“Well, sure. See, in that war the whole business of spying was, like, a new thing. I mean there weren’t many real professionals, and the women were treated differently than the men. The majority of the books written are about the women like Wild Rose Greenhow and…that probably wasn’t right…the different treatment, I mean. Were women treated differently when you were a CIA agent, Ike?”
“How differently? Wait, is this going anywhere? What are you talking about? Who’s a spy?” Ike stood and cracked the window to let in some fresh air.
“No, listen to Sam.” Karl said, “She’s got it wrapped up.”
Ike slouched back in his chair and scratched his head. “I’m trying to, but I can’t find the thread. Sam, just the bare bones. Relative changes in social attitudes can wait for another day.”
Sam dropped into a chair, put her hands on her knees and screwed up her face in concentration.
“Wuff. Okay, here goes. I said before, I thought the two murders were connected. Now I’m sure. We have to start with the one in 1864.” She handed round copies of the Staunton Spectator. “You read this, right? The first thing that caught my eye…well, maybe not the first thing but early on…was the line about no luggage.”
“You’re straying, Sam,” Ike said, his eyes focused on the newspaper piece, “what about the luggage?”
“Okay. I was looking at the crime scene pictures and there’s a travel trunk in that room.”
“I thought you said we had to start with the first murder.”
“We are. Just let me do this, Ike. You’ll see.”
“Okay, okay, shoot.”
“At the outbreak of the Civil War…I know, I know…The War of Northern Aggression, The War of Southern Independence, The War Between the States, Mr. Lincoln’s War, The Late Unpleasantness, The Whatever War, That war. At its outbreak, families were divided. The nation was divided, and so on. There were two brothers, Quincy and Franklin Brian, from Trenton, New Jersey. They were southern sympathizers. At the start of the war, they went south to Richmond to enlist in the Confederate Army. They were on their way to an artillery unit when they met Major William Norris of the Confederate Signal Bureau.”
“The what?”
“Let her tell it, Ike.”
“Sorry, go on, Sam.”
“The Confederate Signal Bureau was the home of the semaphore troops. They would signal across the battle field relaying messages and troop deployments, things like that. The regulars called them flag-floppers…So, okay, the Confederate Signal Bureau also served as a cover for the South’s organized spy network. The Brians were brought in and enrolled as agents.
“According to Weitz’s research, they were assigned to spy on Northern troop movements in the New York area, sabotage supply trains, and procure materiel for the south. I didn’t know this, but some of the north’s biggest names, industrialists and politicians, were war profiteers. They supported the north, but under the table, sold arms, shoes, gunpowder, and so on, to southern agents who would ship them south. The lines between the two warring parties in this area were like Swiss cheese. Franklin Brian specialized in the procurement and shipment of goods. Quincy, his brother, spent his time in sabotage. He was involved, they think, in the unsuccessful attempt to burn parts of New York in 1864. That could have had a major impact—”
“Sam!”
“Right. So this Franklin Brian would ship to Hagerstown or Frederick, Maryland, tip off the troops in the Shenandoah Valley, which in turn would make one of their raids north, grab the goods, and head south. Sometimes, he could just load wagons and take the stuff to Winchester by a back road himself. He had a pass that let him through the southern lines and cleared him with Colonel Moseby’s Raiders if they happened by.”
Ike sat forward in his chair and noisily plunked his elbows on the desk.
“I know, I know, I’m getting to it. See, he would also talk to people. Ladies were leaving their farms and plantations to stay with families in the cities. Their men were off fighting and they, naively, thought their slaves would stay put. But they mostly headed north. So he’d talk to them and to valley residents and so on, and he began to hear stories about someone acting as a turncoat. Too many bivouacs were attacked and raids broken up by northern cavalry. It was like someone was tipping them off. It took him a year and a half, but it seems he found out who the traitor was. Now this is where the documents from Passaic come in. Brian wrote letters to his brother and sent messages to the Confederate Signal Bureau. He made copies for his own records. Some of them were in a kind of code. Not encrypted, just word substitution and initials for names.
“Now, listen to this.” Sam pulled a copy of an old letter from the manila folder in her lap. “‘Quincy,’ he writes to his brother, who was arrested and hung about the same time as this letter so he may not have received it, ‘Quincy, I’m heading south to “The prettier place”’… that would be Bellmore plantation. Get it? Bell—More, Prettier—”
“I got it.”
“Right. ‘I will proceed to…blah, blah…And take care of J. L. of the Home Guard.’…J. L., that’s Jonathan Lydell—the first one—he was a captain in the home guard.”
“And this leads us where?”
“For crying out loud, Ike read the story. Captain Jonathan Lydell, Commander of the Home Guard, reports that a traveler resting for the night in his stranger room was found robbed and foully murdered…The traveler is reported to have been a Mister Franklin Brian…He had no baggage and no apparent reason to be in the Valley…
“Franklin Brian…Captain Lydell…no baggage…There’s a travel trunk in that stranger room with the initials F. B. engraved on a plate. It’s in the picture. I enlarged it, and it’s as plain as day. He was there. He must have confronted Lydell but before he could ‘take care of J. L.’ Lydell got the drop on him and killed him.”
“And the locked room?”
“Distraction. People then, and today, too, are so caught up in the mystery of the how it got done they don’t see the obvious.”
“Which is?”
“The only person who could have shot Brian was Lydell. But the war was winding down, Sheridan will roar into the valley the next year, Appomattox after that, and everyone forgot. They had more important things on their minds then.”
“So you allege that Jonathan Lydell, the original, shot this Brian character to keep from being exposed as a traitor?”
“Yes.”
“You know it is not prosecutable? How does that relate to Grotz?”
“This is where it gets good. Guess what Grotz had in his possession, or looked at, in Passaic, New Jersey?”
“Brian’s letters.”
“Right. His letters, his brother Quincy’s letters, and documents from several collections from all over the south. Some are missing, and I’m guessing he had them with him when he came to Bolton to see Lydell.”
“He came down here to confront Lydell, the current one?”
“Confront? I don’t know. Maybe he was writing a New Jersey in the Civil War book, and wanted to interview Lydell.”
“And misjudged him. Lydell would do anything to keep that story under wraps. He has made a career of promoting his family as heroic and foremost in patriotism—Southern style. That revelation would destroy him. But murder?”
Karl, who had heard it all before, snapped his fingers. “Grotz wasn’t writing a history. His wife said he had a ‘big one.’ History books about the Civil War are a dime a dozen, your friend Dr. Weitz’s scholarly efforts notwithstanding. His writing is part of the academic routine, but there’s no real money in one more book about an obscure spy and a murder. I doubt if a publisher would touch it, maybe an academic press, maybe he’d have to self-publish like Lydell. No, the big one Grotz had in mind was blackmail.”
Ike nodded and pulled a sheaf of papers from a pile on his desk. “According to his bank statements, Lydell is nearly broke. Grotz puts the squeeze on him. He can’t pay, not without selling off Bellmore. He’s between a roc
k and a hard place. Grotz foolishly reminds him of the locked room business and, bingo, it all falls into place. He shoots Grotz with that old Webley and locks him up. Res ipsa loquitur. We could indict, but probably not convict.”
“Because we don’t know how he did it?” Sam said.
“How either of them did it. But Lydell knew. And he didn’t make that up on the spur of the moment. His ancestor must have left notes, a clue, something.”
“We could get another search warrant.”
“We could, but not now. I think we’ll sweat him for a while first.”
Chapter 40
Benjamin Harrison Winslow stubbed his cigarette out in the remains of his fried egg, and contemplated his grandfather across a littered breakfast table. When he visited Bellmore as a child, he’d thought of this man as god-like. There didn’t seem to be anything he didn’t know. Young boys, to their parents’ occasional annoyance, make their grandfathers into superheroes. But at some point either senility sets in, or the boys develop discernment. In either case, their opinion undergoes a gentle or a radical adjustment. Ben’s view of his grandfather had slipped remarkably of late. He resented the humiliation forced on his mother. He resented the snide dismissal of his law practice. His reading in the field had caused him to question his grandfather’s knowledge of history. Since the old man announced his plans to restore Bellmore and turn it into a tourist attraction, like some financially destitute English nobleman, he thought the old man might have slipped a cog or two. All of this mattered to him only marginally until he heard what the sheriff had to say about his mother’s accident. Something did not sound right.
“Tell me about mother’s fall again.”
“You heard it all. What’s the use of rehashing a tragedy?”
“I need to hear you tell it. Indulge me. It’s the lawyer speaking.”
Lydell snorted. His opinion of lawyers in general, and his grandson in particular, had been the core of numerous noisy discussions in the past. He exhaled and gazed at him in what, Ben supposed, his grandfather believed to be a baleful look.
“Your mother drank to excess. She was very drunk that day. She fell down the stairs. End of story.”
“The coroner said she wasn’t drunk.”
“The coroner is a fool. The whole police establishment in this town is run by fools. In my day—”
“It’s not your day anymore, Grandfather.”
“What? Not my day? Well, of course, it isn’t. If I were in a position to rearrange things here, that sheriff and his people would be running a haberdashery and sweeping floors. Certainly they would not be holding positions of influence and…” Lydell slapped the table, sloshing half of his coffee from his cup. “They wouldn’t be allowed—”
“To exist in your aristocratic world. I know. But they do and they ask questions and they make people think.”
“Think,” Lydell exploded, “think about what, may I ask? A man was murdered right here in this house and they have no idea how it was done. What kind of thinking is that?”
“You said how it was done, not who did it.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Ben, it’s the same thing.”
“As your attorney, I’m telling you, it’s not the same thing.”
“My attorney? Since when did I engage you as my attorney?”
Winslow studied his grandfather; took in the aging face and the lie in his eyes. He refilled his grandfather’s coffee cup. “You haven’t, but if I read that sheriff correctly, you will, and very soon.”
“That sheriff will never…” Lydell brought himself up short.
“Will never what, Grandfather?”
“Nothing. Nothing. I don’t need another cup of coffee.”
“Tell me about the bruise on Mother’s back.”
Lydell leaned back in his chair so forcibly he almost tumbled over backward. “Your mother tumbled down a flight of stairs. Of course, she was bruised. I’m amazed there weren’t more.”
“What about the cocaine?”
“More nonsense. Don’t you see what that man is doing? Typical of his race. He’s planting seeds of suspicion. He’s in over his head on this. He’s grasping at straws. I have a good mind to call my friend, Colonel Scarlett, at the State Police.”
“No cocaine?”
“No.”
“No bruise?”
“No.”
“And she was drunk?”
“Absolutely.”
Lydell rose. Dropped his napkin on the table and stalked from the room. Apparently, he assumed Winslow would clear away the dishes. The number of them stacked in the sink and on the side board signaled he’d not accommodated to the loss of both his daughter and his cleaning lady. Winslow piled the latest next to the others, rinsed and refilled his coffee cup, and stepped out on the porch. A woman across the street at the bed and breakfast waved to him. He waved back.
***
Ike had made an appointment with Leon Weitz to look at the pennies. After hearing Sam’s analysis, he thought he might cancel. The pennies were a minor and inconsequential concern, but in the end, he decided to keep it. He needed some time to process what he’d heard. Weitz would be a useful distraction. The fact that a trip up to the college would also put him in Ruth’s orbit at lunchtime held some attraction for him as well.
Weitz spread the coins across his desk and screwed an old-fashioned loupe into one eye.
“You said these were in a tree stump? How long?”
“No telling, for years maybe.”
“They’re in pretty good shape considering. I’m guessing they had a dark patina on them before they were hidden. That helped.”
“How?”
“If they had been shiny and then left out, the copper would probably have corroded quickly. That might have ruined their value, but the dark formed over the years, hundreds of fingers depositing oil, dirt and so on, made a sort of barrier. In the end, they would have gone but…I’m guessing they weren’t in there for more than five years. Does that help in any way?”
“Sorry, no. What are they worth?”
“You have one collector’s item here, a 1905. It’s in pretty good shape. It could bring three or four hundred dollars. It appears the rest are all in the two to three dollar range. There are forty coins here. For the lot maybe you could raise something under five hundred dollars. Are they for sale? I’ll buy them.”
“Not yet, but I’ll let you know if and when. Would iron corrode the same way, do you think?”
“I’m no expert, but iron oxide comes in two varieties. One is what you see on guns when they’re blued. The iron oxide there is saturated, no more oxidation can take place, theoretically, FeO4—black oxide—something like that. So gun barrels are protected from rust. Red oxide is FeO3, I think. Apparently there’s room for more oxygen or something. Iron can also be pre-rusted like you see on highway structures. Only they aren’t blue. They’re rust red. Same principle. Don’t ask me about the chemistry—haven’t the foggiest. Old iron that rusts slowly seems to protect it from sudden exposure to water and oxygen, the way these pennies were.”
“Bright red rust then means that the iron was recently exposed, having little or no rust up to that time.”
“I would guess so.”
“Leon, for your help you gave Sam on the documents and for this, I should make you an honorary deputy.”
“Not necessary. Just give me a shot at the pennies.”
***
A stranger sat at Agnes’ desk when Ike stepped into the President’s outer office. He gave his name and the young woman, whom he guessed to be one of Callend’s scholarship students, spoke to Ruth on the intercom.
“You may go in, Mr. Schwartz.” Very cool, very formal.
Ruth swiveled around to greet him.
“What happened to Agnes?”
“She asked for a long weekend. She’s going to quilt camp.”
“To what?”
“A bunch of quilters get together and quilt or something. Like band camp
only with needles. She’s never had a vacation since we got here.”
“Neither have you, Madam President.”
“No, nor you. So are we type A or what?”
“Just stupid, I think. I’m going to take one this summer.”
“Where?”
“Cop camp. You want to go with me.”
“I’ll take a pass. Tempt me with the beach or the mountains or Tuscany. Who’s going to watch the store when you are gallivanting around…where are you really gallivanting to, anyway?”
“Not sure on the gallivanting locale. Since Whaite died, I’ve been stuck here for want of a reliable second in command.”
“What about the tall guy you have on loan from the FBI?”
“He’s not on loan anymore. He’s a possibility but I’m working on something else, just in case.”
“Leon helpful with your coin problem?”
Ike settled in one of the wingback chairs that faced Ruth’s desk. “Very. Did you know he’s writing a book about Civil War spies?”
“I suppose I should, but no. With all the machinations going on about this merger business, I’m out of touch with my faculty. Is that important?”
“The book? Only peripherally. We have a motive for, not one, but two murders.”
“Who? Are you going to arrest somebody?”
“Can’t say. Libel law, professional discretion, all that—and besides, if we can’t put the guy in the locked room, we don’t have much of a case.”
“What will you do?”
“Sweat him. How about we get some lunch in your delightful cafeteria?”
“I brought a sandwich. I’ll share.” Ruth produced a brown paper bag from a drawer in her desk and peered inside.
“It’s not one of those chick concoctions, is it?”
“A chick what?”
“Like chick-lit, chick flicks, quilt camp, like that.”
“There are chick foods?”
“Oh, absolutely. Cream of broccoli soup, for example.”
“I have a banana and this,” she held aloft something wrapped in foil, “is cream cheese and olive on a bagel.”
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