Must the Maiden Die

by Miriam Grace Monfredo

  Praise for Miriam Grace Monfredo and

  The Seneca Falls Mysteries…

  "Well-written ... historically accurate and telling." —Sara Paretsky

  "The genius of Monfredo is to teach 'herstory' while absorbing the reader in a good old-fashioned mystery."—Newsday

  "A marvelous eye to historical detail...a beautiful read. If you have not yet read this author, then you are missing out." —The Merchant of Menace

  "Solid, classically crafted mystery that combines the best of Agatha Christie and Walter Mosley ... a treasure." —Syracuse Herald American

  "Miriam Monfredo is one of the most interesting and incisive writers in the field today."—Edward Marston, author of the Nicholas Bracwell Elizabethan theater mysteries and the Domesday Book series

  "Suspense-filled adventure .. . intricately plotted, historically vivid, thoroughly satisfying mystery." —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  Praise for

  Must the Maiden Die

  "The imaginative research and lucid writing create a fine balance: Seneca Falls is our perfect mirror for viewing the American women and men of the 1860s as they enter the war that will change everything."—Chicago Tribune

  "Written beautifully, richly satisfying both to the head and to the heart" —Anne Perry

  "Monfredo spins a clever, suspenseful tale that involves gun-smuggling and sexual abuse. She's at her best pulling plot twists out of actual events. Her research is evident on every page." —Publishers Weekly

  "Like an alchemist of yester-year, Monfredo musters the ingredients of character building, period research, and place to transform those elements into a golden resolution for the death of a Seneca Falls businessman ... Monfredo explores the gamut of roles women in that time chose or had forced upon them. Bravissima. I add that Monfredo does a wizard job capturing the spirit of the Civil War's early days." —The Poisoned Pen

  "An exciting story with a strong mystery plot and several fascinating sub-plots. Monfredo's research of the early Civil War years has captured the thoughts and spirit of that era, and depicted the plight of women." —Romantic Times

  "Echoes of Fort Sumter resound in far-off Seneca Falls, New York, where librarian Glynis Tryon is drafted into detective work ... A case that will take Glynis once more deep into the eternal questions of women's justice." —Kirkus Reviews

  MUST THE

  MAIDEN DIE

  Miriam Grace Monfredo

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  MUST THE MAIDEN DIE

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime hardcover edition / October 1999 Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / August 2000

  All rights reserved. Copyright © 1999 by Miriam Grace Monfredo.

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

  Cover Design by Kathleen Furey/Furey Design

  Website: www.miriammonfredo.com

  Smashwords Edition

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  For Frank,

  Scott and Nancy, Alyssa and Zackary,

  Rachel and David,

  Liz,

  and Christopher, who may one day write his own

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My grateful appreciation to:

  Betsy Blaustein for her relentless insistence on the Oneida Community

  Lowell Garner, M.D., for his knowledge of death and dying

  Katie Hamilton for her generosity and annotated transcriptions of the reference work Youman's Dictionary of Every-Day Wants

  David Minor of Eagles Byte Historical Research for quickly and invariably pointing in the right direction

  Frank Monfredo, truest critic, logic seeker, and friend

  Rachel Monfredo Gee, Austin immigrant and traveling companion-guide, for continuing expertise and quick-reference memory

  Scott Monfredo for his prodigious knowledge of the Bible, which saved for the maiden her good name

  New York State Festival of Balloons: Jerry Rauber, Tom Derrenbacher, Florence Allen Wood (see Historical Notes— "Ballooning"), and Woody Allen

  Carol Sandler, director of The Strong Museum Library, for ready assistance

  And especially my publicist Nancy Berland for professionalism, unflagging support, enthusiasm, and unquenchable humor

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  The major characters in Must the Maiden Die are fictitious, but actual historic figures appear from time to time. Interested readers will find these and other relevant facts annotated in the Historical Notes at the back of this and other novels in the Seneca Falls series.

  In 1860, New York State enacted a revolutionary piece of legislation, which followed the groundbreaking 1848 Married Woman's Property Act. For more than a decade, Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony spearheaded an exhaustive effort leading to its passage. This legislation was entitled Chapter 90: An Act Concerning the Rights and Liabilities of Husband and Wife. It was adopted by the Eighty-third Session of the New York State Legislature in March of 1860, and became commonly known as the Earnings Act, the first of its kind in the United States.

  No more alone sleeping, no more alone waking,

  Thy dreams divided, thy prayers in twain;

  Thy merry sisters to-night forsaking

  Never shall we see thee, maiden, again.

  Never shall we see thee, thine eyes glancing,

  Flashing with laughter and wild with glee,

  Under the mistletoe kissing and dancing,

  Wantonly free.

  There shall come a matron walking sedately

  Low-voiced, gentle, wise in reply.

  Tell me, O tell me, can I love her greatly?

  All for her sake must the maiden die!

  —Mary Elizabeth Coleridge, "Marriage"

  Prologue

  1861

  The adversary has spread out his hand upon all her pleasant things.

  —Book of Lamentations

  The girl has the quickened sense of all those who are hunted by night. Even in sleep she can catch the scent of danger; now it reaches her and brings her awake in an instant. She jerks upright on the straw mattress to listen for something she cannot yet hear. And she waits, knowing the stealth of the hunter.

  The room is dark, too dark for her to see. Outside the room is a long, narrow corridor with a tall window and a table that holds a kerosene lamp. The lamp is meant to burn with a yolk-colored flame, but only for those who need its light, and she knows it will not be burning now. The humpback moon rising will be enough. She strains to hear through the darkness, listening in a brooding silence that waits to be broken by the rasp of a latch being lifted, the first furtive creak of the door. From the hall window a white sliver of moonlight will appear, and as the door begins to open, the sliver will spread like the pale flesh of a peach made to yield before its time. Then, with a louder creak, the door will swing all the way open, and the pungent odor of spirits will come to her just as she has dreamed it.

  Now she hears a clicking sound. It is like the noise a rat makes running over
a tin roof, but she knows it is fingers fumbling with the latch. As the door slowly swings open, she crawls off the mattress and onto the bare floor before the man steps over the sill. When her rough cotton shift bunches above the fork of her thighs, she doesn't try to cover herself. Modesty has no meaning here.

  Lying on her belly, she thrusts her forearm between the mattress and the floorboards, her hand groping until it touches the smooth bone handle of a carving knife. The one she has stolen from the kitchen the day before. She pulls the knife out and gets to her knees, inching backward until she huddles against the wall beside a crudely built cabinet. The cabinet holds one drawer, a wash basin, and a chamber pot. Aside from the mattress, it is the only piece of furniture in the room, and it cannot conceal her.

  His breathing sounds labored, as if he is hurried, and when he comes into the room his spurred boot heels grate on the clean bare wood. The grating stops suddenly, and she hears his breath come faster. She knows why he has stopped. She presses her back against the wall, not needing to see to know what he is doing, and she hears the clink of his gold belt buckle as it hits the floor.

  It will take him a moment to find her. Even though the room is small, each night she pushes the mattress to a different corner. Sometimes, when the smell is strong, he will stumble over the mattress, and then she can edge past him and escape through the door. He doesn't always come after her. Not if he knows there is someone in the house who is awake and might hear.

  But this time she might not get away, because his step is steady as he comes toward the cabinet. The girl grips the handle of the knife with both hands. She doesn't know if she will use it for him, or for herself, but she remembers the last time, and she will use the knife one way or another.

  She hears him take another step toward her. Her palms are slick with sweat, and when she tries to tighten her grip on the bone handle, the knife slips from her grasp to drop with a clatter. With her hands outstretched she gropes in blind desperation, searching the floor, but the knife has slid beyond her reach.

  Then, coming from the darkness beyond him, she hears a faint keening sound and the man's breath catches when, like a faraway echo, the sound repeats. It is a woman's voice, calling from an upstairs bedroom. The girl's room is beneath it, across the hall from the kitchen in the rear of the house. Now she hears the slither of fabric, the snick of a belt being buckled, then the thud of his boot when he kicks the door. He mutters an oath as he steps back into the corridor, and the biting smell trails after him like an engorged tail.

  The door to her room closes. And with a soft click the latch drops into place. It will not be lifted again tonight; she knows this from the past.

  The girl remains on her knees, listening to his boots strike each polished oak step as he mounts the stairs. She hears a door slam shut. From afar comes his raised voice, an answering voice, his again. The voices continue until another door, somewhere along the upstairs corridor, closes with a muffled rattle. His voice that has been growing louder, grows louder still. Then, as if a heavy weight has dropped, she hears a thump and the squeal of bedsprings. It could be the springs, or the faint cries, that sound to her like a small animal being tormented.

  She has never once cried when he comes here. It is later when she cries.

  The smell of her own sweat wraps around her like salt mist from the sea. But the only sea she knows is a picture in her mind, so sharp-etched it looks like the brown daguerreotype prints hanging in the corridor: she is running on warm sand that falls away beneath her and when she looks back over her shoulder she can see the footprints she is making. But when she looks again, the sand is smooth and the footprints are gone, as if she had never been there. Like the moth that wings too close to the flame, she leaves no trace of her flight.

  The moon has been climbing, and a square of grime-streaked window lets watery light enter. It throws across the floor a kneeling shadow with arms bent like those of the Virgin in prayer. The girl looks down at her hands. She cannot remember finding the knife but she must have, because she is pressing the handle so hard against her chest she can barely draw breath.

  And she knows what it is she must do.

  1

  MONDAY

  May 27, 1861

  Let us cast our eyes over the history of man, and we shall scarcely find a page that is not tarnished by some foul deed or bloody transaction

  —Mary Wollstonecraft, 1794

  Violence does not always trumpet its coming. Its advance may be hushed, like the soft creak of the stair where a predator treads, the click of the bolt before a door opens, the whish of the knife while it plunges. Or it may be as silent as a look of hatred sent across a room.

  Then the night conceals what the day will reveal.

  ***

  In the predawn hours, foghorns began to blare, and the morning gave hint of what had passed, breaking with a chill mist that rose from river and canal to wrap the village in a tattered shroud. Bells tolled from church steeples draped in gray. And while foghorns and church bells were frequent enough in Seneca Falls, they could mute less commonplace sounds that otherwise might have been heard. When the mist lifted at noon on a flawless day, skeptical townsfolk crept out of doors, none quite believing that at last the belated spring had come. Although nearly none could have known what its coming would bring.

  Glynis Tryon was among the disbelieving when the first shafts of sunlight glanced off the tall, glazed windows of her library. She decided it must be true, the return of the sun, when dust motes flurried over her cluttered desk, and the clear cheer-up notes of a robin came through the door that her assistant had opened minutes before. Then she heard a faraway train whistle. With another glance at the tall pendulum clock standing against one wall, Glynis rose from her desk and went to the hooks beside the door to fetch her cloak.

  She nodded to several library patrons, and called, "I'm off to the rail station again, Jonathan, for what I hope will be the last time."

  The only indication that Jonathan Quant had heard came from a bob of his head. His bespectacled eyes did not lift from the pages of the book propped before him; a book whose dustcover displayed a distraught-faced, nubile young woman in the clutches of a red-caped, mustachioed man whose intentions were clearly not good. And in the event this illustration might prove too subtle for readers, the title in crimson letters blared: A Lady in Distress.

  Glynis sighed in what she knew was futile frustration with Jonathan's long-standing passion for these popular melodramas, and went through the door to climb shallow steps to a wide dirt road. She had not thought to wear a hat that morning, depending instead on the hood of her cloak, and now she used a hand to shade her eyes against the unfamiliar sun. Like everyone else in town, she felt as if she had spent the previous months entombed.

  Seneca Falls had endured the dreariest of winters, much like a prolonged illness which the afflicted comes to believe will end only with death. A blizzard in early November had stripped trees of their dry leaves and buried the last chrysanthemums. An ice storm in April had doomed the first daffodils. And the Christmas season, the brightest note in the darkest month, had been paired with a clarion call from the Southern states, joined by a drum of hooves from the horsemen of the Apocalypse. Yet many had not heard or had refused to listen.

  Since then, Fort Sumter had fallen to the newly formed Confederacy, the city of Baltimore had seen first blood, and the key border state of Virginia had announced that it too would leave the Union. These were events sufficient to discourage even the most sanguine of souls. At least those souls in western New York, and elsewhere in the North, who paid any heed.

  Glynis, walking up Fall Street, slowed to watch robins search the warming earth, and when she passed under the tall elms that lined the road, it seemed she could almost see their leaves unfurling to cast over the town the heart-lifting, green haze of spring. On such an afternoon as this, the reality of civil war seemed remote. But when she had seen Lincoln inaugurated in March, the city of Washington had brist
led with cannon as it readied itself for siege.

  She turned off Fall Street, the road that ran east and west through the center of town, then started up a side road that led to the railroad station. Just moments later, she heard behind her a rapid thud of hooves and moved quickly to the road's edge, although she could see no good reason why a horse would be urged to gallop while still within village limits. She turned as it pounded past her, catching only a glimpse of its hooded rider obscured by a long, dark cloak.

  Despite its pace, the dapple gray horse appeared to be under control, yet the impression Glynis had from what little she could see of the rider's blanched face was that it held fear. The face also struck her as being somehow familiar. But she had lived in Seneca Falls long enough for nearly everyone in it to look familiar; everyone but the transients who worked the canal and the railroad, or those simply passing through town on their way to somewhere else. Yet, as she watched the retreating horse, the rider's face nagged at her. Where had she seen it before? Then, as the hoof beats faded down the road, a train's long whistle sounded from the east. It was followed by another from the west, and Glynis put everything else from her mind and walked quickly toward the rail station.