She wondered why she was irritable and caustic. David even asked what happened to the woman he’d met at MacKlenna Farm. He’d been joking, of course, but there was underlying seriousness in his tone. She was extremely worried, which kept her from sleeping, which made her crotchety. Fatigue she could handle. Fatigue combined with worry and stress she couldn’t, at least not for long.
How was Jack handling the daily rations of soft bread and salt meat? He had a healthy appetite, but he also worked out daily. He’d lose weight for sure, and without exercise he’d have no outlet for his frustration and fear. She’d seen creepy pictures of the torture hoods the prisoners were forced to wear and imagined Jack suffering from wearing the heavy canvas tied tightly around his head with cotton pads placed over eyes and ears. He could withstand some sensory deprivation, but not seven weeks of it. He could lose touch with reality and start hallucinating.
Was Stanton a sadist, devising such an instrument of cruelty? Was it his purpose? To induce mental and physical suffering? Or was it to keep the conspirators incommunicado? What in God’s name could they say to each other which would make any difference in the outcome of the trial? The men were outcasts, beyond the pale of human sympathy, but one of them was innocent.
No wonder she couldn’t sleep.
While Cullen went to hire a carriage to take them to Braham’s townhouse, she and David sat on a bench and looked out over the city.
“I’ve been all around the world. Seen the worst parts of it, but this”—he gestured with his arm to emphasize his point—“is not an undeveloped country. It’s not contaminated by twenty-first-century noise and pollution.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what it resembles. A movie set, maybe.”
Charlotte gripped the edge of the bench and fell into a slow, comforting rock. “I thought so, too, until I saw the suffering. When men are bleeding all around you, it quickly becomes very real.”
“Ye jumped into a situation most people would run away from.”
She stopped rocking, and her knuckles turned white from gripping the bench, but she couldn’t loosen her grip. “I’ve been critical of Civil War surgeons for years. Now I know firsthand they did the best they could with limited resources. In modern warfare, you normally don’t have hundreds of injuries to deal with at the same time. In this war, the surgeons saved the ones they could and later wept over the ones they couldn’t.”
David placed his warm, strong hand over hers and lightly squeezed. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. He’d lost buddies in Afghanistan, and from what she’d read on the back jacket of his book, he’d almost lost his life saving the wounded while under heavy fire.
“There’s Cullen.” David patted her hand, stood, and hefted the bags onto his shoulders. “Come on, Charley. The clock’s ticking.”
She spotted Cullen about twenty yards away, chatting with the driver of a barouche. “I don’t think the carriage has a meter like our taxis.”
She glanced up and met David’s eyes. He didn’t need aviators to hide what he was thinking or seeing. His beautiful hooded brown eyes did it naturally. Impossibly full lips tipped up into a smile, and he flipped the brim of her top hat, exposing her face to the sun.
“Glad to see ye retained a bit of yer humor. I think it’s the beard ye’re wearing making ye short-tempered.”
“Let’s hope I can take it off when we get to Braham’s.”
The city was once again in high spirits. National colors bedecked the buildings, replacing emblems of mourning. Passengers on the train had mentioned the muster out of a million men had begun at the end of April, and thousands of soldiers were pouring into the city. Camps were miles long and wide on every slope and ridge. Charlotte sat tense in her seat, observing the restless and impatient people bumping each other as they traversed the sidewalks.
“Are ye okay?” David asked.
“This is my third trip here. The first time I was scared to death. The second time I was excited, anticipating a romantic getaway with Braham. This time I’m scared again, but not for myself.”
“We’ll get him out. I promise.”
Charlotte gave his arm a pat and a squeeze. “Promises are easy to make. They’re impossible to keep.”
“Not all of them are, Charley.”
Cullen stopped whistling a Bach tune she recognized, but didn’t know the name of the piece. “David’s right. I’ve got some ideas, but I have to talk with Braham first. Keep yer eyes on the prize, lass.”
“Paul and Silas, bound in jail. Had no money for to go their bail. Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on,” Charlotte said. “It’s an American civil rights song. I guess Kit taught it to you.”
A distant stare turned Cullen’s face into an expression of pensive admiration. “Music stopped for her one day, and she swore she’d never again play the guitar or sing. It wasn’t easy, but she found her way through the darkness, and music is alive in her heart today. The days ahead will get darker, but ye’ll hear the music again, too.”
The carriage stopped in front of Braham’s townhouse and Cullen alighted first.
“Let’s not tell Braham’s butler who I am until we find out if I’m under suspicion. We don’t know what happened when the police arrested Jack. Edward might have given him up. And we have to find the sapphire brooch. If we don’t, Braham will have to take Jack to the future and then come back for David and me.”
“We’ll work out logistics later, but I agree we should keep yer identity secret until we know yer status. Although I don’t believe Edward would betray his employer’s friend,” Cullen said.
Charlotte threw the strap of her carpetbag over her shoulder and stepped down to the sidewalk. “He might if the police threatened him, as they did most of the witnesses.”
David glanced up and down the street then turned slowly, looking at the park and the White House in the distance. “Great location. Let’s go inside. We’re not going to learn anything standing out here.”
Above the rumble of heavy wagons on the hard-packed dirt came the sounds of spring, barks and yelps of dogs from a neighbor’s yard, and birds singing in full voice from the elm tree in front of the townhouse. The second-floor windows facing the street were located in the two rooms she and Jack had used. His was close to the tree. Hers looked out over the front door.
Cullen led the way to the front door, but stopped before knocking and said to Charlotte and David, “Since I’m expected, I’ll introduce ye as business associates from Kentucky.”
Edward opened the door quickly after Cullen’s knock. A sour expression turned to one of pleasure when he recognized Cullen. “Welcome, Mr. Montgomery. Come in. Colonel McCabe will be glad to see ye.”
“Afternoon, Edward.” Cullen turned toward Charlotte and David. “These are my associates Charley Duffy and David McBain. Braham doesn’t know I invited them, but he’ll be glad for the help, I’m sure.”
“Did you say colonel?” she asked.
“The major was promoted to colonel for his assistance during the attack against Secretary Seward,” Edward said.
A strange ripple, like pebbles thrown into a pond, went through Charlotte, and her heart seemed to sigh. She hoped being rewarded for his service would go a long way toward restoring Braham’s perceived loss of honor.
“They should have made him a general,” Cullen said. “Where is he, by the way?”
Edward lowered his head, shaking it. “At the Old Arsenal Penitentiary, trying to visit Mr. Jack. He wasn’t involved in Mr. Lincoln’s death. I know it for sure.” Edward sighed, woefully. “I wish Miss Charlotte was here, but the colonel, he said he didn’t expect her to come back, and we had to take care of Mr. Jack. Lordy, if only she was here…”
She dug her fingers into her wig, ready to rip it off and reveal herself. “Edward—”
David placed his hand firmly on her back, a warning gesture, and she shut her mouth.
“We’d like to work in Braham’s office while he’s gone.” David’s hand remained pressed against her
. “Could ye lead us there?”
“Yes, sir. Leave your bags here. I’ll take them upstairs and see to your rooms.”
Once inside Braham’s office with the door closed, David turned toward her, arms crossed over his chest, eyes hot and glaring. “We had a discussion on the street about keeping yer identity secret. Thirty seconds later, ye’re ready to come clean. Ye can’t, Charley. Ye’ll compromise the mission.” He pressed his hand hard on her shoulder, forcing her into a chair. “Sit and remember this is about Jack, not ye.”
Cullen slipped off his jacket and hung it on the back of the desk chair. “If the police come looking for ye, they’ll pilfer through our research, which would be devastating for Jack.”
“Okay, you got my attention.” So did a wave of nausea. She put her feet up on the desk and rested her head against the wall.
“Ye look like the blood drained from yer face. Are ye sick?” David asked.
She nodded. “I think I caught something on the train.”
“Ye sure ye’re not pregnant?” David said.
“I told you I failed the test.”
“Ye get false positives and negatives with those, don’t ye?” David said.
“Rarely. But I don’t have any pregnancy symptoms.”
“Nausea is a symptom. Kit’s had it with every bairn.”
Charlotte glared, jaw clenching. “So is travel, bad food, and no sleep. I’m not pregnant and don’t either of you mention the possibility again.”
The men busied themselves rearranging Braham’s desk to make room to work. David unbuttoned his jacket and hung it on a coat hook on the back of the door. He rolled his neck, settling the leather of the shoulder holster more comfortably. There was something odd about his pistols.
“Are you carrying Glocks?” she asked.
“Aye.”
Cullen cocked his head. “Kit had a fancy automatic rifle. Ye should have seen her setting her sights on several hundred buffalo. I’d never been so scared. Our lives depended on a weapon I knew nothing about, and she acted like she was at target practice.”
David laughed. “Even as a kid, she had more guts than sense. Nearly got me killed a time or two.”
“We got a wee lassie Kit calls her mini-me. From what ye’re saying about Kit’s childhood, mini-me is an apt description.”
David slapped Cullen on the back, laughing. “Hope ye survive to see the lass married.”
“It’s Kit who’ll likely not survive. Tell Elliott, will ye? He’ll be glad to hear she’s getting back the trouble she gave her father and godfather.”
Charlotte watched the exchange between Cullen and David, awed by the depth of love they had for Kit. Now she understood the glassy-eyed look in Elliott’s eyes every time someone mentioned her name. How blessed, to be so loved by so many people. She only had Jack, and their relationship was threatened. Her throat became painfully tight, and she swallowed back a gallon of tears, which, if allowed out, would swamp the room. Time to get back to business. She cleared her throat.
“You’ve had several days to study the court record. What do you think?”
Cullen eased into the desk chair, retrieved a stack of documents from his leather-bound briefcase, and spread them out on the desk. “I have a list of questions. I’ve also identified the weaknesses in the case against Jack.”
“What does your gut tell you?”
“Exactly what ye told me. Seward wants the defendants convicted. A military trial will be an injustice. However, with the current sentiment in Washington and around the country, odds are almost certain even a jury of their peers would convict them all.”
“But at least they’d have a jury and their day in court instead of Seward’s generals with verdicts already in hand. What about the testimony? Did you find anything you can use to help him?” Charlotte asked.
“Several pieces of key testimony against the defendants, and Jack in particular, were obviously manufactured, exploited, or coerced. After reading through the documents ye’ve given me, it’s obvious the defense had no time to prepare. We have time now. We also have the witness list. We’ll be ready.”
Cullen thumbed through several sheets until he found one in particular. “Do ye know anything about this?” He addressed Charlotte. “A witness, identifying himself as a cabbie, testified he dropped off a man and woman at Major McCabe’s house, picked up Jack and Booth, and delivered them to the National Hotel. Do ye know the identity of the couple?”
Charlotte dropped her feet with a loud thud, mouth agape. She shot to her feet, fists slamming to her hips. “What a damnable lie. Yes, I know the couple.” She breathed heavily, battling outrage for a bit of emotional control. “Colonel Gordon Henly and Charlotte Mallory.” She rolled back her eyes, shaking her head. “What a lie. It was the last date I had with the asshole colonel. We had been to the theater then had dinner at the Willard, where I saw Braham for the first time since he had disappeared and driven to Kentucky. Gordon and I had a disagreement. It was more of an argument, really. When we arrived back at Braham’s townhouse in Gordon’s carriage,” she said with emphasis, “driven by his driver, we met Booth, who had just finished an interview with Jack. And, by the way, I was furious with Jack for inviting that man to Braham’s house.”
“Why was Booth here?” Cullen asked.
“Jack said it was too noisy at the National Hotel, and he wanted to tape the conversation secretly.”
Cullen gave her a puzzled expression.
“With a recording device,” David said. “It’s like a stenographer reading the words aloud. Ye don’t have to read them. Ye listen.”
“Like an iPod?” Cullen asked. “I listen to music on Kit’s iPod.”
David arched his brow. “After all these years it still works?”
“Kit says the sun charges it.” Cullen waved his hand. “We digress. Continue with yer story.”
“When Gordon saw Booth, he fawned all over the man. Then, after Booth left, Gordon and Jack went back to the Willard—in Gordon’s carriage again—to find Braham. If the cabbie testifies to delivering Jack and Booth to the National Hotel, he’s lying.”
“What was Gordon’s relationship with Jack?” Cullen asked.
“Gordon hated him. He thought Jack was to blame for my lack of interest in him, and Jack…well, Jack has a certain effect on women. Gordon didn’t like it at all. He fancies himself a ladies’ man, but he couldn’t compete with Jack.”
“Do ye think he would go so far as to implicate Jack in the assassination?”
“Gordon is a drug addict,” she said, her voice shaking a little. “He loathes Jack, and he’s obsessed with me, or was.”
“Why didn’t ye mention this in yer video statement?” David asked, eyes blazing.
She shrugged with a tight movement, almost a flinch. “It didn’t seem important.”
Cullen made a choked noise. “Important? It’s the key that unlocks our defense.”
Excited voices from the hall alerted them only seconds before the door swung open and Braham stomped into the room, noticing Cullen immediately.
She fixed Braham with a direct look but he hadn’t noticed her yet.
The lines of his face curved in sudden joy. Braham went quickly to the desk and embraced his friend, clapping Cullen several times on the back. “Damn, it’s good to see ye.” Then he noticed David and his eyebrows shot up. “What are ye doing here?” He glanced from Cullen to David, and then back at Cullen.
As if remembering there was another person in the room, he jerked his head in Charlotte’s direction. The red of his scar was clearly visible above his eye. He pressed his lips so tightly together they were barely evident in the depths of his neatly clipped beard. He took a step toward her, and she moved backward, her heels scraping against the wall. The air seemed sucked from the room. She bit her lower lip, trying to think of what to say, but nothing came to mind as he advanced closer, then closer still, until he stopped within inches of her.
The memory of their last mom
ents together seemed to cross his face, and the hint of a smile, wry yet painful, showed in his glistening eyes. He traced the curve of her lips, and then a pinched look of shock replaced the smile, giving way to slump-shouldered sadness. He pulled her into his arms, and in a voice as soft as his breath on her cheek, he said, “Ah, Charlotte, I’m so sorry.”
His tears fell silently upon her cheeks.
81
Washington City, 1865
Charlotte left the men and retired to her bedroom to compose herself, change out of her miserable Ace bandages and facial hair, and clean up a bit. When she returned, only a little refreshed but more comfortable without the beard and wig, she heard voices behind the closed doors leading into the parlor. She put her ear to the door but couldn’t distinguish voices or words. She doubted anyone other than Braham, Cullen, and David were in the room, so she knocked and opened the door at the same time. The men made a move to stand, but she made a stopping motion with her hand.
“Don’t get up on my account,” she said.
Braham stood anyway and came up to her. “I hope, since ye’re my guest, ye’ll at least allow me to fix ye a drink.”
She fingered the hair above his scar and pushed strands out of the way so she could see the injury. “It’s healing well. How’s your shoulder?”
“I had a surgeon at the hospital where ye worked remove the stitches. He asked me if ye’d sewed me up. Said he recognized yer handiwork.”
“Really?” She smiled, pleased by the compliment.
Braham poured a glass of whisky and handed it to her. “They thought well of ye.”
She took a restorative gulp, sighing blissfully as the amber-colored liquid trickled down the back of her throat, extending tendrils of warmth and comfort into her chest. “What have I missed?”
Braham waited until she settled into a corner of the sofa before taking a seat across from her. “We’ve been talking about Cullen’s lad, Thomas. We knew you’d want to be part of the discussion concerning Jack, so we’ve been waiting for ye.”
The Sapphire Brooch Page 54