The Tarleton Murders

by Breck England

  I scanned the list and noted with interest, in addition to my own name, the names of “General Martin Gary and Colonel Benjamin Tillman of South Carolina,” my hosts at the New Year’s Cotillion, along with other worthies whose names I recognized only from reading the political columns of the newspapers—senators, representatives, mayors, and a whole parade of Confederate colonels, captains, and majors. But the most intriguing name on the list was “General Abraham Beaufort of Kentucky.”

  “Well, Holmes,” I announced, holding up the letter, “it appears that I will be entering the door, as you say, into the very heart of the conspiracy. I have been invited to meet with the Atlanta Ring.”

  Holmes started from his reverie. “When?”

  “Monday week, at the Kimball House, the finest hotel in Atlanta.”

  Holmes grasped my letter, read it, and did what I can only describe as a few steps of an awkward jig. “It is better than I could have hoped for. Look at the date, Tuck! January the twenty-seventh! ‘The board meets!’”

  “Do you think this is the board meeting referred to in Mrs. Wells’s cryptogram?”

  “It is the right date. It is the right city.”

  “But it is a ‘committee’ that meets, not a ‘board.’”

  “True.” Holmes stopped dancing. “That may signify. Also, we are still at sea over the expression ‘GRFD9.’ This invitation does not help us with that little problem.”

  “There is also an attached list of invitees.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?” Seizing the list, Holmes examined it with widening eyes. “Our dear friend General Beaufort will be there.”

  “As well as the two baleful gentlemen who escorted me to the ball and introduced me to the glorious history of the Battle of the Golden Spurs.”

  “It is the right date,” Holmes repeated, whispering. “It is the right city. And it is at least in part the right set of scoundrels. We must learn as much as we can of every person on this list.”

  “I shall write to Joe Harris. He will no doubt know who they are.”

  “Excellent idea. And inform him that the consulting firm of Escott and Tuck will be arriving in Atlanta shortly to take stock of the proceedings.”

  I smiled eagerly. “Plumbers?”

  “Who better to plumb this mystery?”

  ATLANTA

  Chapter 33

  Over the next few days I made preparations to go to Atlanta. Father Claudian, who couldn’t be more pleased, promised to take my teaching duties for me. For his part, the Bishop was heartily glad for me and sent me off with a purse of silver coins and a gabble of blessings, along with an expression of his good will to the “committee.” He also asked if I would accompany Sister Carolina back to Atlanta for a last visit with her family before her perpetual vows. I agreed to do so, although I was averse to her company and knew that Holmes would consider her a hindrance to our true purposes.

  Before dawn one day James and I went to the vegetable market where I knew a seller who would give him work. In the half darkness, turbaned old ladies from the islands were already setting out their baskets of okra and savory herbs. We shared a bowl of hot boiled peanuts for breakfast, and I left him to blend in with the sea-island farmers until we could ensure his safety.

  Holmes and I arrived in Atlanta on a Saturday afternoon and were met at Union Station by the amiable Joe Harris. He wore a reddish-orange check suit that exactly matched the color of his hair, which was of a full and rich tint. In the brisk air his florid face gleamed so that he left the impression of a man who had burst into flame.

  “S-so pleased to see you again,” he cried, taking our bags from us and loading them into his carriage. “Shall we go?”

  “Not yet,” Holmes said. He walked slowly along the street and back, looking keenly at the buildings opposite the station, his eyes shining. Then abruptly he vaulted into the carriage and we were off.

  We deposited Sister Carolina at the gray-stone mansion, where the voluble servant Marta shrieked to see us. More meager than ever, she bestowed blessings on us and particularly on Holmes, whom she called her “saver and bestes’ fren’.” Sister Carolina cut her off with a few razor-like commands and walked on, leaving the spidery little creature to bear the luggage inside.

  The Kimball House, our destination, glowed like a golden fortress. Although I had been inside some fine London hotels, I had never entered such a luxurious space as the Kimball, with its lobby open to the sky and frescoed walls cascading flowers and palms. Chandeliers burned even in daylight, warming air heavy with vapor from a rococo fountain playing in the midst of it all.

  We obtained the smallest, remotest room in the hotel—a sixth-floor garret that was at least new and clean—and passed the rest of the afternoon going over the list of invitees to the committee meeting that was to take place Monday morning. Harris knew every name, except for those from out of town. They were indeed the crème of Atlanta business leaders, including Harris’s own employers at the Constitution.

  Sherlock Holmes frowned. “There is nothing about this meeting that seems covert or questionable at all. If it is the ‘board meeting’ referred to in Mrs. Wells’s cipher, why create such an elaborately cryptic notice of it? And what possible connection could it have to the visit of General Sherman, who is due the next day?”

  When the meeting convened on Monday morning, I couldn’t help but feel the same way. I gathered with a crowd of mumbling businessmen, most of them bearded, corpulent, and connected with the railroads, in a gas-lit “board room.” I greeted the only ones I had met before: General Gary, Colonel Tillman, and General Abraham Beaufort, whose bush-encircled face looked drained and depleted. After a few stilted introductions, we all took our places in leather chairs so lavish I was afraid I would be off to sleep—that is, until two gentlemen entered who had not been named in the invitee list.

  One of them was Adam Verver, the industrialist I had met on the Nebraska, looking as gray and urbane as I remembered him—the other was the man I knew as Henry J. Raymond, known to Holmes as “Moriarty,” the master criminal of two continents, the “Napoleon of crime.” Both of them bowed slightly to me as they entered.

  This black-suited congregation reminded me of a funeral, ever more so as the meeting progressed. One mournful optimist after another gave speeches about the everlasting glory of the South that would someday arise from the ashes of death and dominate world commerce once again: A former Governor Brown, a current Mayor Calhoun, a Senator Gordon whose hair had migrated to his peninsular chin, and the current governor, who looked as if he were being consumed by his massive collar. By this time I was genuinely in danger of falling into a state of prolonged unconsciousness.

  At last Mr. Henry Grady arose, the editor of the Constitution and convener of the meeting, and gracefully delivered himself of some of the bold rubbish I had read in his pamphlet—blandishments about the “kindly feelings and close sympathy between the whites and blacks of the South today.” He greatly praised the fatherly sharecropping program that deprived blacks of any hope of owning property, as well as the humane “convict leasing” system that enabled unruly blacks to do “honest work” while paying their debt to society.

  Grady topped off his speech with an appeal to his “brother Americans from the North” to put away former bad feelings and invest in the brilliant prospects of a South rising like a phoenix from the cinders of war.

  This was followed by an aimless discussion of railroad routes and freight rates, which mercifully came to an end when “Henry J. Raymond” seized the floor with a sharp clearing of his throat.

  “Gentlemen, in the end there is only one interest here: money.” At the evocation of this magical word, everyone in the room leaned in to listen. “And as much of it as possible in our hands. Some of us in the North are creating fortunes the like of which the world has never seen, and our only interest in the South is to do the same here. If yo
u would care to hear more, my friend Mr. Verver here can enlighten you.”

  Verver’s hypnotic voice filled the room with a sort of dry enchantment. “It’s called a trust, gentlemen. Mr. John D. Rockefeller, the oilman from Cleveland, now has full control of the oil market through this mechanism. Until now, a trust was simply a legal arrangement to supervise the affairs of an incompetent person—but now, a trust can be used to buy up entire companies and thus control any market.

  “In short, gentlemen, as a trust you can own the entire railroad network of the Southern states—you can undersell competition, dictate prices, and ensure yourselves as much income as you want.”

  At this, the room burst with noise. Men began shouting over each other, some in favor of the scheme, others violently opposed. In the middle of it all, Raymond and Verver sat quietly smiling.

  “Why, it’s an outright attack on the customers!” The loudest voice belonged to a little Northern investor named Plant, whose yellow mustache curved like a banana over his lip. “The freer and more general the competition, the more advantage to the public!”

  He was answered by the high-pitched and eloquent profanity of Martin Gary. “You damned little Yankee devil!”

  This persuasive argument led nearly to a brawl; but as most of the attendees were of the torpid type, they eventually lined up like boxcars behind the engine of Verver’s reasoning.

  “Frankly, gentlemen, the trust keeps money power in the hands of those who know how to use it,” Verver intoned.

  “It’s like keeping political power in the hands of the white man and out of the hands of the ignorant Negroes,” Gary screeched. “It’s ‘zackly the same thing!” There was a general nodding of heads at this.

  “It does seem a useful way to ensure our independence,” said another. “And to build up our capital.”

  The mayor started laughing, “No Sherman can come along and knock down this capital.” The meeting dissolved in giggles, and Grady invited one and all to bring their ladies to a reception that evening in the ball room.

  I made my way out shaking a few hands along the way, including the hand of the sad-faced Abraham Beaufort, who had said nothing during the proceedings. I asked after his brother.

  “Tom? Oh, he is not part of this … assembly. I think he’s, uh, still sleeping upstairs.”

  “Henry J. Raymond” stood in the doorway as I tried to leave. He gave me a sly look. “How very pleased I am to encounter you again, Padre. It conjures up lively memories of our Atlantic crossing.”

  “Indeed it does. Your, um, ideas appear to have been well received this morning.”

  “Mr. Verver is the one with the head for business,” he replied. “I merely follow in the wake of his capital flow, which is prodigious. I do hope you will be joining us at the reception this evening. I know Mrs. Wells would be delighted to see you once more.”

  “She is here with you?”

  “Yes, taking a respite from caring for her dear husband, who is still indisposed, poor fellow. We thought Georgia would be warmer at this time of year.”

  “It has been uncommonly cold, I am sorry to say.”

  “No matter. It is proving to be a most profitable journey.” He nodded, smiled, and left me.

  Back in our garret, Holmes was pacing like a captive tiger. “Well?” he growled at me. “What happened?”

  I described the meeting in as much detail as I could, while his scowls grew deeper and his pipe erupted clouds of smoke.

  “It is all useless, Tuck! Useless! Sherman will arrive tomorrow, and we are no closer to penetrating the scheme. You say Moriarty—Raymond—was there?”

  “Yes, but only to introduce Verver and his plan for a trust.”

  “The little beast has far more than that in view. I anticipated he would show his hand here at some point, but I cannot find my way through the maze he has created. If this was indeed the board meeting referred to in the Wells document, it was decidedly unhelpful.”

  “Well, they did talk of an enterprise that would in theory make them all fabulously wealthy.”

  “I do not believe that signifies much. In the end, it is not even money that motivates our Moriarty—at center, it’s a kind of inventive perverseness. Crime is a gamut of notes, Tuck. Some crimes are simple, like some melodies. Others are repetitious, like a canon or fugue. A few are strikingly original.

  “But the rarest crimes are as intricately constructed as a great symphony or a concerto. One must be able to read the entire score, not just one or two lines. Our Moriarty is an artist of crime who takes pleasure in the creation of the work; now he is awaiting an interpreter to come along—I myself—and I am failing at the task.”

  “If only we knew why Mrs. Wells wanted you to have the cryptogram in the first place.”

  Holmes brightened. “Tuck, you’ve hit on it. You say she will be at the reception this evening? Then I shall simply ask her why.”

  “You’re joking. You might possibly be putting her in the most dreadful danger.”

  “I shall be subtle about it. But if she is in danger, she herself must take the responsibility. After all, she has chosen to consort with the most treacherous man alive.”

  “But is it by choice or compulsion?”

  “That we shall discover. I wonder where I might hire formal suiting for the evening.”

  “You intend to go to the reception? But you are not invited.”

  “Oh, come, Tuck. The men are bringing their wives. You obviously cannot bring a wife, so you will bring me.”

  Chapter 34

  And that is how Sherlock Holmes and I found ourselves a few hours later in the ballroom of the Kimball House among some of the most prominent men of the New South—and a good many holdovers from the Old South. A band played sentimental dances while dozens of wives, mostly well past the heyday of their beauty, were steered about the floor by their solemn husbands.

  We were announced as Reverend Grosjean and Captain Basil.

  The audacious Holmes displayed his Order of the Golden Spur on his cutaway coat and looked as grand as any English gentleman ever did in his hired clothes. More than one woman gazed at him from behind her fan as he deftly made his way round the silken trains that swept the floor. I followed in his wake, trying to look saintly under my Roman hat. Holmes had particularly wished that I behave like a priest this evening, a request that left me somewhat bewildered.

  I was stunned once again at the sight of Mrs. Charlotte Verver on her husband’s arm. Like a porcelain goddess, she dispensed no looks on anyone but kept her eyes immovably fixed on nothing. I greeted them, and Verver gave me a dignified bow; his wife glided past me without a glimmer of recognition.

  Holmes had adopted the heavy-lidded aloofness of the English, which made him even more attractive to the wives, several of whom insisted on introductions. “Captain Basil” relaxed into military small talk with their husbands, while I tried to resist a third glass of champagne from the drinks table. I surveyed the room, but Raymond and Mrs. Wells had not appeared.

  Then someone touched my shoulder, and I turned to greet Joe Harris! He looked exceedingly uncomfortable in evening dress that fit him not at all and relieved to find a friend who was as out of place as he. Grady had required his presence so that he could write about the affair for the next morning’s edition. I handed him a glass to stabilize his nerves, but it had the opposite effect as the wine trembled and trickled in his hand.

  The announcement came, “Mr. Henry J. Raymond and Mrs. Katherine Wells.”

  I made my way toward them as Holmes had instructed, while he spoke to the band leader.

  “Mrs. Wells! I can’t express what a pleasure it is to see you again,” I said, meaning every word.

  Radiant in a white silk gown without lace or flounce, she advanced to meet me and gave me her hand. “Padre! What a delightful surprise.” In her fair hair she wore a ci
rclet of diamonds and round her neck a magnificent cameo on a black ribbon. “Henry, see, it’s Father Simon from the ship.”

  “Yes, we met again this morning,” Raymond’s good-humored smile gleamed through his black whiskers. “How is the Lord’s work coming, Padre?”

  “Considering how God works for me in all things, it could not come any better.”

  “God works for you, does he? Up north we suspect he works for Rockefeller.”

  Laughing at this, I said to Mrs. Wells, “An acquaintance of yours is here: My cousin, Captain Basil, who I’m sure would be charmed to see you again.”

  I thought I saw a flash of red in her cheek. “Certainly,” she replied, and I motioned to Holmes to join us.

  Holmes took her gloved hand and held it. “Ah, Mrs. Wells, the daintiest thing under a coronet on this planet, so say we.” He nodded curtly as I introduced Raymond to him. “I see we are members of the same distinguished club, sir,” he said, indicating the badges of the Order of the Golden Spur, which they both wore.

  “I have done some small services for the Church,” Raymond smiled, “although I am Catholic only on festival days.”

  “I too have done the Holy See a small favor. Mrs. Wells, may I compliment you on your choice of cameo,” Holmes said. “It is a remarkable piece and of great antiquity. Ariadne with Bacchus, I believe.”

  “So it is,” Raymond replied.

  “Captain Basil is a collector, Henry, a particular devoté of antique cameos. We met on the train from Paris,” Katherine explained.