by David Luchuk
I first approached Collette as she wandered Wilmington, gazing into barren storefront windows as though pretending they were stocked with finery. She welcomed my company and did not seem especially surprised to see a new face in the abandoned town. I told her that my husband and I meant to invest in the region and had not known about the outbreak of fever.
As implausible as that sounded, the lonely woman was desperate to believe me. Collette asked if we would relocate to Wilmington. I was coy, saying that my husband would soon join me and that we intended to buy land. I expressed enthusiasm about the property she aimed to sell. Collette was thrilled. When I said she could reach me at an apartment near the harbor, she was mortified.
“You are the only civilized woman left in this city. You will stay with us until your husband arrives.”
With that, Nate Drysdale’s home was thrown open to me. I saw the suspect for the first time when he emerged from his study as Collette showed me the house and surrounding land. He alternated between staring at me and scowling at her. He closed the door. That was all.
The next morning, Collette left Wilmington to deal with urgent financial problems out of town. That would leave me, Drysdale and his slaves alone at the house. I returned to the apartment to gather what I needed. I set the audio device to record the intruder then got to work. The gambit was exotic. If I had not been so desperate, and so tired, I might have refused.
The Drysdales lived in a fine home outside the city. The estate was located on an elevated bluff that faced the ocean. The house was vast. Its main level offered a deep fireplace in the den, a vast collection of books in the library and the sparkle of a gold plated chandelier in the dining hall. The Drysdales came upon their financial problems only recently, it seems.
The most unique feature of the estate stood at the far end. The home connected to a defunct lighthouse, no longer required by modern ships. It served as a guest house with a dramatic lookout from a sitting room at its peak.
Collette insisted I lodge there until my husband arrived to view their property. She apologized for having so few servants to help me. Some died from fever. Others fled. A small crew of slaves remained to run the kitchen and maintain the stables.
The murder victim was active in the abolitionist movement, which is a dangerous occupation here in the south. His father assured me that those political leanings did not come from George Gordon but rather from his good friend, Nate Drysdale. There I was, at the Drysdale home, watching slaves prepare food and tend to the land. It struck me as perverse, obviously, that Nate Drysdale lobbied for abolition while also holding slaves. That was the logic of the Confederate south.
Collette left to conduct her business. She expected to be gone for three days, which gave me plenty of time.
I was an unwelcome guest in Nate Drysdale's home but I was still a guest. Southern gentlemen insisted on good form. Nate sent a slave girl to the lighthouse to tend to my room and needs. The girl was so small her bare feet made almost no sound as she walked. Some impulse made me want to carry her around like a doll.
I sat in the upper chamber of the lighthouse, trying to rest. It had been so long since I slept. The slave girl slipped next to me and said that I was expected at dinner. I asked her name and thanked her. It was a small courtesy. My hope was that word would spread among other slaves. I needed to be in their good graces.
The slave girl left. Alone in the lighthouse, I tried to muster an untapped reserve of strength. The few scraps of sleep I had gotten over previous days did me no good. If anything, wicked images in my dreams left me feeling wearier when I woke. I was desperate for rest but sleep made everything worse. My body felt heavy in the armchair. I held my head and tried to concentrate on anything other than the exhaustion.
My thoughts turned to the murder. I was always able to focus when it came to the death of George Gordon. Nightmares, exhaustion, murder; that is my life here in Wilmington. How many times can I picture a hammer crushing the back of a boy's head?
Nate Drysdale was in the main house, expecting me to join him for dinner. If I pushed him hard enough, maybe this case would be over fast. That idea got me out of the chair. I had to end it. I was so desperate.
George Gordon’s clothes, still stained with blood from the killing, were arranged on my bed. I could not just put on the entire outfit and hope Drysdale fell apart before my eyes. The pressure needed to be applied gradually. The weight of this unspoken accusation had to build.
To begin, I wore George Gordon’s white collared shirt under my own knitted shawl. At a glance, one might even miss it. The man’s shirt was just enough to draw the eye. I hoped it would be enough.
I walked to the house. The familiar smell of incense hung in the air. Nate Drysdale was already seated when I entered the dining hall. He stood to acknowledge my entrance. A tin of snuff was open next to his place setting.
Drysdale did not have yellow fever. He was one of the lucky ones. All the same, the skin on his face looked loose. It drooped in a way that suggested he lost a great deal of weight in a short period. Drysdale pinched snuff from the tin. Each snort gave him a fleeting boost. His eyes flared. He took deep breaths, trying to maintain his attention. Within seconds, the effect wore off and he pinched again.
Bannan and Gordon told me Nate Drysdale was feeble of mind. I did not have that impression. His head rolled. He seemed off balance, like he was trying to stay awake. He looked like me in reverse.
Maybe I was casting my own misery onto him. I could not fall asleep. He could not stay awake. We were not so different.
“They say you were up all night,” Drysdale began.
“Who said so?”
“The slaves. They talk.”
Drysdale scratched the bottom of the tin. His supply of snuff ran out.
He fumbled with the tin. It fell between his fingers. His head lilted. Slaves hurried from the kitchen. The sight of Drysdale asleep sent them running. One of them yelled.
“Master. Wake up. Wake up.”
Drysdale’s body twitched then seized. His chin lifted. Both eyes were wide open. One pupil was completely dilated while the other contracted to the size of a pin point. Drysdale pressed on the table and rose. The movements were balanced and assured. He looked at me.
The slave girl came at a sprint. She brought her face close to his. In a calm voice, she said, “Master. Master. Wake up.”
Drysdale blinked and slumped back in the chair. His arm twitched and knocked a glass of wine over. He watched the puddle spread across the table. When it reached my plate, he seemed surprised to see me.
“Is that a man’s shirt?”
He squinted at the collar poking over my shawl.
“What do you mean wearing that here?”
The slave girl was at my side. With a hand under my elbow, she urged me to rise.
“Master has not been well.”
“What are you saying? Where is she going?”
He was angry but drained. He slammed a weary fist on the table. Dinner was over before it began. My immediate impression is that Nate Drysdale seemed a prisoner, perhaps of his guilt for killing a friend. That is certainly the way Mr. Pinkerton would see the situation. Perhaps not, though. He struck me as a man lost in his own life, where everything he knew had, at once, become completely strange to him.
The tiny slave girl walked with me to the guest house. I asked her to wait outside while I changed clothes. When I emerged, I handed her George Gordon’s shirt as well as his trousers. I told her I had no use for an outfit that made Mr. Drysdale so angry. She assured me they would be put to use among the slaves. That was perfect.
From the lighthouse sitting ro
om, I watched the main building all night. Nate Drysdale was up until dawn, stalking through the home. He was not awake, though. He was sleepwalking. Drysdale paced the estate with an even stride, unhurried. He did not appear tired. He was more animated than during his waking hours and appeared almost frantic in his dealings with servants.
The slaves tried to stay out of his way in that condition. After sundown, they retreated to a shack near the edge of the bluff. This did not deter the sleepwalker. He pounded on their door and waved his arms, ranting, once they answered.
I was too far to hear his demands. The slaves tried to calm him but it was no use. The men emerged to do what Drysdale asked. One was wearing George Gordon’s clothes. Drysdale saw the outfit.
A carriage was pulled from the stable and horses readied for a ride. Drysdale stood stunned beside the slave wearing George Gordon's shirt and trousers. The longer this went on, the more servants turned from their tasks to gather around.
A broad smile lit Drysdale's face. It came out of nowhere. He approached with his hand outstretched. The slave shook his master's hand, completely confused. They exchanged words. As soon as Drysdale stopped talking, the slave tried to walk away. Without a moment's hesitation, Drysdale attacked. The others froze, not knowing what to do. Slaves did not have the right to fight back, no matter Drysdale’s political views.
Three brave fools stepped from the group. Their lives were at risk the moment they entered the scuffle. The biggest among them pressed Drysdale against the ground. Two others pulled the battered slave out of his grip. All this, just from the sight of George Gordon's clothes. It was astonishing.
Drysdale rose. His slaves braced for retribution. Instead, he turned and walked away without another word. He climbed on the carriage and rode off.
The following morning, I found the clothes in a rubbish bin. They were sturdy garments but none of the slaves would risk wearing them again.
In the light of day, Drysdale again became the weary and dishevelled figure I had seen at dinner. The slaves seemed to expect this. They cleaned and outfitted the carriage, knowing to anticipate the same request from their sleepwalking master after nightfall.
I stayed in the guest house most of the day and waited. The slave girl brought my meals to the sitting room. The food was not to my liking. There was an odd taste under the spices that clung to my palate no matter how much water I drank. On top of everything else, now I was nauseous. It took almost an hour for me to feel well enough to get dressed. The sun was on its way down. There was not much time.
George Gordon’s clothes felt comfortable. It was the first time I put on the entire outfit, including the items I recovered from the trash bin. They felt as right as my own.
I gathered my things, easily sliding equipment I might need under the loose clothes. Dressed and ready, I rounded back to the stables. Drsydale’s carriage was waiting. The slaves saw me slip inside and hide. They also saw that I was wearing the outfit that caused so much fuss the night before. They let me be; better not to get involved in the strange dealings of their white masters.
I waited in the pitch black. The exhaustion struck like a hammer on a nail. Drifting, I saw faces from the gala aboard Lincoln’s train. I felt the whirl of a powerful narcotic overwhelm me. I felt hands on my body. I fought back, forcing myself awake. That was as close as I came to sleeping.
The carriage bucked as Drysdale boarded. He drove the horses hard but not out of control. Drysdale took the road back to town. Wherever he chose to stop, I would emerge. Nate Drysdale would face his victim.
In a trance, he took us back to the bank. He drove right up to the crime scene. I knew, at that moment, I had the right man. Drysdale dismounted. I crept from under a bench and advanced, unseen, past him to the front of the bank. Drysdale walked to the side and stood in the same doorway that the victim’s father entered on our first visit.
I stepped around broken furniture and the strange black pole. I slid the clapper from my pant leg. I was no more than ten feet from Drysdale, still waiting at the doorway. This was the time. I drew a deep breath and stepped out to confront him.
Then the world slowed. Like water sheeting over a window, my perceptions glossed over. I felt a sudden ease and familiarity. It was as though I spent half my life in the bank. Instead of a burnt shell, I saw pictures hanging on walls. Lights shone, reflecting against lacquered tables. There was a warm glow that made me feel at home.
I heard a knock. Who could that be at this hour?
I opened the side door. Here was the smiling face of my old friend, Nate.
“Hallo, chum.”
He reached out his hand. I shook it and invited him in. Books were almost finished for the night. We could have a late dinner together.
“Business, I’m afraid,” Nate said.
That blasted loan. I told him it would be his ruin. Ah, well. I could shift his account balances again. I should talk to Father. Surely, we can help Nate get this debt under control.
I turned to the papers. We would need to open a new account, shift the funds one more time. Nate stepped behind me.
An acrid smell jarred my senses. I gagged. God, I hated that smell; the bloody incense. Like a veil lifting, the real bank came back into view. I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“Sorry, chum,” Drysdale said.
I pulled the pin from the tent shield. A dome of interlaced triangles exploded around me in a cloud of steam. The surge pulled me forward but Drysdale was still holding my shoulder. As the tent shield locked into place, he was inside with me.
Drysdale held the cancelling hammer. I tried to swing the clapper but a woman without sleep is not adept at judging her range. The baton caught the frame of the tent shield. I tore the side open but failed to strike him.
Drysdale focused on me. He raised the hammer again.
I fought the urge to pray. I fought the desire to seek one moment of peace before I left this world. Pushing these weak impulses aside, I looked Drysdale in his swirling eyes. In as calm a voice as I could manage, I said, “Master. Master. Wake up.”
Drysdale’s eyes regained their natural focus. He looked around and seemed completely confused. More than anything, he seemed afraid. He dove through the hole in the tent shield and ran to his carriage.
I did not return to the estate. I have been here at the apartment ever since.
Nate Drysdale killed George Gordon. That much is clear. In a sense, the case is solved. Still, I am not sure what to do next.
I could seize him but there are no police left in the city. What would I do with him?
He was asleep when the crime was committed. What was his motive? If my hallucination can be trusted, George was actually helping him manage the mounting debt. Money was a weaker motive than I first imagined. Yet, how much weight does a hallucination carry? Could I present that as evidence in court?
Hold. There is a knock at the door. Someone is out there. The audio device is engaged. If this goes wrong, there will at least be a record.
Who’s there?
“You know who I am.”
What do you want, Mr. Drysdale?
“Tell me who you are.”
I am a friend of your wife, Collette.
“I am not married. That woman is certainly not your friend.”
What do you want?
“I want you to help me. I think I killed my best friend.”
You should turn yourself in to the authorities.
“I think I am going to kill you as well.”
* * *
Allan Pinkerton, Principal
December, 1861
Killing a man during wartime is not murder. It is not called murder
anyway. I have begun to doubt the distinction.
A rebel is splayed on a rooftop beneath the Protocol. He is going to die because I fired a string of lead pellets into his stomach and chest. I was not defending the Union. I did not even do it to save New York from burning. I shot him to save my son.
Is that an act of war? The answer must be no. What difference is there between killing and murdering, then? As he waits to die, curling around his wound like a clenched fist, that question weighs on me. This is not the work of a detective.
Crime is a failure. No matter the particulars, a detective always finds moral failure at the heart of every crime. More than knowing the law, understanding a person's morals is the surest way to spot a criminal.
What is the morality of war? People have asked that question for thousands of years. It will not be me to provide an answer. All I can say with certainty is that our task has changed. We are spies, not detectives. The rules are different. Did I murder that man or kill him? We need a new way of seeing these things.
Robert has come into view. For a time, we lost him in the haze. He is hundreds of yards ahead in one of the Protocol’s experimental flyers. So long as the steam platform remains in contact with his aircraft, Robert will be able to manoeuvre.
In theory, heat rising from the fire could act as a substitute for the platform. Robert believes he can fly the thing independently. I am not prepared to take his opinion as gospel. Even if the Protocol burns in the process, we are going to keep that platform under him.
Do you hear me, Thaddeus?
“This is no armored carrier. Protocol can only take so much heat. Rebels down there are firing at us from several locations.”
I will suppress the shooters as best I can.
Robert must believe he can locate turbine furnaces from the flyer. With that information, you can infer the configuration of the rest. Is that right?