Michael's hands sketched dimensions in the air. "The book is about yea high and wide. Medium brown leather. Heavy and large. Pick any room to begin your search." He checked the time on a watch drawn from his waistcoat pocket. "Going on three o'clock." He rapped the surface of the counter with his knuckles. "Help yourselves to candles here if you need some light." He replaced his watch and turned to Ferguson to receive the private's report.
"Sir. The stable was swept clean. From the looks of it, months ago. No straw, no dung, just reins and a broken old harness hanging on the side, gathering dust. Dust in the kitchen, too. I found an old broom and bucket and some cracked bowls. That's all."
Flesh along Michael's spine pricked. "My orders, lads. If you believe you've located the records book, don't touch it. Fetch me first."
***
The privates dispersed to search the office. Henshaw returned with the locksmith, a slight fellow about three inches shorter than Michael. Pick in hand, the civilian contractor squatted before the padlock. Michael directed Henshaw to the tobacconist's shop to learn whether the Farrells or their apprentices had witnessed recent unusual activity associated with Bowater.
As Henshaw clanked down the front steps, the locksmith stood and brandished the freed padlock like a severed head. Michael sent him to the back door to assess how to secure it. Then he lit a candle and strode to Bowater's study. One of the privates was already inspecting books and shelves, his examination meticulous, cautious.
Moments later, the scuff of shoes in the doorway interrupted Michael's scrutiny of bills and letters he'd spread open before him on Bowater's big desk. "Sir," he heard Ferguson say, "I believe I found the records book."
Michael swiveled and spotted the bleak press of Ferguson's lips. His tone snapped at the air. "You didn't touch it, did you?"
"No, sir, not after what happened out there. I did as you ordered. Told the others to stand back."
Thank god his men weren't rash. Michael relaxed his jaw. "Good." He caught the eye of the soldier in the study with him and jutted his jaw at the door. "Let's have a look."
In the parlor, soldiers and the locksmith had withdrawn a prudent distance from where a plush rug had been rolled away and three floorboards pulled up. Michael regarded the floor, then Ferguson. "However did you find this hidden compartment?"
"The floor sounded peculiar when I walked over it, so I pulled away the rug and realized that the boards weren't quite flush with the rest of the floor."
"Excellent work." Michael knelt beside the hole in the floor and gazed into gloom.
"Here you are, sir." One of the men handed him a lit candle.
The faint glow enabled him to resolve the shape of a book lying flat about three feet down in the hole. Something lay atop it: an open, dark circle that appeared to contain a smaller, closed circle in its center. Without sunlight, he doubted that even a torch would provide him with enough illumination to identify what lay atop the book.
The gap in the floor howled at him of the cage above the back door, loaded with projectiles. Foulness wafted up from the hole. Like feces. Like death.
No way in hell was he was sticking his arm down there. He rocked back on his heels, stood, and gave the candle back to the soldier. "Ferguson, fetch the broom from the kitchen."
"Sir." He sprinted out and returned with the broom in less than a minute.
Michael inverted the broom, handle first, straight into the hole. As soon as the end of the broom made contact below, he heard a loud clap. The broom vibrated, gained weight. His arm jerked, and he tightened his grip. Men in the room recoiled.
He brought the broom up. Metal clinked, a chain rattled. Affixed to the handle, approximately where a man's wrist would have been, was a metal leg trap used by hunters to snag wolves and bobcats. Its teeth, smeared with dried dung, had almost bisected the broom handle.
A murmur of shock frosted the air. "Damnation," someone whispered.
Revulsion transfixed Michael. His stomach burned when he thought of anyone catching his wrist in the trap. Almost certainly, the victim's hand would need amputation, and the filth on the metallic jaws would encourage the spread of general infection, resulting in slow, agonizing death.
The locksmith coughed. "Mr. Stoddard, sir, I've a question of you."
Michael blinked, broom and trap still in his grasp, and pivoted to the locksmith. The wiry man held a metal chunk that he must have pried off the floor while inspecting the rear door. Hair jumped along Michael's neck when he recognized the metal as a bayonet, its tip broken off.
A muscle leaped beneath the locksmith's eye. "Who designed that trap at the back door?"
"The owner, Mr. Bowater, I presume."
"Sir, with all the valuable property in this building, there's no reason Mr. Bowater shouldn't have secured the rear as well as he did the front, except that he..." The locksmith trailed off. His lips pinched, as if to seal in disgust.
Michael leaned into his hesitation. "Except that he what?"
"Inferior workmanship, warped wood on the door. I believe Mr. Bowater intended to lure someone in with the promise of an easy entrance, then kill him horribly in a rain of debris. You've a madman on your hands." The artisan glanced over the redcoats. His empty palm circled air twice, fingers open. "Battle places its own gruesome demands on you fellows. But outside of battle, have you tried to lure a man into a trap and kill him?" He caught Michael's eye.
Michael's expression and body stilled. He held the man's gaze. Winter crawled over his scalp and down his neck. The artisan didn't know, Michael told himself. How could he know?
"You see my meaning." The locksmith raised the bayonet for emphasis. "A decent man like yourself would never set up such a snare."
End of Chapter One
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Biographical Information About Suzanne Adair
Award-winning novelist Suzanne Adair is a Florida native who lives in a two hundred-year-old city at the edge of the North Carolina Piedmont, named for an English explorer who was beheaded. Her suspense and thrillers transport readers to the Southern theater of the Revolutionary War, where she brings historic towns, battles, and people to life. She fuels her creativity with Revolutionary War reenacting and visits to historic sites. When she’s not writing, she enjoys cooking, dancing, hiking, and spending time with her family.
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The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution Page 34