“She just tell me to stay home.”
Harry rose from the bed. “Can you think of anyone who was mad at Mrs. Mills? Mad enough to do this?”
She lifted her gaze to the window. The view was of the back wall of a brick house across the yard.
“Don’ know.”
“Think. There must have been someone.”
“Mister Mills, maybe. They always fightin’.”
“What about?”
“Everythin’.”
“She had gentlemen friends. I was given the names of Carreau and Pemberton. Do you know them?”
“Yessuh.”
“Who are they?”
“Captain Carreau, he be in the Army. Lieutenant Pemberton, he a Navy man, like Mister Mills. There’s ’nuther one—a major. I seen him at the house this week.”
“His name?”
“Broward.”
One of the idle dandies of Harry’s time in Richmond had been named Broward—a bully known for his arrogance, though he was from a family of small distinction.
“George Broward?”
“Yessir.”
“He’s a major now? He actually joined the army? And Mrs. Mills—liked him?”
“Yessir. But he ain’t done no fightin’. I think he’s at the War Department.”
Harry went to the window. The sky was lowering. The wind was whistling through a crack in the sash. “Have you eaten?” he asked.
“Not since mornin’.”
“I’ll have some food sent up. I’m going to leave you here until later this evening, then I’m going to get you to a place of safety. You can’t stay with me. It’ll only mean trouble for you.”
“If I go back to Mister Mills, I git sold down the river.”
“Palmer Mills is not my favorite person, but he wouldn’t do that.”
“Yessir. He say this mornin’ he goin’ to sell me and Samuel and move away from here.”
“But he’s in the Navy. He can’t just go where he wants.”
“Dat what he say.”
He went to his saddlebag, which was lying on a chest beside the bed, and removed his favorite pistol, a .32 caliber Navy Colt, putting it in his belt. “I have to go out, Estelle. Don’t go anywhere.” He paused at the door to look at her.
“Caesar Augustus say you are a kind man,” she said.
“It was kind of him to say that.”
“Could you git me some mince pie?”
“Mince pie it is.”
Wartime had changed Richmond as profoundly as it had Washington. Establishments Harry remembered as genteel—or at least, respectable—had degenerated into rough places, what Pinkerton liked to call “the abodes of crime.” Knowing nothing of Captain Carreau or Lieutenant Pemberton, Harry had no idea what sort of saloon they might patronize—if any.
Broward was an easier matter. He had been a regular of the Main Street bars near the Capitol, favored as they were by influential figures of Virginia politics and society.
After seeing to Estelle’s supper, and his own, he set out, heading west on Main Street and turning in first at the double doors of the Bell Tavern, where he had done much of his apprenticeship as a gambler.
He was remembered.
“Heard you’d vanished into Yankeeland,” said the bartender, setting down Harry’s whiskey.
He drank. “Reappeared.”
“How come? ’Tain’t so merry in Richmond nowadays.”
“Every prodigal returns.”
“You lookin’ for a game?”
There were two in progress already, one table loud with frequent laughter, the other grim and quiet.
“Later. Right now, I’m looking for George Broward. Do you remember him?”
“Doesn’t give us much chance to forget. What do you want with him?”
“Have you heard about the death of Arabella Mills?”
The bartender leaned close, then slowly nodded. “Heard she took a Negro to bed, and he killed her.”
“That’s not the truth of it,” Harry said. He produced his pass, flashed it before the bartender’s eyes, then returned it to his pocket. “I know that because I’m investigating the matter. That’s why I need to talk to Broward.”
“What’s he got to do with it?”
“Wasn’t he keeping company with Mrs. Mills?”
The bartender shrugged. “Never brought her in here.”
There were women in the saloon, but none of Arabella’s caste. One rather oversized lady was sitting on a captain’s lap. When Harry had last lived in Richmond, the municipal authorities would have closed the place down for such flagrant immorality. Now it barely was noticed.
“Does he come in regular?” Harry asked.
“Too regular.”
“Do you know a Captain Carreau? Or a naval officer named Pemberton?”
Another shrug. “Not by name. Lot of whiskey shops in Richmond.”
Harry finished his drink.
There was indeed an abundance of dram shops in the capital. Harry visited some twelve of them before abandoning his search for the night, including the Swan Tavern. In none of the establishments was there knowledge of any Carreau or Pemberton. Nearly all the saloons were familiar with Broward, but none had seen him within the last two days.
It occurred to Harry the man might actually have gone to find some fighting. There’d been skirmishes up in Fairfax County, though McClellan had not yet budged the main Union army.
Having had too many whiskeys in pursuit of his investigation, Harry decided to clear his head with an extended walk in the cold. His path took him past the Richmond Varieties Theatre, and, on impulse, happy for the warmth, he bought a ticket and stepped inside.
There was a policeman at the head of the aisle, a custom Harry had noted in Northern theaters, stationed there to keep painted ladies from entering the audience to ply their trade. The play, which was well under way, was a French farce with which Harry was unfamiliar: Fanchon, the Cricket. There were rowdies in the audience, most of them soldiers, so it was well the fare was comedic. Raucous laughter followed most every line.
The actress on stage was older, and somewhat fat. Harry, who’d taken a rearmost seat, watched uncomfortably, waiting in vain for a lady younger and lovelier to make an entrance, but Louise did not appear. There was a loose program on the floor. He retrieved it and, after putting on his spectacles, read over the names of the cast. “Devereux” wasn’t there.
Despite the guffaws and other boisterous noise, sleep was creeping over him. He snapped his head to regain alertness, but, like fog from the sea, drowsiness returned, and overcame him.
When he awoke, it was to a nearly darkened theater. Someone was shaking him by the shoulder, someone with a sweet and familiar scent.
“Harry! Please! Wake up!”
He blinked. His eyeglasses had fallen askew. Taking them off and placing them in a pocket, he turned in the direction of the lovely voice. “Louise?”
“You must leave, Harry. You shouldn’t be here.”
“You weren’t in the play, Louise. Where have you been?”
Glancing apprehensively over her shoulder, she sat down beside him. “I can’t stay,” she said. “Please go, Harry. Go now.”
“What’s wrong?”
She leaned close, her perfume reviving him, though the world still seemed quite misty. Her eyes were wider than he remembered, worry creasing her brow, aging her while she held that expression. It occurred to him she was wearing theatrical makeup, though she hadn’t been in the play.
Once again she shook him. “I’ll come to you, Harry—but later.”
“When?”
“As soon as I can, but not soon.”
Louise was whispering now. She gave another look over her shoulder, toward the stage. There was the glow of a gaslight coming from an open door.
She was wearing a thick winter cloak, with fur trim.
“I missed you,” he said.
“Good God, you’re drunk.”
“Sorry. I’ve been investiga
ting. I need your help, Louise.”
“I’ll come to you, Harry. I promise.” She rose with a great rustle of skirt.
“You don’t know where I’m staying now.”
“Yes I do.” She hurried down the aisle, disappearing through the illuminated doorway. A man’s head and shoulder appeared in the space after her, then the door was pulled shut.
Harry managed to find his way through Miss Van Lew’s smokehouse tunnel without banging head or limb, but he stumbled on the stairs leading from her cellar, scraping his shin. The injury served to restore his spark. He gave complaint in profane voice.
Miss Van Lew shrank back from him a little as he entered the house proper, as though he were some wild man.
“You reek of spirits, Harrison,” she said, raising a handkerchief to her dainty nose.
“My apologies, Ma’am. I’ve been prowling the taverns in search of information—and Arabella Mills’s several beaux.”
Her handkerchief was scented, though less sweetly than Louise had been. She waved it in front of her face a few times, then seated herself in a parlor chair, one at some remove from that which Harry took.
“Did you find them?”
“No, Ma’am. Not any of them, but I learned a few things. A captain told me General Johnston is pulling back from Manassas and will likely settle at Gordonsville. That puts him on the railroad. He can get his army to Richmond damn quick if McClellan tries to outflank him.”
“Harry …”
“And shipments of powder and shot have been rushed to Norfolk. Naval ordnance. The Monster is readying for a fight.”
“Harry, something odd has happened.”
“An hourly occurrence nowadays in Richmond.”
“No. Listen. I managed finally to get word to Fortress Monroe. I used my brave Africans, bless them. One was stopped by a Rebel patrol, but they failed to discover that her basket had a false bottom. Our message got through.”
“Well, then,” said Harry, relaxing a little in the too comfortable chair. “Our work is done.”
“Our work is never done. But, Harry, they’d already had word at Monroe of the ironclad. They knew. They have a direct telegraph line there to Washington. The government’s been warned, thank Heavens. Help is on the way—or will be.”
“That’s splendid news.”
“But it’s disconcerting. The only message I sent was the one entrusted to my black folk. Pinkerton’s people here have remained in the city. I am perplexed as to the identity of this mysterious benefactor. Surely it was not you?”
“No, Miss Van Lew. I’ve been here.”
“Attending to another matter.” She pulled her shawl closer around her.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, there’s good news on that account. Caesar Augustus is now in Libby Prison.”
Harry came forward, leaning in toward her. “Truly? With the Union officers?”
“I think in separate quarters, but there nonetheless. I may be able to visit him. I’ve been waiting up in hopes of your coming tonight—expecting you will have a message for him.”
Harry pondered this. “Only that he should not give up hope—and that I will try to visit him.”
She frowned. “I do believe that will be impossible.”
“I will try.”
There was a thump, from the floor below. Harry lifted his eyes in that direction. “What was that?”
She smiled. “We live in perilous times, Harrison. Soldiers came today and took my carriage horses.”
“Your matched pair? Those splendid animals?”
“Indeed. A punishment I’d gladly bear, were it not for the evil work to which they’ll be put in the Confederate Army.”
“How will you …”
She put a finger to her lips, then rose, extending her hand. “Come with me.”
Lighting a lantern, Miss Van Lew led him to a wide staircase that led downstairs from the main hall. At the bottom, she took him down a hall and then opened a door to a dark chamber that smelled oddly. Following her within, Harry saw straw on the floor, then, hearing a snort, turned quickly around to the right. There, calmly munching hay, was a Thoroughbred saddle horse.
“He’s all I have left,” she said, “but he’s a good fugitive. The soldiers looked through the house, but he made no sound, and they failed to discover this place, for I place a chest in front of the door.”
“What will you do with him?”
“I’ll keep him here another day, in case they return—as is sometimes their way. Tomorrow night I’ll move him to the stable of a friend who is not so suspect as am I.”
“I can do that for you.”
“No, Harry. It would do no good for us to be linked in that way should you be caught. And you have more important business before you.” She put her hand to his arm. “You need sleep, sir. It’s writ on your face like a curse. Go get some. You’re no good to anyone in this state.”
They descended as they had come. She gave him a cup of hot cider in the kitchen, then accompanied him to the tunnel.
“You’re going to Libby tomorrow, then?” she asked.
“If I can. I must.”
“If we encounter one another, we cannot speak, nor make any sign of recognition.”
“I understand.”
“Be on your guard tonight. The streets are unsafe. There’s as much danger from the law as from the gangs of thugs out there.”
Harry patted his coat pocket. “I have my Navy Colt.”
Though he heard odd noises behind him once or twice, Harry returned to the boardinghouse unmolested. He found his room empty. Estelle’s dinner had been brought and thoroughly consumed, but she was gone.
He’d worry about that later. Without removing his clothes, he lay down on his bed and rolled himself into his blanket, then sank into sleep.
Chapter 13
A pounding at his door put an end to Harry’s strangely blissful sleep. He shook his head until he could see and think clearly, then threw back his blanket and went to make the banging stop.
Standing before him in the hallway was a frightened and weary Estelle, her arm gripped by the forbidding figure of Nestor Maccubbin—a man who seemed to have no need of sleep.
“This one yours?” the detective asked.
“Mine?”
“She says she’s yours. That you bought her.”
Harry reached to take Estelle’s other arm, pulling her gently away from her captor. “Yes. She’s mine. Where did you find her?”
“Skulkin’ around the streets east of the Capitol. Looked like she was half froze.”
“Yes. Well, thank you, Mr. Maccubbin. I appreciate your taking the trouble.”
“Almost took her down to Hopkins’s auction house. That’s the law on stray Negroes without freedom papers. Pretty one like this’d fetch a proud dollar.”
“Well, thank you for not doing that.” Harry took hold of the door, easing it toward the man.
“You oughta take better care of your Negroes, Raines.”
“I will. I promise. Thank you, Maccubbin. Goodnight.”
“It’s near six a.m.”
“So it is. Good morning, then.” He shut the door.
Estelle scurried to a corner and huddled there, arms around her knees.
“Why did you go off like that?” he asked.
She sniffed. She had lost one of her slippers. “You never come back.”
“Yes I did. You just didn’t wait long enough.”
“I’se sorry.”
“And no doubt hungry again. It’s too early to get a breakfast out of this landlord, but when I come back, I’ll get you more to eat.”
“Where you goin’?”
“Libby Prison—to see Caesar Augustus.”
“I wants to come with you.”
“Estelle, you’ve been up all night.”
“I wants to.”
He rubbed his eyes. “All right. We’ll find you some shoes.”
Instructing her to remain in the pri
son’s open outer yard, Harry took out his military pass and strode toward the sentry at the main gate.
“I’m investigating a murder and need to talk to one of the prisoners,” Harry said.
The signature of Jefferson Davis worked its magic. The young man pulled himself to attention. “Yes, sir. When you get inside, ask for the duty sergeant.” He stepped aside.
“Don’t let that girl go anywhere,” Harry said. She was watching him. “Runaway.”
“I’ll watch her, sir.”
Harry walked on, trying to look as confident as Maccubbin would be in this situation. Two other guards inside were also readily obedient to Harry’s magic document, the last one escorting him to a small room at the end of the corridor. Inside was a sergeant, eating bread and gravy off a tin plate. His jacket was unbuttoned, and he’d been drinking, which Harry took as a good sign. A man whose soldiering was that slovenly ought to be amenable to a bribe.
“Who are you, and what do you want?”
Harry produced his paper. “I need to interview a prisoner.”
The sergeant wiped his mouth and moustache with the back of his hand. “No regulation against that.” He pulled a greasy ledger book before him and opened it to the first page. “Name?”
“Caesar Augustus.”
“Augustus,” he said, drawing his finger slowly down the page. “Nope.”
He turned to the next page, and then the next. Soon he had gone through the A’s.
“Nope. No such man. You sure you got the right name?”
“He’s a Negro.”
The sergeant’s expression darkened. “You mean, the Negro. You’ve come to talk to that black bastard that killed the Mills woman?”
“Yes. I’m authorized …”
“Not with me you ain’t.”
Harry waved the military pass. The sergeant shook his head.
“Nothin’ on that piece of paper says you can talk to the Negro. Sorry. Get out of here.” He paused. “Sir.”
“I’ll be back,” Harry said.
It was a long, cold walk to the War Department, but Harry had no wish to risk confiscation of his hired horse, knowing he’d have need of it when the time came to escape this city.
He reached the War Department well after it was open for business, finding a substantial crowd milling outside, including civilians he took for contractors hard after a share of the Confederate treasury—though the new “republic’s” money was losing value day by day.
The Ironclad Alibi Page 13