with Franklin and Miller to some end. How much longer until we have everyone safely away?”
“The first ship doesn’t lift anchor until next week,” Trent replied. “The last will remain
for another three weeks.”
“Then you must do what you can to expedite their passage.”
“It’s not that easy,” Trent said. “We spent weeks planning these voyages.”
“Money can be spent on bribes.”
“These ships must be crewed and provisioned.”
“Pay them.”
“We’ve already spent a fortune,” Trent said. “I’ll see what can be done, but even you cannot afford the price to send half a dozen merchant vessels across the ocean with no cargo.”
“Do your best,” Ferguson said. “In the meantime, we must plan a diversion for Mr. Miller and his colleagues. They must not learn the whereabouts or the aspirations of our men and especially before all have sailed safely from the harbor.”
“I will contact each of them today and apprise them of our new plans,” Trent replied.
Chapter 41
Brian Palmer
“Good day to you, Mr. Palmer,” Digby said. “Where are you off to, then?”
Brian stood still to massage his temples. He had gotten used to Londoners asking questions about the simplest of details. Sometimes it was the usual things like where Brian was going, whom he was visiting, or where he was eating. Other questions were personal like whether he was leaving the house with enough money or the last time he’d been to church. When they weren’t asking, they were watching.
Brian looked back into the crinkled eyes of the landlord, who had stopped his sweeping in front of Brian’s London row home to wait for an answer. “I’m going to visit Mrs. Palmer,” Brian replied. That was, at least, the truth. The key to an alibi was simplicity, and Mrs. Palmer provided one that was perfect. Mrs. Palmer, the story went, spent most of her time taking care of her elderly mother. The explanation had been adequate for both Digby and Brian’s maid, who came daily to clean and make Brian’s evening meals. Digby’s memory was steadfast, and Brian joked that the old crank had a chart somewhere with the hourly location of all his tenants as they ambled about the city.