Elise turned down the lamp and went to her own room, where she undressed wearily in semidarkness. She prayed silently that her mistress would not be very ill. She’d been foolish to take Lady Anne out in such foul weather.
Dear Lord, she pleaded as she climbed into the narrow bed and drew up the piecework comforter, please, please, let us find David soon.
Thomas G. Costigan leaned on the bar in the Horsehead Saloon, sipping a beer. He couldn’t afford whiskey anymore, so he bought beer one glass at a time and drank it slowly. He wished he’d never come east of Fort Laramie.
“You Costigan?”
He turned at the voice and faced a stranger. This fellow looked like a dandy—not unusual for St. Louis—but generally his kind patronized a higher class of watering hole. The slender man wore a suit and necktie and a bowler hat. On his feet were low-cut shoes, not boots. His mustache was more of a dark ink line across his top lip. A sissy mustache. Still, could be trouble.
“Who wants to know?” Thomas asked.
“My name is Peterson.”
Thomas thought he caught a hint of New York in his accent, but he wasn’t sure. Folks came to Saint Louie from all over.
“What do you want from me?”
Peterson gestured to a table at the side of the room. “Care to sit and discuss it? I’ll stand you another one of those.” He nodded toward Thomas’s glass.
“Make it whiskey.”
“Certainly.”
Thomas stood and shuffled toward the empty table, taking his beer with him. A moment later, Peterson joined him and set down two glasses. Abandoning his beer, Thomas took a small sip. Now that was the real thing.
He set the glass down and looked at Peterson. “So what do you want?”
“I need a man to do a job, and I was told you might be the one.”
Thomas wasn’t against working, though he’d rather it didn’t get too strenuous. But who would recommend him for a job? And what sort? He’d been in the brig for two days once at Fort Benton—up in Montana. Didn’t like it and had determined never to be confined again. That experience had grown a little caution inside him.
“Depends. What do you need done?”
“It’s what you might call a surveillance job.”
Thomas squinted at him. “What’s that?”
“Where you watch someone and report on their activities.”
“Is that against the law?”
“No, absolutely not.” Peterson seemed almost happy about it. “You simply follow the person about—without them realizing it of course—and make note of where they go, to whom they speak, and so on. Then you tell your employer what you’ve learned, and you get paid. Simple.”
Thomas hesitated. It sounded like a job that would require staying sober, but he never got thoroughly drunk, anyway. That would likely end him up in some jail.
“How much?”
“Oh, I’ll make it worth your while. Two dollars a day, plus any legitimate expenses you incur. And it won’t be an unpleasant job. The people I need you to observe are quite pleasant to look at.”
“That so?” The man wasn’t making a lot of sense, to Thomas’s way of thinking. Seemed like good wages for easy work. He took another sip of the whiskey.
“Are you interested?”
“I might be.”
“Absolute confidentiality is required. You must tell no one either whom you are following or to whom you are reporting. Understood?”
“And how long does this go on?”
“I don’t know yet. Perhaps a week or more.”
Thomas nodded. “Sounds all right. But I can quit any time I choose.”
“So long as you inform me. Don’t just stop shadowing them without letting me know.”
Thomas nodded.
Peterson slid a dollar across the table. “That’s in advance. I’ll pay you again at the end of a week or when the job ends, whichever comes sooner.”
“All right—so who’s the gent I’m following?”
Peterson smiled.
CHAPTER 4
Elise opened the door between her hotel room and Lady Anne’s carefully, but it creaked on its hinges anyway.
“Welcome. Did you learn anything?” Lady Anne smiled at her from the chair by the window, where she sat fully clothed. Her prayer book lay open on the small table before her.
Elise closed the door and stripped off her gloves. “I’m afraid not. The postmaster was no help, as we feared. He only repeated what he’d said in his letter to Mr. Conrad. There’s no record of David inquiring for general delivery mail since he left the city ten years ago. The postmaster did send me to the police station, however.”
“The police?” Anne’s rich brown eyes darkened in dismay.
“Only because he thought they would have a record if anything untoward had happened to your uncle. I spoke to one of the constables there, but they knew even less than the postmaster. The consensus is that your uncle David left St. Louis of his own free will and either returned to England or went farther west.”
Lady Anne sighed. “Well, we know he didn’t go back to England.”
“Do we?”
Her young mistress considered that while Elise opened her reticule and took out the folded sheet of paper on which she’d written the names of the people she’d questioned.
“We know he never contacted the family again,” Lady Anne said at last. “I can’t imagine Uncle David setting foot in England again without letting Father know.”
“I agree. So, barring a shipwreck, he’s still in America someplace, and that place is most likely westward.” Whether dead or alive, Elise added to herself, but she wouldn’t speak the thought to poor Anne, who had already lost so many loved ones.
“Why west? Isn’t it possible he went back to New York or one of the other cities on the East Coast?”
“Yes,” Elise said, “but everyone seems to think his more probable course was westward. I found out where his store was located. It was a sort of general store, selling a variety of goods—groceries, tools, yard goods.”
Lady Anne inhaled deeply and leaned her head back, closing her eyes for a moment. “So what do we do now?”
Elise took the Windsor chair opposite her and spread her skirts around her. “I have a few suggestions. Some may be practical, some not.”
Anne studied her face. “Proceed.”
“We can inquire of the people who now run the store. It’s given over to furniture and cabinetry now, but it’s possible they might know something. And the constable suggested we send letters to officials in several western cities—San Francisco, Oregon City, and so on—making inquiries about David Stone. That would take time—we’d have to wait here for replies—and is a very uncertain method of locating a person of whose whereabouts we have no clue.”
“True. Unless we find evidence that he went to a particular location—”
“Precisely.” Elise smiled at her. “Which is why I recommend a different course. If we stay in St. Louis a couple of weeks, we can make a more thorough inquiry. We know David left here ten years ago, but we still might turn up someone who knew him better than Mr. Cobb or the postmaster. Someone to whom he mentioned his plans.”
“How likely is that after all this time?”
“I don’t know. However…” Elise leaned toward her, holding Anne’s gaze. “The constable told me that wagon trains will be forming as soon as the ground is dried up enough for travel westward. Most of them leave from Independence or St. Joseph, which are two other towns on the western edge of Missouri. But many people will pass through here on their way to the encampments. Hundreds of families will be crossing the Great Plains, going to Oregon or California, and we might make inquiries among them.”
Anne cocked her head to one side, causing her fetching curls to sway. “Why would people going west know about someone who went ten years ago?”
“Not them. The ones organizing the wagon trains. The outfitters.”
“I see. Uncle David may have gone
west on a wagon train.”
“Yes, and one of the outfitters may have met him or perhaps even guided him. Or they might have met him in their travels, since some of these men go back and forth across the plains almost yearly.”
“I like it,” Anne said.
“Good. Then we need to bide our time, decide whether to keep these lodgings or look for something more economical, and inquire at places like stables and wainwrights’ shops about how to contact the outfitters. As a start, I saw a broadside hanging outside the emporium today, announcing a gathering of emigrants in Independence the first week in April. Those interested in joining the expedition were urged to contact a Mr. Robert Whistler, who will be at the Riverside Hotel afternoons this week. He will take a small caravan of people to Independence soon, where they’ll join a larger group.”
Lady Anne clapped her hands together. “Elise, you are so clever. Whatever should I have done without you? Surely if we seek out these wagon guides, we’ll learn something.”
“I hope so. And in the meantime, we pray.”
“Of course. And eat. Are you hungry, my dear?”
“Yes. Are you?” Elise asked.
“Starved.”
“You look much better than you did yesterday.”
“I feel better, too. I would like to go down to the dining room with you and partake of luncheon there.”
“All right. Just let me freshen up.” Elise stood and went to the door.
“Elise,” Lady Anne said.
“Yes?”
“Did you have a third plan?”
Elise chuckled self-consciously. “I did have a rather nebulous thought—but it’s so farfetched that I wasn’t going to suggest it unless this other plan fails.”
“Oh?” Lady Anne nodded slowly. “Perhaps that is best. We have our course laid out for us.”
Thomas G. Costigan sat on a keg of nails in Wyatt’s General Merchandise, laconically watching the checker game in progress a few feet away and absorbing heat radiated by the tall stove in the center of the store. As long as the clutch of loiterers didn’t get too big, the owner of the store encouraged them to stop by and socialize. That suited Thomas’s plans perfectly.
His seat on a keg at the fringe of the hardware area allowed him a clear view of the counter to his right and several aisles of merchandise that ran the length of the store. James Wyatt, the store owner, had deliberately placed the most frequently purchased items at the far end of the room so that people in need of flour, cornmeal, or rolled oats had to walk through the store and pass displays of his most alluring merchandise—colorful woolen fabrics from New England; bulk tea and spices from the Far East; new books; medicines for man and beast; ready-made shoes; and the latest gadgets, tools, and notions.
Thomas could hear not only the talk around the stove, but also much of what was said at the counter without appearing to eavesdrop. And he could keep an eye on the tall woman with the brown hat as she moved about the store.
On this chilly morning in late March, the stunning woman had entered the store alone. He’d never seen her before. He would have remembered. But from the description Peterson had given him, he was sure. The cut of her clothes and her accent gave her away. She was the older of the two. The younger woman might have come out of the hotel and gone somewhere on her own—he had no idea. But he could only follow one at a time.
She browsed the textile display while Wyatt helped another customer, but she kept looking toward the counter. Thomas had no doubt she’d step up to have a word with the storekeeper as soon as he was free.
She stood halfway down the store and one aisle over from where Thomas sat. Even when she walked behind a tall rack of ready-made garments, he could see the top of her distinctive hat. She rounded the display and headed across the row, past the bolts of cloth, high-topped shoes, and bins of ginger roots and walnuts. When she glanced his way, Thomas averted his gaze to the checker game. The checker players and the hangers-on were watching her, too. A faint scent wafted toward him, overcoming the cinnamon, coffee, and pickle brine just for a moment. Lilacs?
Thomas sneaked another glance. In the dim recesses of the emporium, her hair looked to be a light, golden brown, but he’d be willing to bet that on a sunny day outside, it was more blond. The woman carried herself well. Thomas was thirty-nine. She looked to be a little younger, but she also seemed to be one who took care of herself.
The checker players resumed their game. One of them made a move, and the spectators crowed. The other customer went out the door, and the woman strode toward the counter. Thomas strained to hear what the lovely lady said to James Wyatt.
“Oh, he’s been gone a long time, ma’am,” Wyatt said. “I do remember him. He was my competition for a while. He must have been in business about five years. He seemed to be doing all right. They say he imported some fancy goods from England, and some of the ladies liked his shop because of that. But one day, he decided to close up and leave.”
“Did he sell the store?”
“I don’t think he owned the building. It’s a furniture store now.”
She nodded.
“Seems to me he held a sale when he went out of business, to sell off his inventory. That was a slow week for me, but I knew that once he was gone, I’d pick up some of his regular customers, so I rode it out.”
“You’ve no idea where he went, or if he opened another store somewhere else?” the woman said.
The lady had a pronounced English accent—though a cultured one—and it was difficult to catch some of her words. To make matters worse, the chatter around the stove grew loud again.
Thomas stood and eased into the tool aisle and sauntered casually toward the entrance, keeping the row of display shelves between him and the counter. He paused before a rack of harness fittings, about four yards from where the lady stood. Her pinkishtan skirt stood out around her. It looked to be velvet, or maybe a soft woolen material. Only the well-to-do women of St. Louis would wear something as fashionable. The poorer housewives wore plain wool or cotton dresses without those puffy petticoats underneath.
Over her dress, she wore a dark-brown, caped overcoat, and the matching brown hat sat atop her golden hair. She looked better than the sugar buns in Lars Neilsen’s bakery window.
“I wish I could help you,” Wyatt said, “but when Mr. Stone left, I didn’t hear where he was going. Did you say you’re a relation of his?”
“No,” the lady said. “I’m a friend of his family. They’ve been trying to locate him for some time.”
Wyatt nodded sympathetically. “I suppose you asked the postmaster if he left a forwarding address.”
“Yes, that was one of the first things we did.” The lady bowed her head for a moment. “Thank you for your time. Would you have any advice for someone in my situation?”
Wyatt shook his head. “Sorry, ma’am. If I was to guess, I’d have thought he went back to England. But from what you say, I’ll have to change my theory. He might have gone west. Could have gone to California during the gold rush a few years back—lots of men did. And there’s a lot of things that can keep a man from coming back.”
A middle-aged woman with her arms full of sewing notions swooped down the center aisle toward the counter. Miss Finster, the Englishwoman, paid for a small purchase she’d apparently picked up during her wait. Thomas slipped out the door and across the street. He leaned against the wall of a dentist’s office and waited. A minute later, he was rewarded.
The Englishwoman came out of the emporium, carrying a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. She headed up the boardwalk. Thomas followed on his side of the street. When she turned a corner, he dashed across the cobbled thoroughfare and up onto the sidewalk where she’d been. Around the corner, he quickened his steps. For a moment, he’d lost her in a rash of pedestrians. Then he saw her again, near the end of the block. She walked quickly. No nonsense, that gal.
He hurried along, careful not to break into a run and attract attention. Three blocks later, he sl
owed. She’d turned in at a doorway. He sauntered along until he could read the sign clearly: MISSOURI DEMOCRAT. She’d gone into a newspaper office. Across the street was a bakery. The scents of yeast and chocolate hung in the air. Just the place he needed to keep watch in comfort.
Ten minutes later, Miss Finster came out of the Democrat office and retraced her steps a few blocks. Thomas had finished his sweet rolls and kept her in sight without difficulty. When she’d made two turns, he slowed down with a satisfied smile. She was headed for the Cinders, as he’d expected. Not the most plush hostelry, but a cut above what he’d be willing to pay for, and two above what most of the poor emigrants heading west could afford. He wondered if the younger woman, Miss Stone, was still inside. He looked around for a spot out of the wind where he could wait.
Eb Bentley sauntered across the paved street to the Riverside Hotel. He hated cobblestones. Hated cities. Hated big buildings. Give him the open West. Big sky, a good horse, distant mountains, and home waiting at the end of the day. Why had he let Rob Whistler talk him into doing this again, anyway?
As he dodged wagons and horsemen, he knew the answer. He needed the money. Enough to buy cattle to stock his ranch. The land was his, and his little house was built, but he needed cattle and fencing and a bigger barn and a thousand other things. Seemed the surest way to accomplish that was to do one more run across the plains with a wagon train—or perhaps a crawl across the plains was more accurate. Nothing moved slower than an emigrant wagon pulled by oxen.
He strode up the steps and into the hotel’s lobby, taking his hat off as he ducked instinctively beneath the lintel. He rarely bumped his head on doorways here, but it had become a habit from entering small cabins and low-ceilinged ranch houses.
“Eb. Over here.”
He swung toward the familiar voice. Rob was sitting on a horsehair sofa in an alcove across from the front desk, talking to two men in rough clothes. They all stood as Eb approached them.
THE Prairie DREAMS Trilogy Page 4