Virginian

by Mark J Rose

  Matt realized, then, that someone had been working on framing him almost from the first day he had arrived. A twinge of panic and a shot of adrenalin made his brain go haywire as it searched for possibilities. Something had triggered his visions. He closed his eyes and let it happen. Palmer is all over the timeline!

  “Mr. Miller!” Morley’s voice brought him back to reality.

  “It’s not my coat,” Matt finally said.

  “It was in your cab,” Morley replied.

  “I borrowed that carriage.”

  “And the evidence in your apartments?”

  “They’re not my apartments,” Matt insisted. “I’d like to know the extent of the evidence against me,” He reminded himself of the gravity of the situation to keep himself from laughing. There were enough items on that table to line his trip to the gallows. Surely, Morley realized that the evidence against Matt was so complete as to be laughable.

  “There are programs to the opera,” Evans said, “and diagrams of the opera house. We found pieces to build more bombs.”

  “Dr. Brian Palmer lives in that apartment,” Matt said. “The landlord’s records should tell you this. If they don’t, then the man who rented them is your clue.”

  “We’ve spoken to your landlord,” Morley replied. “The apartments were rented by a crony of yours, who has since left for America, a sea dog named David Sutton.”

  “What?”

  Matt was running scenarios through his head. He sat there with a questioning look on his face.

  “Joshua Tucker?” Morley asked.

  Matt looked back puzzled.

  “Surely you remember the man you murdered.”

  Matt had heard the name before, maybe from one of Ferguson’s lists of either conspirators or targets. “I didn’t kill anyone,” Matt said. “I’ve heard this name, though.”

  Morley reached to the pile and slid out a folded and wrinkled piece of parchment. He handed it calmly to Matt and watched as Matt unfolded the note. It was David Sutton’s list of the six people he was supposed to investigate.

  “Dr. Franklin’s hand is unique,” Morley said. “We’ll soon learn his involvement.”

  “Franklin had nothing to do with any of this.”

  “He’ll be brought in,” Evans replied. “We’ll let him confess.”

  Matt contemplated the list. “Where did you get this?”

  “Does it matter?” Morley asked. “You’re facing the gallows, and it’s black and white.”

  Matt turned his face to Morley while trying to look into his own mind to analyze the role David Sutton had in his predicament. How could this have happened? David Sutton? “Find Palmer,” Matt said. “Bring him in.”

  “Brian Palmer is known to no one.”

  “I can take you to Scarlett Palmer’s house,” Matt said. “She’s his lady friend.”

  “We’ll investigate all possible leads, Mr. Miller,” Morley replied.

  “I didn’t commit any of these crimes.”

  “We found you in your apartment with all of—”

  A disturbance at the front office interrupted them. “What’s the meaning of this?” Matt heard Benjamin Franklin shout. “I’m an English citizen and Post Master of the American Colonies. Take your paws off me!” Three men surrounded Franklin and were shuttling him through the station and to the room where Matt was sitting. Franklin finally saw Matt at the table, and his expression of rage morphed to one of confusion. Morley and Evans, who had previously been standing like perched hawks above Matt, now turned to face Franklin.

  Morley pointed to a chair at the table. “Have a seat, Dr. Franklin,” he said. “Two English citizens have been murdered. Why not confess your role?

  Chapter 56

  John Fielding

  The Bow Street Offices in London were bustling with activity. The number of criminals walking through the front entry was growing as Matt sat at his interrogation table. Members of the London police, commonly called the Bow Street Runners by Londoners, followed behind random suspects as they passed by the doorway. Franklin had taken a seat at the corner of the table on Matt’s left. He’d retreated from vocalizing his anger and now sat in silence moving his eyes from person to person. The accusation of his involvement in a murder had been unexpected.

  “Your complicity will become manifest shortly, Dr, Franklin.”

  They turned to watch an older man walk into the room. “Good day, gentleman,” he said. “I’m Sir John Fielding, Chief Magistrate here at Bow Street.”

  Franklin finally broke his silence. “Back-room intrigue better not be behind my being dragged here and threatened.” He was menacing when he spoke. “I have fellows in high places.” Matt knew the older man wasn’t boasting. He did have influential friends.

  Fielding didn’t give a commanding first impression to Matt. He was thick around the waste, if not portly. Straggly long grey hair framed a colorless face that looked like it had been bloated and fatigued by years of drinking. He was, altogether, unimposing, and wouldn’t have looked out of place sitting on the street in front of a London pub. As soon as he spoke, though, his physical failings disappeared. His eyes opened wide, and his face and voice took on an unexpected prominence and confidence. He was suddenly a man who commanded respect. His strong vocal presence was enough, even, for Benjamin Franklin to take note.

  “I can assure you, Dr. Franklin,” Fielding explained in his forceful, but calm voice. “I concern myself only with stamping out lawlessness, and it matters not whether the purveyors are Whig, Tory or American.” He nodded his head in the direction of Matt when he said American. Matt looked immediately at Franklin and shook his head. Franklin met Matt’s eyes, frowned, but continued to remain silent. Someone who didn’t know him that well might have misconstrued Franklin’s frown as arrogance, but Matt had seen this expression on the older man’s face before. It came when Franklin felt like someone had backed him into a corner.

  “I’m a simple man,” Fielding said in response to Franklin’s silence. “I only want to explain allegations that have been raised against Mr. Miller. Should statecraft play any role in these crimes, I’d not be the origin.” Fielding glared at Matt, and there was no mistaking the political undertones of the accusation.

  “My role in government has nothing to do with me being in the home of Brian Palmer,” Matt said.

  “Virginians are proud…to a fault,” Fielding replied. “You know what our Lord says of pride, Mr. Miller. Confess and save your soul from damnation.”

  Matt turned to Franklin. “I’m being framed by the bomber,” he explained. “The evidence against me is almost perfectly complete.” Matt now focused on Fielding. “That should give you some pause.”

  “You still insist that you had no complicity in these crimes?” Fielding asked.

  “I was investigating the murder of Celia Ferguson,” Matt replied. “The man who really committed these murders planned everything down to the smallest detail. It’s an incredibly complex facade.”

  “Do tell,” Fielding said.

  “Not until I’ve had a chance to sort through the evidence.”

  “Sort through the evidence?” Fielding exclaimed. The man was incredulous. “‘Tis overwhelming against you. You will not repair from this prison until your trial, and we will certainly not risk your fiddling with evidence.”

  “I have no motivation to commit these murders,” Matt said. He was surprised at how calm he had become. Credibility should be apparent in the pleas of an innocent man! Matt hoped that Fielding, a man who knew criminals well, had developed some ability to recognize a sincere denial. Fielding motioned to Morley.

  “Mr. Miller,” Morley said. “Please follow me.”

  Matt stood. As he did, two broad-shouldered men who had been standing outside the door now made their presence known. Morley pointed, and Matt followed them out of the room.

  **********

  The two large officers walked Matt to his holding cell. It was a plastered room with a barred window an
d a solid locking door with a square viewport that was wide enough for Matt to look through with both eyes at once. His jailors left him a tin cup of water and a clay chamber pot. Matt took the cup and let the man set the pot down, so he didn’t have to touch the nasty thing. He was glad that they had let him use the outhouse next to the building. Matt didn’t want to sit inside with his own waste…not yet anyway.

  Matt should have felt some sense of finality when they locked the door behind them, but he welcomed the solitude. The action had consumed him these last days, and he needed time to think about how Palmer had framed him, and why. The timelines that he could access in his head were blurry. All the blank spots made it impossible to see anything. He’d have to do this the old fashion way and write a list. Matt looked around the cell hoping for a pen and some paper and then chuckled aloud. He had the macabre revelation that he was closer to death row than a posh hotel equipped with a writing desk and stationery.

  Matt walked to the door of his cell and pounded hard. “Hello,” he shouted through the square viewport. “Hello!” When no one came, he pounded again. “Hello!”

  Finally, one of the men who had brought him to the jail cell put his face into the window. “What?” he asked irritated.

  “I need parchment, a quill, and some ink,” Matt said.

  “The hell you say.”

  “I’m a representative of the Virginia House of Burgesses,” Matt replied. “Under British Common Law, you are required to provide me with instruments for note-taking and writing my memoirs.”

  “British Common Law?”

  “British Common Law, by order of the King,” Matt replied.

  “I ain’t never heard of such,” the guard said. “Go to sleep like everyone else.”

  “What if I feel like writing my confession?”

  “Save us time; it would.”

  Matt shrugged and then remained silent. His nonchalance made it feel like he was ready to rescind the offer. He glanced up indiscriminately to notice the look of contemplation on the guard’s face. The man disappeared from the viewport without a word. He was gone for long enough that Matt almost caved on the list. When the guard did return, he gave Matt a few pieces of parchment, a quill and a tiny vial of black ink. Matt stood from his bed and walked to take the writing tools.

  “Full confession,” the guard said.

  “I’ll try my best.”

  The guard looked satisfied as he peered through the viewport, and then he was gone.

  Matt sat on the chair and used the cot as a desk. “Why would someone from the future frame me for murder?” he whispered as he dipped the pen in the ink vial. He started a list, making sure not to write anything that might incriminate him if someone read his “memoirs.”

  Question 1: Why would BP murder two people connected to Patrick Ferguson?

  He knows about Ferguson’s plans to stop the AR.

  He doesn’t like Ferguson.

  A political rival of Ferguson or his wife’s family.

  Business rivals of Ferguson or his wife’s family.

  He wants to distract Ferguson by the murders.

  A competitor of Ferguson.

  He wants Ferguson to blame me.

  Matt contemplated the seven items on the list for ten minutes, couldn’t think of any additional reasons and decided he needed to come back to this question.

  Question 2: Why would BP frame me for two murders I didn’t commit?

  I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  He disagrees with my politics.

  He’s a business rival.

  He’s trying to create a conflict between Ferguson and me.

  He’s trying to make my life miserable.

  Matt laughed at the last item. “If it could only be that simple,” he thought. All his lists required at least twenty items for him to be satisfied that he had considered all possibilities. He had used “brainstorming” in the past and gotten stunning results. The key to a good list was that you were supposed to come up with at least twenty answers or solutions to any difficult question or problem. The first five to ten usually came easily. The last ten required you to reach deep for answers and solutions you didn’t know were there. Besides his personal experience, Matt had seen examples where brainstorming had netted companies a huge profit.

  Matt’s favorite came from the Disney Corporation, though he had never verified all the facts. The story went like this: Disney told a team to figure out a way to make more money at the theme parks. Their brainstorming started with simple stuff like charge higher admission, pay employees less, or renegotiate supplier prices. By the time the list had reached ten, though, all the obvious solutions were gone. One delusional employee shouted out, “We could print it!”

  “Print what?” asked another employee.

  “Money.”

  After a good laugh, “print money” went on the list, which is another rule. Any idea, no matter how silly, goes on the list. Disney Dollars were born from this unconventional, but brilliant thought. Disney Dollars are high-quality, Disney-themed paper bills, purchased at face value. You can spend them anywhere in the park like real money, or you can keep them for your next visit. Disney learned that once people bought Disney Dollars, they were very reluctant to spend them. Over the twenty-eight years that Disney dollars were available, people walked away with two hundred million dollars in unspent bills.

  Matt needed a Disney Dollars explanation, and he needed it fast.

  Question 3: Who is BP?

  Random guy

  Scientist

  Businessman

  Soldier

  Secret agent

  A man from the F

  Renegade T traveler

  Artifact collector

  One of the original scientists who caused the accident

  The scientist who insisted I return home

  A shiver went through Matt’s spine. All three lists converged. Matt hadn’t given much thought to the scientists who had caused the accident and had been trying to bring him home. They told him that they had one shot. Only now did he rationalize why they had one shot and what might have become of them after they took it. Did they have just enough money to open the wormhole a few times? Were they ordered not to travel again?

  Question 4: Why would the scientists who insisted that I come back be upset with me?

  Their careers suffered because of the accident.

  Their careers suffered trying to bring me home.

  They never got any recognition.

  They were charged for the murder of four people.

  Question 5: What’s changed?

  BP has permission to travel to the F.

  BP has gone rogue.

  If Palmer were on an official mission to bring Matt back to the twenty-first century, he’d trap Matt and open a wormhole on top of him. He might even be obligated to read Matt his rights. Matt looked at the wall of his jail cell and blurted out, “He’s a free agent.” Matt searched every prescient vision he could remember and knew it was true.

  Chapter 57

  Wiley Old Man

  Franklin came to Matt’s cell immediately after lunch and sat with him on the single bench. He remained silent until the guard locked the door and moved away. Matt stood up to check the view portal to see if anyone was standing nearby, but there was no one in the hall. Despite not seeing anyone eavesdropping, he spoke with Franklin in a hushed tone. “It’s the original guy, Ben,” Matt explained. “He’s the one who tried to pull me back to the twenty-first century. It was before I came to Philadelphia.”

  “How do you know?”

  “No other explanation,” Matt replied. “Brian Palmer isn’t in any of my dreams. He’s a traveler, I’m convinced.”

  “I thought the dreams were disappearing,” Franklin said. “You welcomed the end of the headaches.”

  “I got hit in the head coming over.”

  “Then why were you not able to discern that Sutton was a spy and a scoundrel in these dreams?”


  “There’s a singular place in hell for that kid,” Matt declared. “When I return to the colonies, that kid is toast. After I saved his arm, he does this?”

  “Deception and betrayal are not against the law.”

  “Either way, I’ll find that little bastard. Get me out of here.”

  “Bail is set at ten thousand pounds,” Franklin said. “‘Twill be some time before I can raise such a sum.”

  “Ten thousand pounds?”

  “They don’t want murderers returning to the streets.”

  “I can sign for it.”

  “They’ll take only gold,” Franklin explained. “The crisis has affected many of my fellows, but maybe one or two might make a loan. You’ve been identified in this morning’s Gazette along with the evidence against you.”

  “I was only arrested yesterday.”

  “The Gazette was notified of your crimes at the same time as Bow Street.”

  “I’m being set up.”

  “John Fielding may not be my favorite fellow, but he’s far from corrupt. What could this Palmer character endeavor to gain?”

  “It might be simple revenge.”

  “He must have some intent.”

  Matt shrugged. “He’s a murderer.”

  Franklin gave Matt a critical look, but then his expression changed. “If we do manage to secure your release, if only temporarily, where would you start?”

  “I’d locate this redhead, Scarlett Palmer. There may be someone at her old apartments who can inform us of her comings and goings. I took her to a jewelry store where she fenced diamonds. Maybe someone there can give us a hint.” Matt frowned his dismay. “It’s like Palmer’s thought of everything.”