Yet he could not abandon this kind and brave woman, who had certainly been friend to him—perhaps his only friend now in Richmond.
“Have you no other operatives in the city?” he asked.
“Mr. Pinkerton has four such in Richmond. I have made contact with one, and he’s willing. But he has his own route to the North, by means of the west of Virginia, and it could take a week or more. He will take no other way, as he does not think them safe.”
“And the others?”
Her voice quavered some. He wondered if she was reaching the end of her tether.
“They have not responded to me.” She rubbed her forehead. “I have thought of using some of my ‘people,’ but they are rounding up Negroes found on the roads. Betty could do it, but her continued presence at the ‘Gray House’ is vital.”
Harry looked about the room. The furnishings were expensive and elegant, but seemed oddly incomplete. There were no candlesticks on the mantel, and no painting above where there obviously had been.
“Could you spare me someone to help tonight?”
She grumbled to herself. “You may have John.”
“John?”
“The gentleman who is always with me. But do not keep him long. I shall be very much alone without him.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you.”
“And do not expose him to danger. He has served me well and doesn’t deserve such trouble.”
“No, ma’am.” He’d forgotten to ask her something important. “Miss Van Lew, these officers Arabella had taken up with—do you know any by name?”
“Carew. I think there was a Captain Carew, or Carreau. And the Pemberton boy. He’s always getting himself involved with married women.”
“He’s a serving officer?”
She nodded. “Attached to the War Department, but in the Navy—not that they have much of one. His daddy’s a member of Congress.”
The cold was getting to Harry. He thought again of Louise’s warm bed. Of anyone’s warm bed.
“If I could impose on you for one more brandy, Miss Van Lew, then I’ll be about my dark business. And, do believe me, I’m not going to neglect the matter of the ironclad. That’s why I’m here in Richmond.”
She smiled, sadly. “I do not doubt you, Harrison Raines. But remember, there is no ‘while.’”
The undertaker’s was at the edge of Miss Van Lew’s fashionable neighborhood, just at the bottom of Church Hill but on the other side, north of Broad Street. The embalming quarters were attached to a small house, presumably the residence of the proprietor. There was no alley, but a short lane ran from the street to the rear door of the establishment. As quietly as possible, Harry made for that, leaving old John near the street. He was to start coughing, loudly, if anyone approached.
Harry had difficulty with the lock, blaming it on the cold and the brandy. The inky darkness was no help. He’d brought a lantern, but dared not light it outside.
Finally, after dropping his penknife twice, he managed to click the door open. Stepping inside, he closed it again very gently, then set about lighting the lantern.
The flame illuminated two staring corpses lying shoulder-to-shoulder on a table in the center of the large room. The frightful scene caused Harry to shudder, though he’d observed far worse manifestations of death at Bull Run and Ball’s Bluff without any such tremors. The powerful smell of formaldehyde added to his queasiness.
He needed to move on. Raising the lantern high, he turned slowly until at last his eyes fell on the sight he’d come to see. Arabella lay face up on a table in the corner, beneath a stiff cloth that appeared to be canvas. Taking a deep breath, regretting the smell of chemical that came with it, he moved carefully toward her.
Her expression had not changed, putting him in mind of a little girl’s china doll. Setting the lantern carefully on the table next to her head, he put on his gold-rimmed spectacles and leaned close, gently pushing her hair away from her face.
The whites of her eyes were flecked with dark dots of blood, and a gray smudge of some kind darkened one cheek. As it didn’t rub away, he took it for the bruise Maccubbin had mentioned. Lifting her hair, he found the clotted blood on her shell-like ear.
Her throat was much abused. The flesh was purple where the rope had been and torn in two places at the front. He moved the lantern a measure closer and lifted her carefully, examining the back of her neck. It was much the same.
Feeling slightly ashamed, he slowly pulled back the cloth, exposing her breasts, and then her belly. All seemed well and without injury, except for her hands, which bore abrasions on backs and fingers.
This was taking too much time. His army surgeon friend back in Washington City, Colonel Phineas Gregg, would have completed this grim examination much more quickly. Harry moved the lantern back to one side, then pulled the cloth off the body entirely.
Their youthful romance had been conducted in the shadows. The sight of her laid out without a shred of clothing in the bright lantern light was shocking, and fascinating. Thinking of her as an artist might, he was struck by what a remarkably beautiful woman she was.
But guilt and sadness began to creep over him. He chastised himself and set about finishing his task, taking her by the leg and shoulder and rolling her carefully onto her stomach.
There was a scratch along one calf, in keeping with his surmise that her stockings had been rudely pulled from her. The skin was torn along a line, but there was little blood. No other marks—no wounds or cuts or bullet holes—were evident.
Returning her to the state in which he had found her, he was pulling the cloth up over her body again when he froze at the sound of the door opening behind him.
It was old John.
“What’s wrong?” Harry asked. “Is someone coming?”
“Ah just gettin’ cold out dere, Mister Raines.”
Harry blew out the lantern.
“Well, it’s time to get cold again.”
“You fine what you lookin’ fo’?”
“I did. And something even worse.”
A sudden regret came over Harry as he shut the door behind them. He hated leaving Arabella there like that, alone and dead and battered. He wished her into her peaceful grave, for her sake.
But he would not leave matters at that.
Chapter 10
Armed with his military pass, Harry headed once more for the Tredegar Iron Works, taking a route through the town that sheltered him from the blustery morning wind off the river.
Images of Arabella kept him from sleep and deprived him of any appetite for breakfast. Cold and groggy, he rode his horse uncomfortably, wishing he had his faithful Rocket instead. That animal was so big and easy, Harry could sleep in the saddle—and had. He’d left him on his farm near Martinsburg, where he’d be reasonably safe from horse thieves looking for mounts to sell to the army. Pinkerton had promised he’d have Harry’s horse trading business in Washington looked after, but Harry had small faith in that.
The beast beneath him would have been a difficult sale, even for sharpers practiced in cheating the Army. He stumbled frequently, had an annoying tic in the withers, and, when at a walk, kept trying to take a nip out of Harry’s leg. Harry began to wish he’d kept General Hooker’s horse for himself.
The mount Caesar Augustus had hired for his own transport was much smaller but more useful—an older mare with a long black tail and mane, and a far more agreeable disposition. Caesar Augustus had a much better eye for horse flesh than Harry.
A corporal and a private now stood guard at the canal bridge. Harry presented his pass to the corporal, who squinted at it, then handed it to the private, who read it carefully.
“It says President Davis sent him,” he said. Both came to a slovenly approximation of attention.
Pocketing the paper, Harry nodded to them curtly and nudged his horse into a halting trot. The pass worked its magic at the gates of the Ironworks and at the entrance of the two-story office building that stood on the edge of
the bluff. A clerk there told him the manager was on the floor of the big gun foundry just below.
Harry had to raise his voice over the cacophonous din to be understood.
“Mills isn’t here,” the manager said, barely audible. “Wife died.”
“I know,” Harry shouted back. “That’s why I’m here. Where is he?”
“Hasn’t been here today. Not yesterday either.”
“Has he gone to Norfolk?”
“Why would he? His wife died. Hasn’t been a burying.”
“But he was in Norfolk?”
“He’s been there. Been back.” The manager faced him. “What’s your business here?”
“I’m investigating the circumstances of Mrs. Mills’s death—at the request of President Davis.”
“Seems to me Mr. Davis’s got more to worry about than that. So do I, so if you’ll excuse me.”
He moved off to shout at a foreman, who was directing the replacement of a mill wheel belt. Harry decided it was time for retreat. On the way out, he passed through the huge armory rolling mill on the east end of the compound. There were no stocks of iron plates.
Once clear of the sentries and on the hard surface of Byrd Street, which ran parallel to the canal, he turned his horse toward the city center and urged him into a canter. Not half a mile later he reined him again, turning onto Pearl Street and following it across the James on the long Mayo Bridge.
The Mills house lay a short distance up the hill in Manchester across the river. He rode toward it steadily, wishing he were almost anywhere else.
There was a carriage in the drive, hitched to a team and waiting, though no driver was present. Harry tied his mount to the branch of a small tree at the side of the front gallery, then mounted the steps.
It took several loud raps of the brass knocker before there was any response. Harry recognized the African woman who finally answered as Arabella’s maid Estelle. She apparently recognized Harry, too. Her eyes widened as she looked upon him, then she shrieked and ran away, pounding down the wooden floor of the hall. He heard a door slam, then all was silent.
Not for long. There were voices, and then the stomping of heavy boots on the wooden flooring, coming nearer. Palmer Mills was striding toward him in full Confederate naval officer regalia, sword clanking, hand going to a large leather holster.
Twice now during this vexatious misadventure, Harry had found himself compelled to stand down men pulling pistols on him. He was considerably less bold in this situation, though he had known Mills for most of his life and had once considered him a friend.
His apprehension had good cause. Still in full stride, Mills pulled his long revolver free of the holster’s flap and without hesitation fired off a shot, the report so loud Harry barely noticed the bullet strike against the wooden door frame just to the side of his head. Had Palmer taken a second’s more time to aim, Harry was sure he would have joined the many casualties of this war.
Having no wish to do that, he threw himself forward, landing painfully at Mills’s feet before the other could recock his weapon. Palmer tried to back up, but Harry clutched him around the ankles, causing him to totter. The pistol, an expensive Le Mat revolver from the look of it, went off again, very near Harry’s ear, but again he felt no pain. Rising on one knee, Harry took a higher hold on Mills’s legs and shoved, causing the other man at last to go over. An outflung arm partially broke the man’s fall, but there was a thud as his head hit the floor.
He sat up, holding his head with both hands.
“God damn you, Harry!”
The revolver was within reach. Harry kicked it farther down the hall, then pulled out his gambler’s two-shot Derringer—a much more useful weapon at such short range.
“Are you all right?” Harry asked.
“No. Damnation.”
Harry could smell whiskey. Though Mills was in full dress uniform, he looked otherwise unkempt—his eyes red and rheumy, his hair a tangle, his chin beneath his moustache unshaven. Curiously, he also had the slight scent about him of perfume.
“I didn’t kill your wife.”
“I know. Your Negro did.”
“No, he didn’t. And I think I can prove it.”
Mills rubbed his eyes, then blinked. “It happened in your hotel room.”
He pushed himself back a little. Harry kept a wary eye on the man’s revolver, wishing he’d kicked it farther.
“Where it happened is beside the point. Caesar Augustus did not kill your wife.”
“This is all your fault, Raines. Everything. Why in hell did you come back?”
Harry inched back a ways himself, but not too far. He rested the hand with the Derringer in it on his knee.
“I was on the wrong side.”
“Some don’t think you believe that.”
“Palmer, I am truly sorry for what’s happened. I thought Bella had put me out of mind when she married you. You were much the better man for her.”
“We’ve had troubles.” Mills rubbed the back of his head now, examining his hand afterward as though searching for blood. He glanced around him. “I want to stand up.”
Still wary, Harry edged back a half foot, then got to his own feet. Keeping the Derringer in one hand, he extended his other to help Mills up. The man accepted, attempting no tricks. Standing, he rubbed his head some more.
“You want some whiskey?” he asked.
“Thank you, I will,” said Harry. “Why did you shoot at me?”
Palmer started walking down the hall, not asking permission.
“Damned mad at you, Raines. I’ve been sick to heart over Bella. Can’t eat. Only drink.”
“You’re supposed to be at work—at the Ironworks.”
“I am at work at the Ironworks—most of the damn time. I’ve heard you’ve been snooping around there after me. Snooping around there nowadays can get a man locked up. Understand?”
“I guess I do.”
Mills paused to retrieve his pistol. Harry kept his finger on his Derringer’s trigger, relieved when Mills returned his revolver to its holster.
Continuing down the hall, he led Harry into a sitting room off to the right.
It was a handsomely furnished chamber, with velvet draperies and a horsehair sofa and chairs. Two decanters and several crystal glasses sat on a silver tray on a round oak table. One glass was half full of whiskey.
“So where do we stand?” Harry asked.
“We sit,” Mills said, so wearily it seemed he could not have stood ten seconds longer. He put his hand over his brow for a long moment, then sat forward and poured whiskey full into two glasses, shoving one glass toward Harry.
Both drank. Mills said nothing further.
“I’ve been empowered to investigate Bella’s death,” Harry said.
“What?” Mills scrunched up his face in incredulity.
“I have a paper authorizing me, and it is signed by President Davis.”
Mills still found this ludicrous. “You’re no policeman. You’re a goddamn horse trader—and a Yankee.”
“I’m a Virginian, Palmer, as you damn well know.”
“Why are you doing this? Why don’t you just leave us all alone? Arabella’s dead. What difference does anything else make?”
“They’ve locked up my man Caesar Augustus. They mean to kill him as soon as it is convenient.”
Mills shook his head. “You always did love those darkies. Look where it’s gotten you.”
“He didn’t do it, Palmer. And he’s my property. I’m not going to be deprived of it by some lynch mob in uniform.”
More blinking. “I thought you gave him his freedom. Your daddy like to kill you for that.”
“I did indeed. When I decided to return to Virginia, Caesar Augustus wanted to return with me. To do so, he agreed to abide by our local customs.”
“I don’t believe it. Never saw a darky didn’t run for the bush like a rabbit given half a chance. Never heard of one come back into slavery on his own.”
&n
bsp; “Believe what you will, Palmer. Davis gave me a week to prove his innocence, and I mean to do it.”
Mills took a large swallow of his whiskey, then set down the glass. “I’m leaving here, Harry.”
“Where for? Norfolk?”
“What do you know about Norfolk?”
“They told me at the Ironworks that you go there a lot.”
“I’m a naval officer, Raines. Norfolk’s our biggest shipyard.”
This was not the time to ask about the “Monster.” Drunk or no, Mills would end the discourse fast. And might do worse.
“Maccubbin told me you came to my room because you passed by the Exchange Hotel and saw Bella’s carriage parked outside,” Harry said.
“Yes. That’s true.”
“Who was in the carriage?”
“In? No one. Bella was in your hotel room—as we came to see.”
“There wasn’t a driver?”
“Yes. Of course there was a driver. Our coachman, Samuel. Did you think Bella drove that rig herself?”
Despite his poor vision, Harry caught movement just outside the window, the motion of someone who had been there leaving.
“Did you talk to him?”
“Of course I talked to him. That’s how I learned Bella went to your room.”
“How long did he say she was there?”
“A long time. It didn’t surprise me. What surprised me was that you weren’t there. I expected to find you both—violating the oath she took as my wife.”
“And then what? Dispatch us both with that Le Mat pistol of yours? Invoke the ‘unwritten law’?”
Mills wiped his mouth and then started out of the room. “Have to go, Raines. I am late.”
“To Norfolk?”
“It’s time for you to leave, Raines. Get out of my house!” Mills moved on down the corridor. “Drop this, Harry. Go back North. The South neither needs you nor wants you.”
“You have my sympathy—for everything.”
“Just go.”
The coachman Samuel was now on the driver’s seat of the carriage that still waited outside. He was a man perhaps thirty-five, and very muscular, reminding Harry in that regard of his fellow Secret Service operative Boston Leahy.
The Ironclad Alibi Page 11