The beer opened a conversation. Harry’s own troubled past, including years of wrongful imprisonment, prepared him to empathize with Metzger. He soon had the man telling his story. When it came to his union’s conflict with Crake, the German’s eyes narrowed, his jaw grew rigid. “Crake was Satan’s apprentice.” He clenched his glass. “The world’s a better place with him dead. But that won’t improve my lot. He ruined my reputation.”
“Where were you on the night he was killed?”
“Why do you want to know?” In an instant, Metzger’s mood turned ugly.
“Tom Winn, the hotel detective, is gathering information from men and women working here. There are hundreds of them, many more than he could handle alone. I’m helping him.”
“Well, you can tell Mr. Winn to mind his own business. But if he must know, I was here till ten, then at home.” He got up to leave. “Thanks again for the beer.”
Late that evening, Pamela met Harry in the hotel parlor and exchanged impressions of the Metzger family, strengthening their belief that the family had the motive and the means to kill Crake on July 7. Their alibis weren’t perfect. For much of the evening they were alone together.
Harry seemed dissatisfied. “If Karl Metzger were to kill Crake, would he call attention to himself by using his own boning knife?”
Pamela replied, “A reasonable, calculating butcher, or his wife, would probably use a hammer or a club instead. Still, Karl Metzger could have acted under the influence of his anger and used the tool of the trade from which Crake had banished him.”
Harry looked skeptical. “Good guess, Pamela.”
CHAPTER 13
The Forager
New York City
Monday, July 16
While Pamela and Harry were investigating potential suspects in Saratoga Springs, Prescott had returned to his office. He would examine the murdered man’s military experience to find out if Crake had shown a dark side of his character under the cover of war. Perhaps he betrayed a comrade, provoking him to revenge. The man who might know, Clarence Clough Buel, worked just a few blocks away in an office of the Century Magazine on Union Square. Prescott arranged a meeting with him for the next day.
Buel had produced the enormously popular Battles and Leaders of the Civil War, some 230 articles by veterans from general to private, Union and Confederate. While preparing the project, he had approached Prescott for a story from his four years in the Union army. But memories of the carnage still haunted Prescott and he turned down the invitation. Nonetheless, his interest in the project continued from a distance.
Buel would be familiar with a soldier as well-known as Crake, and he might have picked up scandal about him that couldn’t be used in the Battles and Leaders, or shared for public consumption. Since Crake’s death, Buel might feel free to speak to Prescott privately or at least direct him to someone who would.
Over lunch at the University Athletic Club, Prescott described to Buel his investigation into Crake’s death. “I believe that the resolution of the case may lie in Jed Crake’s secret life. Do you know if anything he did during the war would motivate someone to murder him?”
Buel reflected for a moment. “It’s well-known that he excelled in killing the enemy and destroying their resources for waging war. Countless rebels would have loved to kill him in battle. But with the return of peace, they no longer hated or feared him, or had a personal reason for revenge. There’s nothing in his public record but praise. His superiors singled him out for promotion and a Medal of Honor. You appear to be looking for hidden criminal or dishonorable acts that would move someone to private vengeance.”
Prescott nodded and took a bite of veal.
Buel continued, “Crake was never indicted. However, I strongly suspect him of at least two serious crimes. His victims have not received justice.” The enormity of the crimes caused Buel’s voice to catch.
Prescott put down his knife and fork, and cocked his ear.
“In December of 1864, Captain Crake led a small foraging detachment of the Ninth Pennsylvania Volunteer Cavalry to the prosperous Crawford plantation some thirty miles south of Savannah. Such expeditions were typical of General Sherman’s march through Georgia. His army lived off the land. The Crawford plantation was a prime target. Its wealthy owner, Mr. Horace Crawford, an executive of the Savannah Shipping Company, was a prominent supporter of the rebel cause. Crake’s men took whatever provisions the army needed, slaughtered the remaining livestock, destroyed crops, and burned the barns and other outbuildings.
“Meanwhile, Captain Crake, Sergeant Samuel Tower, and Private Higgins ransacked the main house of its valuable silverware and jewelry. Crake believed that a treasure in gold and silver was also hidden there. He conspired with Tower and the private to divide the entire loot among themselves—he taking the largest portion.”
“He’s already violating military law,” Prescott remarked. “The plunder belonged to the army.”
“Correct,” Buel agreed, then continued. “To force Mr. Crawford to reveal the treasure’s location, Crake threatened to rape his wife and daughter. Crawford then led Crake and the private to the basement, where he drew a pair of hidden pistols and shot the private dead. His second pistol misfired. Crake ran him through with his saber. Enraged now, he rushed upstairs and beat and raped Crawford’s wife and daughter, and shot his young son. Then he and Tower set fire to the house and left with the valuables they had found. But the main treasure was, in fact, safely hidden in a Savannah bank.”
“Why didn’t the army court-martial Crake for the attempted theft and the rape of the two women?”
“Samuel Tower was the only military witness and he remained silent, perhaps because he was implicated in the crime. I can only conjecture that the Crawford women didn’t complain because they believed that the rapes would shame them. They also didn’t trust the Union army to give them justice.”
“How did you find this out?”
“Many years later, Tower learned of my Battles and Leaders project and asked to be included. His cryptic reference to Crake and foraging in Georgia intrigued me. I asked him for a ten-page article for consideration. A few months later, he sent me a detailed manuscript of the Crawford incident and a similar atrocity involving Crake in Columbia, South Carolina.
“Unfortunately, his comments on Crake couldn’t be verified and would have attracted a lawsuit for slander. Tower also demanded too much money for the manuscript and insisted on anonymity. I returned the manuscript but kept a copy.”
Buel showed Prescott a recent letter from Tower, now living in the Pennsylvania Soldiers and Sailors Home in Erie, still accusing Crake of rape.
“I didn’t reply. He’s a crank and shouldn’t be encouraged. Since then, the Crawford incident has bubbled up in my mind. From time to time I’ve studied the Ninth Pennsylvania Cavalry, particularly its foraging in the Savannah area, as well as its notorious behavior in South Carolina. I’ve also glanced at the Crawfords. Mrs. Crawford died shortly after the incident, but her daughter, Edith, and son, James, recovered and then prospered in commerce after the war. Several years ago, they moved to New York. I asked James Crawford for an interview, but he declined. Still, through these inquiries, Tower’s tale gained credibility in my mind.”
When Buel finished, Prescott remained silent for a long moment, shaken too much to speak. Crake’s raw violence had appalled him. He wasn’t entirely surprised. Crake had shown similar brutality toward Ruth Colt. But Prescott’s attempt to sort out rationally what he had heard soon failed. A riot of vile images stirred in his imagination, calling up some of his old demons from the war. In the warm and stuffy dining room he began to feel faint, then dizzy and nauseous.
Buel immediately recognized the symptoms. “We’ll take a walk, Prescott, and clear your head.” He helped him up from the table and led him to the club’s inner courtyard.
Exercise, a change of scenery, and Buel’s compassionate understanding of a soldier’s malady helped Prescott to rec
over quickly. He thanked Buel, then asked him, “Since Crake is now dead, would you lend me Tower’s manuscript. It may be relevant to my client’s case.” He explained Francesca Ricci’s predicament. “To clear her, I must pursue all possible leads to Crake’s killer. The surviving Crawfords could be suspected in his death. Their home in New York is a convenient train ride to Saratoga Springs. Further investigation may clear them. In any case, justice must be served.”
Buel reflected thoughtfully, then said, “I’m now willing to lend you the manuscript for your personal use, but without permission to publish it.” He also gave Prescott the address of Sergeant Tower in Erie at the Pennsylvania Soldiers and Sailors Home and the Crawford business address in New York City.
After Buel left for his office, Prescott lingered at the club, nursing a brandy. He could reach Erie by an overnight New York Central train. Tower would be wary: He could be thrown out of his home for malingering. It was only his word against Crake’s heroic reputation. But perhaps now that Crake was dead, Tower might give out his information for Francesca Ricci’s sake.
Tower’s witness would damage Crake’s reputation. But, more important, it would bring the Crawfords within the scope of the investigation. A desire for revenge probably lay behind Virgil Crawford’s insistence that Crake be investigated in Ruth Colt’s suspicious disappearance. Crake had to be punished one way or another for what he did to the family.
The overnight train to Erie arrived early in the morning of July 18. Prescott waited until a decent hour and went to the Pennsylvania Soldiers and Sailors Home. After introducing himself to the director, he explained that he was doing research on the war.
“May I speak to old Samuel Tower? He might have heard that his former captain Jed Crake was murdered a week ago in Saratoga Springs. I can bring Tower up to date on the details.”
The director agreed and led Prescott into a parlor. “I’ll fetch the sergeant, as he likes to be called.”
Tower shuffled into the room on a cane. Bald, deeply bent, and toothless, he looked ancient and decrepit. But his bright, beady, little black eyes revealed an alert mind.
He saluted Prescott. “Thanks for stopping, Captain. Tell me about Crake. He was murdered, you say? How did I miss that?” A servant arrived with a tray of lemonade and sweet biscuits.
Prescott gave a brief account of the crime and its investigation. “The police have arrested a chambermaid, but she may be innocent. The evidence against her is circumstantial. One of Crake’s enemies might have killed him.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me,” said Tower. “He rode roughshod over anyone in his way. Do you have someone particular in mind?” Then he chuckled, aiming his cane at an invisible enemy. “I didn’t kill him. I might have done it years ago, but not anymore. I’m anchored here.”
“During the war, you and Crake were close friends. What happened?”
“After the war, he became rich in meatpacking and railroads. I wasn’t so lucky and lost everything in gold and silver mines out west. When I asked him for help, he replied that lending to me was like throwing money down a rat hole. I felt betrayed and could have killed him then. I had done him many favors. Now it doesn’t matter. The doctor tells me I’m not long for this world.” He tapped his chest and added, “A bad heart. And my kidneys are failing.”
The room fell silent for a few moments. Then Prescott remarked, “I had in mind the Crawford incident in December sixty-four near Savannah.”
“You’ve been in touch with Clarence Buel at Century Magazine, I see.”
“I know the bare facts. Could you tell me why Crake was so brutal toward Crawford’s wife and children? His behavior deserved a court-martial.”
“It did, indeed. He was a proud, passionate man of common stock and allowed no man or woman to hold him in contempt. Mrs. Lavinia Crawford was an outspoken rebel, embittered by the loss of her eldest son, a Confederate officer, at Gettysburg in sixty-three. From the outset, she defied Crake to do his worst. She fancied herself an aristocrat and treated his blue uniform, his captain’s rank, and his own person with open disrespect. She called him a vile thief, a vicious brute, and other names I can’t remember. He grew red in the face. She mocked him and egged him on, said he was common as dirt. Still, he kept his temper under control. Then, when Mr. Crawford shot Private Higgins in the basement, Crake exploded. He charged into the library like a maniac, waving his bloody sword.
“She screamed at him, ‘You filthy beast, you killed my husband. ’
“He struck her hard on the mouth and continued to beat her with his fists. The daughter and son screamed for help. I called out to him to stop and took a step toward him. He drew his pistol and aimed at me. His eyes were dark and wild. He breathed heavily. ‘Get out of the room or I’ll kill you,’ he said.
“I saw that he was out of his mind. He really would kill me, or anyone else who tried to stop him. So, I left the room. He bolted the door behind me. Through a window in the door, I could see what followed. He ripped off the woman’s clothes, beat her savagely, and violated her. Through it all, she didn’t even whimper. That seemed to madden him even more, and he attacked her daughter in the same way. Then he shot all three of them and set the drapes on fire.”
Tower paused, eyes cast down, and drank his lemonade. The atrocity seemed to overcome him. After a few moments, he put down his glass, drew a shallow, wheezy breath, and resumed his story.
“Finally, Crake came out of the room, the rage draining out of his body. He nearly fainted in my arms. I had to help him outside to his horse and into the saddle.”
“Was there no way you could have stopped him?” asked Prescott.
For a moment, Tower’s eyes flashed brightly. He resented the question. “At the time, part of me felt that she and the rest of the family deserved to be severely punished. They and their kind had torn the country apart, caused a bloody conflict, and didn’t feel one bit sorry. So, I might not have tried to stop Crake as much as I should have. He became their jury, judge, and executioner.”
“What happened afterward?”
“Soon after leaving the plantation, our detachment ran into the local Georgia militia. That occupied our minds for a few hours. In the fighting, Crake was his old self, rallying his men, charging the enemy. Afterward, as we approached our camp outside Savannah, Crake sidled up to me and asked if I was going to report him. I replied that I wasn’t responsible for writing a report; he was. However, if our commanding officer or the provost marshal were to question me, I would give them truthful answers, no more, no less.”
“How did Crake react?”
“He stared at me and didn’t say a word. Then he spurred his horse and rode away. He was angry. I worried. He could cause me serious trouble. But no charges were brought against our detachment, and none against Crake in particular. I figured that Crake’s victims had perished in the fire, so there were no witnesses to bring forward a complaint. Much later I learned that the daughter and the son had survived; but for whatever reason, they remained silent.”
“Did the Crawford incident later affect your relationship with Crake?”
“We carried on as if nothing had happened. Soon Savannah surrendered; the Ninth Pennsylvania Cavalry advanced with Sherman’s army into South Carolina. For Crake and me, it was business as usual, mostly skirmishes with rebel cavalry. We occupied the state capital, Columbia, without a fight. Then came another incident involving Crake. Our men uncovered a warehouse of whiskey. That night, I wasn’t with Crake, but I later heard rumors that he was involved in an orgy of drunken rape. This time the victims were black women. Again, he wasn’t cited, and I didn’t feel obliged to report him.
“The war soon ended. As civilians, we occasionally met afterward and carried on as if nothing untoward had happened. Meanwhile, he prospered. I didn’t. Several years ago, I asked him for a loan. He refused. Since then, we’ve been out of touch.” He stopped as if uncertain what to say. Finally, he remarked, “Crake was a brave soldier but a wicked man. If th
e Crawfords killed him, I would say rough justice was done.”
The next day, back in his New York office, Prescott reflected on what he had learned about the Crawfords. Was their experience at Crake’s hands so dreadful that they would still seek revenge thirty years later? To judge from Virgil Crawford’s pursuit of Crake in the Colt case, Prescott had to say yes. But could they have done it?
Late in the afternoon, Peter Yates arrived at the office. He had investigated the Crawfords’ whereabouts on July 7, when Crake was killed. “Their business address is at Pier 35 on the Hudson River in the general offices of the Ocean Steamship Line. James Crawford is the chief financial officer of the company. I was told that he was out of the office. A porter said that James and his sister, Edith, lived ten minutes away in a town house on Washington Square. When I came, the building was shuttered. A caretaker came to the door and said the Crawfords were not at home. ‘When did they leave?’ I asked.
“The man didn’t know when and where they went. The neighbor next door saw them leave with a couple of trunks on July first and overheard them tell the cab driver, ‘Grand Central Station.’ Finally, at the local post office I got their forwarding address from a helpful clerk.”
Yates paused expectantly.
“Yes, what is it?”
“The Grand Union Hotel on Broadway in Saratoga Springs. To judge from the trunks, they’ll stay for the season. Now, isn’t that a coincidence?”
“I agree! It’s beginning to look like we may have found a pair of possible suspects in the death of Captain Crake. I’ll let Mrs. Thompson know.”
At dinner the following day, Pamela sat with Harry in the dining room. They were expecting the main course when Jason Dunn approached and handed Pamela a telegram. “It’s from Prescott,” she said, then read it aloud:
Death in Saratoga Springs Page 11