Sharing Hamilton

by Diana Rubino

  “Mayhap, and mayhap not. The commissioner informed me of some of the more debauched aspects of the murders in the course of our discussion. I should not want to disturb your mind by going into details.” He headed for the door.

  For the first time, I realized he was seriously worried. After the murder of Rose Webster, which had been horrific enough, word soon spread of a second killing, another young girl, not yet twenty years of age, slain in an apparently identical manner.

  “You are really worried about this matter, are you not, Alex?” His words of concern alarmed me. Aware of the open window, I closed it—and latched it.

  “Very worried, Maria, for, after speaking with the commissioner, I had the good fortune of a chance encounter in the street with Dr. Black, with whom I also discussed the murders.”

  I followed him to the door. “Dr. Black?” I queried. “I haven't had the pleasure of making the gentleman's acquaintance.”

  “Yes, Severus Black. I'm sure you've seen him at one or more of the fetes you and James have attended round town. Tall, very handsome…” he paused, “so my wife says, always dressed immaculately, all in black and with penetrating eyes, not an easy man to ignore.”

  I tried to conjure up an image of him in my mind. When his haunting visage appeared before my eyes, my flesh crawled. “Oh, yes, now that you mention the eyes. But I didn't know his name before now. I've seen him at various venues, though we've never been introduced, nor had I occasion to speak with him. His eyes—” I paused, now trying to purge his image from my mind. “You're right, they look right through you. You spoke with him about the murders?”

  “Yes, indeed.” He nodded. “Since arriving from Paris, he's looked in on my wife—in a professional capacity,” he hastened to add. “He is a specialist in women's matters and has been of some comfort to her during her pregnancy. His bedside manner, like his appearance and standards of personal grooming, is always impeccable.”

  “What did you and the doctor talk about?” Morbid curiosity made me ask.

  “I mentioned to Severus my conversation with the commissioner. Severus postulated that the killer may be an escaped lunatic, or someone with a pathological hatred of women. He stated clearly to me that whomsoever the killer is, he must be a man of great strength, as to strangle another human being, even a woman, takes a great deal of strength and perseverance.”

  “Perseverance?” I asked, puzzled.

  “My question also.” Alex nodded. “He replied that the victim of a strangulation must surely be fighting for her life, and therefore it follows she would be struggling, trying to scream and so forth. The killer must therefore possess enough personal strength to overcome her and then hold her firm as he tightens the instrument of strangulation about her neck.”

  I shuddered at that graphic description. “He did not use his bare hands, then?”

  “It appears not. The commissioner told me about evidence of some form of ligature having been used on both women, a scarf, or a belt mayhap. Anyway, I pointed out to Severus that we would know if a lunatic had escaped from a nearby asylum. But he was at pains to point out that such a man may easily have escaped from a Bedlam in another town and made his way here in order to evade capture. It appears also that the women were both…well…” He lowered his eyes—and his voice. “They were sexually violated, Maria. I shall say no more of that side of the crime. We only talked for a short time and then parted, he going one way and I the other. So please, now you must promise me you will avoid venturing out at night.” He took my hands and I clung to him.

  “I don't want to let go. I'm scared.” In fact, I shook. “I don't want to be left here alone.”

  “There's naught to be scared of. He doesn't break into houses. He strictly does his work—er, commits his crimes on the street,” he attempted to assure me.

  Still clinging to him, I said, “Well, of course to venture out alone after dark is indeed foolhardy. I shall be vigilant to the point of obsession if it will make you happy. But, oh, how I wish you could stay with me.”

  He disengaged himself from my clutches, but gave me one final kiss. “You're safe here. Just lock up. Adieu, my dear.”

  I sensed regret in those last words as he stood on the threshold. “Alex, when will you—” I stopped myself from saying those final words and was glad I had. I realized that the way to keep him was to know when to let him go.

  Chapter Eleven

  Severus

  My brief encounter with Alexander Hamilton made me tingle with delight. To hear my friend espousing the useless drivel of law enforcement, that ineffective and inefficient band of legal riff-raff, curled my lips with mirth. After my short dalliance with the unfortunate Rose, I'd returned to my lodgings, spent but not entirely satisfied. My mind drifted back to my Paris days. All went well until that scourge of the criminal classes, Detective Remy Le Clerc, became obsessed with me after a witness reported seeing a man with penetrating blue eyes close to the scene of a young parlour maid's murder. With no other evidence and no proof to support his suspicions, Le Clerc had nonetheless made my life a misery from then onwards, shadowing my every move, preventing me from furthering my murderous intent. Finally, frustrated beyond belief, my life in England also soured by a close call with the law, I gained passage to the New World.

  Now I basked in the smugness of safety, having spent time building up my reputation. Respected by those with whom I mixed on a social level, I at last felt free to pursue my other needs. As I began to gain invitations to balls and other social functions, I cultivated the rich and famous, those in positions to afford me with greater credibility and substance.

  Since I started specialising in the doctoring of women's matters I found that those wealthy men's wives and daughters readily approached me and confided in me of their ills, seeking my help and advice. But never once did I consider satisfying my lusts with any of those women. No, that would point too much attention in my direction. Better that I focus my needs on those ladies' maids and servants. There were plenty to choose from, most young, pretty and easy prey for such a gentleman as I.

  The night following Rose's demise, my urges niggled at me, needing further satisfaction. I took to the streets once more. I knew of a ball taking place three blocks from the home of Secretary and Mrs. Hamilton, and though not invited, I dressed as though I were, crouched behind a tree and watched their servants' comings and goings. Many of them took time out from their duties for a short break, when permitted, away from the noise and bustle of the kitchen, the pantry, or the ballroom itself.

  A young lady now leant against a fence at the rear of the house, a short walk from the entrance to a wide portico through which deliverymen approached the house during the day.

  After ensuring no one else lurked about, I approached the girl. “Oh, Miss, thank heaven. Please, can you help me?” I rushed my words, appearing breathless. “My wife has fallen on the street and she is with child. Please help me get her to her feet as she is in a dead faint and not herself at all!”

  “Of course, sir!” She agreed to my entreaty.

  I rushed towards the street, to allay any thoughts she might have that something was amiss. At the street I turned to the left. She followed in my wake until I turned into the gates of a small park opposite the grand homes.

  “Uh…sir?” Pangs of doubt crept into her voice.

  “Don't panic,” I warned her, keeping my voice soft and soothing. “My wife is within the park. We were taking the air after leaving the house when she collapsed. I made sure she was comfortably lying on the grass before seeking help.”

  “But sir, would it not have been quicker to return to the house to get help, instead of walking all the way round to the back?” She cast furtive glances around as she began to shake.

  I stopped in my tracks and turned to face her. “Of course it would, but then, I should not have met you, should I? And speaking of which, what is your name, young lady?”

  “Anne Denton, sir.” Her eyes met mine, widened in a mix
ture of fear and wonder. She backed away.

  I took two steps forward. “And where do you come from, with that charming accent?”

  “Cardiff, Wales, sir. I'm fortunate to find employment so soon. With my parents' blessing, I accepted the position and moved into my employer's garret.” She backed away again as she blathered on, her voice high-pitched and quivering with fear. With each step backward, I took a step forward. “The work is hard, the hours long, but my employer is considerate and fair, and lets me spend a half-day each week with my family.” Out of breath and now out of room to flee, she backed into the gatepost. We now stood toe to toe. She trembled, her teeth chattering.

  “Oh, dear God, look!” I pointed down, at the base of a small shrub. “My dear wife! Oh, please, no.”

  Anne stepped sideways and crouched to peer under the bush. It was enough. My second self emerged, controlling my actions. I whipped the scarf from around my neck and tightly wrapped it round the girl's throat. She kicked out at me with her heels to no avail. I grunted with satisfaction as I felt her body go slack. Her final breath passed her lips with an audible gasp.

  I hurriedly dragged her limp body to the rear of the shrub, unseen from the pathway upon which we'd walked, and took a moment to gather myself as my arousal soared.

  Ready at last, I knelt beside the girl and raised her skirts. At the sight of the pure fresh flesh of her young legs, and with my arousal at bursting point, I took my latest lover.

  Chapter Twelve

  Maria

  The next morn as I rinsed undergarments in our wash basin, James greeted me with an expectant smile. “Top o'the mornin' to you, my bonny lass.”

  “No money changed hands, James.” I got it over with.

  “Dinna he offer any?” He poured honey on a biscuit and shoved it into his mouth.

  “Yes, but I refused it.” I wrung out a pair of petticoats.

  He snickered. “What else of his did you refuse?”

  I knew it was a rhetorical question. He was hardly interested in what went on between me and Alex. “He fell asleep.” That was all James needed to know. And it was the naked truth.

  “That useless, eh?” He shook his head, still chewing. “He's gettin' old, I reckon.” Licking honey from his fingers, he poured himself a glass of ale.

  “You were born two months apart. If he's getting old, you're getting old,” I retorted.

  “Not at the same rate, obviously.” He sprawled out on the sofa with his ale, leaning his head on the cushion Alex and I made love on. I looked away, reliving last eve in my mind—how he held me, how I clung to him. I longed for his touch, even now, my hands wet and raw from washing.

  After hanging petticoats out on the line, I started reading Shakespeare's Richard III, which Alex recommended, but found it hard to believe this king was as sinister as the Bard made him out to be. Mr. Shakespeare did tend to “take license” at times; he put a clock in Julius Caesar which chimed thrice, and had Cleopatra playing tennis!

  Neither of us mentioned Alex's name all week. I kept my feelings to myself. James stayed busy with his gold smithing commissions, pubbing, dice and card games. I combed through the newspapers, but tried not to seek out Alex's name. Still, thoughts of him filled every waking moment. Anticipation kept my heart aflutter. I took special care with my hair, my teeth, my overall cleanliness. I made extra soap and bathed every day now. “You'll drain the Delaware dry afore long,” James commented. “Sheesh, who needs wash every day?”

  Next Friday morn, James tossed me National Gazette. “Yur paramour made the news again. This time he wants to tax the poor farmers on their bloody whisky.”

  The headline, CONGRESS APPROVES WHISKY TAX AT SECRETARY HAMILTON'S URGING, shouted at me to read the article. I didn't miss a word. Now I knew why Alex was too busy to write or call on me.

  According to the article, Alex convinced the Federal government to approve taxes on 'ardent spirits,' a luxury according to him, to pay down the national debt. The Fed, in assuming the states' debt from the war, amassed a huge debt. The tax is “more as a measure of social discipline than as a source of revenue,” The paper quoted Alex as saying. “I want the tax imposed to advance and secure the power of the new Federal government.”

  The tax levy, placed upon imported liquors and domestic distilled, would raise about $800,000.

  Smaller distillers would pay nine cents a gallon, and larger distillers would pay a flat fee. President Washington's consent surprised me. He was the largest whisky distiller in America!

  I read aloud his reasons for the taxation, to make sure I understood them. “When a manufacture is in its infancy, it is impolitic to tax it. The tax would be unproductive and add to the difficulties which impede attempts to establish it. But when a manufacture, as in distilled spirits, is arrived at maturity, it is as fit an article of taxation as any other.”

  I agreed with Alex wholeheartedly. “What do you think?” I asked James as he slurped coffee and chomped on a piece of my apple tansey.

  “I think he's daft.” He finished chewing and wiped his mouth. “And so's the entire bloody government. This will spur a revolt.” His voice rose. “Another storming of the Bastille. And I need no crystal ball to tell you that.” He gave a resolute nod.

  “For nine cents a gallon?” I re-read the article, my eyes lingering on Alex's name.

  “Do you know how long it takes a farmer to earn nine poxy cents, Maria? Bloody hell, spirits are no luxury, they're a necessity. Those folk in the west haven't got a clue what luxury is.” He stood and flung his serviette onto the table. “They needs break their backs to trundle their grain to market on the treacherous roads as it is.” A vein bulged in his neck. “They first need distill it into spirits they can transport. These wee producers will suffer much worse than the immense ones.” He paced in a circle and halted before me, staring me down. “If I were Hamilton, I wouldna leave the house. The mad rabble are itchin' to tar and feather his plutocratic hide.”

  I panicked. Sweat moistened my palms. “Would a mob of backwoodsmen storm the Capital and seize the lawmakers, creating another French Revolution, because of a nine-cent tax on their whisky?” My voice shook.

  “Just watch,” came his eerie reply.

  No, it couldn't happen. But James's portent stayed on my mind till he left for work.

  I devoured the rest of the newspaper.

  KILLER STALKS THE STREETS blasted the headline on page 2. The article went on to report the two murders committed, so far, it said, intimating that mayhap there could be more in future and criticizing the authorities for what the reporter described as the laxity of investigative success from the authorities and the paucity of resources being applied to the case. It was evident that at the time of writing, the reporter, one Silas Blunt, had not been privy to the commissioner's intent to add to the number of constables patrolling the streets at night. I shuddered. Seeing the case described in black and white did cause me trepidation and a resolve to do as Alex had asked. I vowed to restrict my movements after dark. Just to be sure, I checked the doors and windows again.

  To stay busy, I wrote Alex a letter.

  I read about the whisky tax and I support it—and you. We need pay our nation's debt. I also saw the piece about the murders. Fear not, for I shall take great care as you asked of me.

  I added nothing intimate, desperate or longing.

  The week dragged on. I received no reply from Alex, but James's prediction had come true—as if he had a crystal ball.

  Next day's headlines barked about how unjust western farmers considered the tax on whisky, and their bitterness about it. In their protest meetings, they cried discrimination, as they always converted their extra grain into whisky. Alex's solution for the frontiersman was simple: drink less. “It depends on themselves to diminish consumption,” he was quoted as telling Congress.

  James crumpled the paper in disgust. “That supercilious two-faced pillock,” he grumbled, imbibing his own ardent spirits. “Drink is but all those men
have. Aye, let them abstain from their vice. When he bloody well abstains from his vice.” He wiped his mouth and refilled his glass with the whisky he'd purchased yesterday—a dozen bottles of it, “to help the poor farmers,” he'd said.

  Unwilling to add one word to this conversation about Alex abstaining from his “vice,” I shut my mouth on the subject. It mattered not; a tax, however burdensome, wouldn't separate James from his aqua vitae.

  But it didn't stop me from reading about it. I hadn't yet heard from Alex and still worried about his safety. Would those farmers travel here from the frontier in their wobbly ox carts or on foot, brandishing canes and blunderbusses? Was Alex worried? I longed to speak to him, about this if naught else.

  A character called Tom the Tinker now appeared in every daily paper. I knew not if he was a real person or a fictional embodiment of all the angry farmers, who called themselves Tinker's Men.

  Tom the Tinker had a fiendish way with words: “You might find a note posted on a tree outside your house, requiring you to publish in the Gazette hatred of the whisky tax and your commitment to the cause; otherwise, the note promised, your still would be mended,” James read aloud from the Gazette.

  “Mended,” he explained to me, “means shot full of holes.”

  I shuddered.

  To my relief, during the Whisky Rebellion, Tom the Tinker and his men kept their protests out of the Capitol. Some Pennsylvania farmers threatened to declare their independence, but didn't tar and feather any tax collectors. Not yet. I wrote Alex again, asking if he was safe enough. Still no answer. But every morn when I combed the papers and read no news about any assassinations. I went limp with relief. James insisted this would lead to a revolt, forcing President Washington to send out the militia. I thought it strange that the papers reported no more about the murders, but mayhap the lack of further press reports would herald an end to the horrific crimes. Or the next article would report this lunatic's capture. I was wrong, of course.