The Time Corps Chronicles (Complete Series)

by Heather Blackwood

  “But you must be a good professor or they would have fired you by now.”

  “By ‘fired,’ I assume you mean dismissed me?”

  At her nod, he went on. “I teach well. My students learn. I write books and papers and make a living.”

  “So it’s not really fraud, if you provide the service for which you’re paid.”

  “That’s one way to look at it. But I did obtain the position under false pretenses.”

  Miss Sanchez didn’t seem bothered by that. Well, after finding out he was a killer and an escaped prisoner, a little harmless lie, as she would say, was no big deal.

  Chapter 19

  The next morning, Hazel took the Professor’s money and bought three pairs of trousers in a size that would fit her, as well as four shirts, a pair of shoes and a new cap. Once home, she took her old, dirty clothes to Mrs. Washington, who added them to the laundry.

  The Professor and Miss Sanchez were talking in the kitchen. Once Hazel was dressed in clean clothing, she hurried down to the kitchen to show the Professor what his money had bought. Another man was with them. They were seated around the kitchen table and the other man was removing his long black coat. He must not have been there for long.

  But why was the Professor entertaining a guest in the kitchen rather than in the front parlor, the library or any of the other rooms suitable for such a purpose?

  The Professor introduced them. “Mr. Grey, this is Henry Dubois. Henry, Mr. Neil Grey.”

  Mr. Grey studied her intently, and even after the Professor continued speaking, the man’s eyes did not leave Hazel’s face. It was as if he were memorizing her features. He looked like he was pleased to see her, and though she detected no hostility from him, it made her uneasy.

  “Henry, come see this.” The Professor was grim and handed her the newspaper. The headline proclaimed that president elect Buchanan was dead. He had died from eating contaminated food at a banquet.

  “It says the food was bad, but does this mean he was poisoned?” Hazel asked.

  Mr. Grey gave her an approving look. “Very astute. That is what many people think happened, including me.”

  “But why do it when so many others would be sickened?” asked Felicia. “Never mind. I get it. Collateral damage.”

  Hazel had never heard the term before, but she thought she understood the meaning. The Professor continued talking to Mr. Grey and Hazel could tell that Mr. Grey looked away from her with effort. She had been out when Mrs. Washington had served lunch and she went to the stove and took some chicken and vegetable stew and a leftover roll. She brought the bowl and a spoon to the kitchen table and took a seat at the end furthest from the adults.

  “The names of the men in the krewe are unknown,” said Mr. Grey after giving Hazel a brief glance. He didn’t seem to mind her sitting there. “It’s not a secret society, per se. More of an informal grouping of men, all wealthy.”

  “How do you know that if you don’t know who they are?” asked the Professor.

  “A name will leak now and then. A hired person will say something. But then, naturally, it is hushed up and there is never any evidence that any of the men are members of the krewe. Even proving that the krewe exists is difficult. If McCullen used the word publicly, it was intentional.”

  “What are their political leanings?” asked Miss Sanchez. “If they’re responsible for these two assassinations, then it sounds like they want the South and North to break apart, to become two countries.”

  Hazel thought it was odd for a woman to be conversing with men in this way, wondering about politics and assassinations. But neither the Professor nor Mr. Grey seemed to find it strange. Something about that was wrong. The Professor was odd, and after the past few days, he was used to Miss Sanchez’s blunt speech and ways. But Mr. Grey did not know Miss Sanchez.

  Mr. Grey leaned back in his chair. “That’s just it. No one knows their politics. We hear about this assassination and Lincoln, and it sounds like some shady cabal, bending the arc of power to suit the desires of unseen men. But no link has ever been found. No one was convicted of Lincoln’s poisoning, and from the way this article is phrased, a few others died with Buchannan. There was a banquet, and some of the food was bad. It looks like bad luck.”

  “Food poisoning,” murmured Miss Sanchez. “I’d like to know the symptoms he exhibited.”

  “Other reports on the krewe make them sound like they are just rich men, playing cards and drinking brandy,” Mr. Grey went on. “A few of them may go hunting together, or they may call on each other. They spend time at their clubs. They bring in young women for entertainment.”

  Hazel stopped chewing mid-bite and looked up. The Professor stared at Mr. Grey in horror. How could he mention such a thing with a woman and a child in the room? But Miss Sanchez just nodded, as if unsurprised.

  “Why are they putting on a Mardi Gras parade then?” asked the Professor. “What purpose could it serve?”

  “I think they’re doing it to gain the goodwill of the people. McCullen specifically mentioned the krewe, so he wants the name being spoken of about town. Tell me, Miss Sanchez, how did the guests react when McCullen mentioned the krewe?”

  Miss Sanchez shrugged. “They just listened. There weren’t any shocked reactions or questions. Oh wait. I see. Do you think they already knew about the krewe?”

  “Some of them. And many would have heard about it secondhand,” said Mr. Grey.

  “McCullen wouldn’t do this without a good reason,” said the Professor. “He wants word around town to be that the krewe puts on parades. The appearance of being a group of silly rich men, playing at secret society would be a good way to put one over on the public. Especially now that more and more people know about the krewe. They want to be known as men who spend too freely, not as men of influence, engaging in secretive deeds. If it weren’t for what Henry overheard, we would never suspect that the krewe and these deaths were linked at all.”

  Mr. Grey glanced at Hazel. “Is there anything you would like to add?”

  Hazel shook her head, her mouth full. She hadn’t said a word or given any look to draw any attention to herself. Mr. Grey glanced over her clothes, perhaps noting how new and clean they looked.

  “Mr. Connor tells me that you will be playing at the Steamboat Festival tomorrow,” Mr. Grey said.

  She swallowed. “That’s right.”

  A thought occurred to her. Was this man a friend of her aunt and uncle? Is that why he had been studying her face? Would he remember seeing her at one of their dinner parties, playing violin for the guests? She had done it often enough, and more than one person had commented on her ability. She may have been in dresses and braids then, but few people played as well as she did. This was a fact, not arrogance.

  She could not afford to be scrutinized at close range. She needed to leave. Hazel put her dishes on the counter under the window and slipped out of the kitchen without saying a proper good-bye. She felt eyes on her back as she left.

  The next day, Hazel wiped her violin case clean and rosined her bow. She tuned her violin, twisting the pegs until the sound was right. She would need to do it again at the Steamboat Festival, as the change in temperature and humidity would affect the instrument. But she did it now anyway. It calmed her nerves.

  She played a few notes, then let herself fall into playing an entire piece, a short one, as she, Miss Sanchez and the Professor would be leaving soon. Then, she put the violin away and rushed downstairs. Miss Sanchez and the Professor were waiting below.

  “Under no circumstances are you to go near that riverboat, do you understand me?” said the Professor.

  “Do you really think it might explode?” Hazel asked. The idea sounded far-fetched, but if that man from the police and the Professor both said it was dangerous, she had the good sense to listen.

&n
bsp; “Mr. Grey has informed us that odds are good. I’m required to be there, as I have to assist him. Miss Sanchez has offered to help, and as I cannot forbid her,” he sounded just the slightest bit bitter at the thought, “she will be there as well. But you, you need to stay safe.”

  “I’ll only be playing for part of the afternoon. Is there anything I can do for the rest of the time?”

  Miss Sanchez said, “Just listen to what people say. You have a knack for being invisible, so keep your ears open about the peroxide engine, assassinations or the krewe.”

  Hazel pulled her cap onto her head and straightened her jacket. She had planned on doing just that.

  Chapter 20

  After pinning her hair in a knot at the back of her neck, Felicia tied the ribbons of her straw bonnet under her chin. Thankfully, the bonnet did not obstruct her peripheral vision. The front of the bonnet ended just at her ears, leaving her face and the front of her hair exposed.

  Felicia had selected a light yellow cotton dress with a green sash, hoping she was appropriately dressed for the Steamboat Festival. From Henry’s description, it would be a day of light-hearted fun. Felicia dearly hoped that would be the case. What were the odds of the McCullen engine exploding at the festival? He didn’t seem to be a man who was overly concerned with preventing injury to others. But he would know business. He would not want the public spectacle, including the injuries. It would ruin his company.

  Felicia wondered if he knew anything about the shimmering doorway that had taken her from her world to this one. If she spoke to him, perhaps he would provide the information to get her home. But no. Seamus had tried, and had been denied.

  McCullen had shown an interest in her. How much of that had been attraction? Not much, she guessed. He only wanted to torment Seamus. And if denying her a way home twisted the knife, then McCullen would do it. He would not give up secrets for her unless it would hurt Seamus.

  She thought of her mother and father, her sisters and brother, her friends, and of her housemate, Doug. Were they worried about her? How long had she been gone? Would the Professor be able to arrange it so she stepped back to the moment, or at least the day, she had left? Somehow, that seemed so unlikely now. A freak accident could not be predictably reproduced.

  She needed to focus on the things she could control. Today, her task was to keep an eye on the riverboat that held the McCullen engine. At the first sign of trouble, she would alert one of them. What they would do about it was anyone’s guess.

  Felicia shrugged on her fitted brown coat, fastened the tortoiseshell buttons and grabbed her small leather handbag. The bag and coat were two other finds from Mrs. Washington. The handbag was probably out of style and the coat was old, but both were still serviceable. She followed Henry and Seamus to the street where Seamus hailed a horse-drawn cab.

  The cab took them past Jackson Square and the French Quarter. They rode parallel to the river until they reached an area of grass and hard-packed earth that teemed with activity. The streets around the Festival were crowded with people of all sorts. Most were walking, but Felicia spied two of the steam-driven carriages depositing merrymakers at the spot by the river where they were the most likely to be observed and admired. A few heads turned to watch couples descend from the carriages. The women opened parasols and tipped them back over their shoulders and the men donned hats. The group proceeded to take a long walk around the perimeter of the fairgrounds.

  A stage stood at the end of the grounds farthest from the river. A few pavilions sat behind it, presumably dressing rooms or areas for performers to store their belongings. Two sets of booths ran in curving lines toward the river. The effect was that of a rough circle, with the stage at one end and the river at the other. Directly in front of the stage, someone had constructed a wooden dance floor. A few chairs and small tables sat nearby for revelers to rest. In the cleared area at the center of the booths, people reclined on picnic blankets.

  Richer and poorer, black and white, the old and the young moved among the booths, playing carnival games, eating sweet rolls, meat pies or fried catfish or sipping hot coffee or iced tea.

  Seamus scanned the crowd. He wore an old coat and a scuffed brown bowler hat. He looked like a hundred other men there, completely unremarkable but for his height and his inability to quite hold his body still.

  “I need to find Mr. Augustus,” said Henry. “That’s the man with the music shop.” The boy hurried off, clutching his battered violin case to his chest.

  A riverboat pulled up to the shore, and within fifteen minutes, two more joined it. All of them were gleaming and white, like floating gingerbread ships with fresh paint like icing covering the wooden trim with its elaborate cut-outs. The largest steamboat had a bright red paddlewheel and two enormous smokestacks with decorative brass caps, each spiked like a royal crown.

  “That’s the one,” said the Professor, pointing. “The Delphia Queen.”

  Seamus started for it, Felicia following behind. “No,” he said, turning on her. “Stay back. The thing is dangerous.”

  “And you’ll do what, stroll and flirt?”

  He looked confused, then unhappy. “Understand, I need to get down to the engine room, and it’s no place for you. Besides, if McCullen mentioned the two of us to the ship crew, then both of us together are going to tip them off. He knows I want an engine. And the biggest one is sitting right where I can get to it. Best if I go alone.”

  Felicia hated it, but she had to admit that he was right. Seamus could fake an American accent, tip his bowler down over his eyes and pass for a worker. He could blend in and lie his way inside, while she would stick out like a sore thumb.

  “I’m going to keep an eye on Henry,” she said. “Oh, and Professor.” He turned back. “Good luck.”

  He gave a playful wink and headed off. Felicia glanced at the stage where a five-piece brass band played. Without any kind of modern sound system, the music was a pleasant background sound instead of blasting to every corner of the festival. She found that she liked it. Henry probably waited backstage, and as she could not go there, she took her time and examined some of the booths.

  The games cost a penny each, and she saw that carnival games had not changed all that much in over a century. A burly man threw a stitched leather ball at a stack of milk bottles and a young girl attempted to aim a wooden ring onto a board covered in widely spaced painted wooden pegs. The peg at the center was red, the surrounding pegs orange and the ones around the perimeter yellow. The girl’s ring caught on a yellow peg and she sighed in disappointment. A young couple stood side by side at another booth, both of them holding miniature bows and aiming them at paper targets. At a word, they both shot, and the woman giggled as her arrow went wide. The man’s arrow hit the target, and he turned to her with false humility, telling her that she had done well. She smiled demurely and he moved closer. No, not much had changed at all.

  Felicia bought a cup of hot coffee with the money that Seamus had given her and moved toward the tables set around the dance floor. If she couldn’t help Seamus on the Delphia Queen, she would keep an eye on Henry.

  A large booth next to the stage was hosted by The Southern Cargo and Trade Company. Pencil drawings of ships fluttered on a cork board while white lettering on a slate promoted Southern shipping as superior to Northern airships in both cost and speed. Of course, airships could go inland, which the slate board failed to mention. On the far side of the stage was a second booth, this one from the Mississippi Cotton Collective. She wasn’t interested in seeing their booth and learning about the virtues of slave-picked cotton. Giant banners tacked to the back wall of the stage named The Southern Cargo and Trade Company and the Mississippi Cotton Collective as sponsors of the day’s festivities.

  Felicia approached the stage, where a new band had taken the place of the previous group. They played a lively tune and she took a sea
t at one of the tables, surrounded by tired dancers who laughed and chatted, some sipping cool drinks. Others danced, sweaty, exuberant and oblivious to any danger.

  She listened to the music and angled her chair so she could glance at the Delphia Queen now and then. She heard no commotion nor saw anyone being hauled off the ship, so Seamus must be all right.

  Ten minutes later, he dropped into the seat beside her. “The engine isn’t too bad. However, it is exhibiting irregular catalyst uptake, and there’s too much smoke.”

  “Couldn’t that be because it’s a new ship? A new engine?”

  “Could be,” he said. “But I don’t think that can completely account for it.”

  The band completed their set and the dancers left the floor. Felicia’s coffee had cooled and was sitting in front of her. Seamus took a sip absently, an oddly familiar thing to do. Felicia didn’t say anything. A moment later, he realized his error and mumbled an apology. Stage hands brought out chairs and music stands.

  “Where is Mr. Grey?” asked Felicia. She had not seen him anywhere. Though he would blend into the crowd, she knew what he looked like and would have spotted him.

  “He’s around,” said Seamus vaguely. “Look,” he said. Henry and two other boys walked out on stage and bowed to the crowd.

  Chapter 21

  Hazel was a few minutes into her last piece when she saw the man. He was standing at the back of the tables, watching her with an unwavering gaze. Her eyes met his, and he gave a little nod. He did not smile, nor did his expression change, but it was enough. How long had her uncle been there, watching her, listening? He had been there without her knowing. The thought terrified her.