US Grant Mysteries Boxed Set

by Jeffrey Marks

  Their room had been tidy and cleaned except for the corpse on the bed. This room looked like the third day of Gettysburg. Even in a fury, Julia couldn't have inflicted this kind of damage to their clothes and belongings. The murderers must have been looking for something and she perhaps interrupted them. Yet even if the men subdued her, the sight of a fighting hellcat or a prostrate figure of a woman escorted by marauders should attract notice in Georgetown. Someone must have seen them leave the hotel and head towards parts unknown.

  Grant paused - unless they didn't leave. The mystery man had been killed in the livery stable. The fight had occurred amongst the stalls and hay. He'd found signs of that struggle when he put the horses away last night. Had the villains taken Julia there as well? He wouldn't let himself ruminate that she might have met a similar end. The thought was too hideous to contemplate.

  He started towards the door, but Tyson blocked his way. "Where do you think you're going? You're needed here."

  Grant brushed the man aside and yanked the knob. "To the livery stables. Julia might be there."

  Tyson's brows arched. "Is she in the habit of midnight rides by herself? After she rips her clothes to shreds?"

  Grant swallowed and looked at his feet. This was not the time to hold back information. "The killers might have taken her there. That's where they killed that man we found. I found some blood under the hay and marks of what looked like a scuffle." The whole story poured out, as Tyson's face grew increasingly crimson. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at the General.

  "When exactly did you plan on telling me this? You've been keeping vital information on the murders to yourself. That's stupid and dangerous." Tyson pulled a small revolver from his waistband and flicked it open. Grant couldn't see the chambers but hoped the man had enough bullets to protect himself. He'd probably never seen gunfire.

  Grant took the stairs two at a time and bolted through the lobby. He went outside and crept quietly to the entrance of the livery stable. The doors stood open a hand's width with the locking plank thrown aside. His eyes hadn't grown accustomed to the darkness yet. Slowly he made out the shape of his steed from yesterday, rustling in the stall. Something made the horse restless, prancing in the tiny space. His eyes scanned the room again and thought he saw a form thrashing above his head. No animal stood that tall and the owls or bats which flew in the rafters were never so large.

  He continued to squint at the moving object. Slowly he made out the dress and hair of his wife. She hung from the ceiling by a rope or meat hook; he couldn't quite discern the mechanism. He walked to where Julia hung and sought a ladder to get her down. Her head jerked violently towards the door and in response, she swung back and smacked the wall with her heels. The noise reverberated through the wood structure. Muffled noises came from her gagged mouth. Grant made a step to get a chair to help her down when she repeated the gesture. That woman could kick up a fuss when she wanted to. The quick snap of her head in the direction of the entrance made him turn around.

  Tyson stood in the doorway, pistol level with Grant's head. "Sic Semper Tyrannis, eh, General?"

  Grant spun around, looking at the Pinkerton man in a new light. He caught his breath and stared. "No, it can't be."

  Tyson took a slight bow, arms outstretched, holding the gun steadily aimed at Grant's head. "But it is, my dear man. I'm grateful that I wasn't recognized. My talents for disguise are unrivaled in the theater."

  A kerchief dropped to the straw as Julia coughed and sputtered. "Booth." Julia's voice rang out over the stable like a heavenly chorus.

  "In the flesh, dear lady. In the flesh. So real and alive." He pulled the safety off his small gun and wrapped both hands around the butt. Had the man's eyes become that cold and steely or had Grant just noticed it now? "General, if you would please, place your gun on that bale of hay and step away from it. Then I won't have to harm Mrs. Grant."

  Grant held the gun by the barrel, the way he'd seen his vanquished enemies do so many times. He placed the weapon gingerly on the stack of hay and moved away from his only protection. He knew their destiny now. He'd seen that in battle too.

  "So don't you have any questions before you leave this mortal coil?" Booth moved towards Grant, gun still trained on his skull. "No niggling doubts about what fools you've been?"

  "The man in our room that first night. Who was that?" Julia's voice was clear and strong despite her precarious perch above the floor. Grant admired her strength in the face of certain death. Few women would bear such equanimity in the face of a cold-blooded killer. His heart swelled at her fortitude. At least, he wouldn't have to live without her. That would be a fate worse than this death.

  "So easy. That was me. Or rather that was the Pinkerton agent Seward sent to watch after you. So simple, once you look at it the right way. He came to town, checked out the landscape, and planned to protect you. No one killed a rebel killer; the rebels killed your guardian. Killing you became that much easier when I was the one who was to guard you."

  "And Adelaide?" Grant could have sworn that Julia was ready to spit. Death and impending doom had not calmed her feeling about the woman. Hell hath no fury like a woman who feels the need to compete.

  "Ah, yes, the weak link in my little plot. Adelaide was the second Reb they mention in the telegram to you. Her husband was a rather well known plantation owner until Sherman burned their home and stole his livestock. The poor man died of a broken heart to see his land so callously destroyed. Many of those Confederate bills left as calling cards belonged to him."

  "Adelaide was a traitor?" Grant's mind reeled. Despite the gun pointed at him, he backed up to lean against the wall. How could she have betrayed him? Her memory was one of the best things he'd had in this town.

  "She was a loyalist to the South and her husband, General. Only the losers of a war are punished. To the victor goes the spoils and the glorious titles."

  Julia's laugh tinkled overhead. "I knew she was up to no good. I could tell it."

  If she hadn't already been strung up, Grant would have gladly done it. "So why did you kill her? No honor among thieves?"

  Booth laughed. "Adelaide and I go back quite a ways. She and I met onstage. She was Ophelia to my Hamlet. Quite the actress, almost as talented as I was."

  "Does this have a point?" Julia's voice was deep and sorrowful.

  "My dear lady, we're talking about the Bard of Stratford. Of course, there's a point. I met Adelaide years ago and our paths have crossed many times since then. When there was a scandal about our child, I whisked her away to the South and introduced her to Mr. Todd. Her husband was a generous patron of the arts and a kindly gentleman. Adelaide decided to keep her relationship with him from her family since the Duncans looked down on Southerners almost as much as poor Northerners. Thespians stick together so she was very willing to help me with my plans."

  "No doubt to help you slay someone that overshadowed her own importance in town. She seemed that kind of harlot."

  "Hardly. It seems she wanted to halt our little plan. She'd grown fond of the general and couldn't bear to see him harmed. Isn’t that touching? She was going to tell you everything, so I killed her. She sealed her own destiny by loving well, but not wisely."

  Grant clenched his jaw, but didn't speak. "There's no end to your carnage, is there?"

  "You're a fine one to be talking, General. More than one person around here has called you a butcher. Go home, you butcher.” The man’s voice took on a different timbre and Grant recognized it from his first day in Georgetown. Booth had instigated the unrest that morning, not unhappy townsfolk. Grant felt a sense of relief. So the town had not been against him. This man had led a fractious revolt of one.

  “It was war.”

  “I merely eliminated one man; you've killed thousands. That’s a worse crime than my cohorts were tried and executed for."

  "Then why didn't you just kill me and be done with it?" Grant squirmed as he stared at the open barrel of the pistol. Asking
for death didn't seem a wise tactic.

  "That would be too good for you. After all, my compatriots weren't killed immediately. They were forced to endure that mockery you called a trial. Then they had to wait months for their sentence to be carried out. Why should I give you a fast end like Lincoln? Where was the tension and artistry in that? An execution in three acts is more my style. I wanted you to feel the same worries that they suffered. Humiliation, ridicule, pain. The end was upon you and nothing you could do would stop it. You had to squirm before I killed you. Even down to letting you see the noose which would be your end. How did that make you feel?"

  "I wasn't concerned. I've been in worse spots." Grant's eyes never left the man's face.

  Tyson laughed. "Well, you should have worried. Your time has come, General, and I'm your executioner."

  Grant looked over his shoulder and saw the Massies' freedman, Henry, standing in the doorway with a shotgun. His shoulders sagged slightly. This wasn't his night to die.

  "Drop your gun, Mr. Tyson. I don't want to have to shoot you." The barrels of the weapon trembled slightly as the bellman trained them on Booth's back.

  Grant cleared his throat. "Son, this man is John Wilkes Booth, not Mr. Charles Tyson. You know who that is?"

  The barrels snapped into a level position. "Yes sir, I do. He done shot President Lincoln."

  "Well, son, I hate to disappoint your little rescue attempt, but if you shoot me, I'll shoot General Grant here. You won't even get to tell your story before they lynch you. Things haven't changed that much with emancipation. You are still despised in the North. Hell, they won't even let you vote. Whites are more than happy to keep you in a democratic limbo. Your life or death would mean little to them."

  "General?" The barrels began to tremble. He took a step back towards the stable doors and looked outside into the night. He blended into the darkness. Only the stark whites of his wide-open eyes gleamed.

  Julia swung towards the wall again, creating dark patches against the upper level of the livery. "Henry, Mr. Booth can't shoot both of us in the time you get a shot off. One of us can tell the authorities that you're a hero. Nothing bad will happen to you."

  Tyson moved his gun between the Grants. "Which one will it be, Henry? Who lives and who dies? Decisions to be made. A lot of responsibility to have now that you're free. Wasn't slavery a lot easier than this?"

  Henry stepped back some more. Grant could feel the man's fear in the night air. "No, sir. Slavery weren't never easy. I have my respect now that I can go where I want. When you go to jail, you can tell me how it feels."

  A cruel smile crossed Booth's face, transforming the matinee features into malice. "I don't have a lot to lose. I won't go to jail, in case you've forgotten the fate of my compatriots. They'll have to catch me first."

  Grant looked towards the door. "Do you think you're going to escape again?"

  Tyson made a grand sweep with his arm, waving from the hewn rafters to the straw floor. "I've escaped from barns before, in case you've forgotten. I find the irony delicious. Perhaps this time I'll escape to a theater."

  "Not if I can help it." Henry took another step backwards.

  "A noble sentiment, but futile none the less. And the best part will be that your last realization is that a Union general lost his life to liberate someone who isn't going to save him. Gratitude is a lost art form these days, don't you think, Ulysses?"

  Henry still stood in the door, but Grant's hopes faded as he saw the man back up a few more steps and look out the door of the stables. Another retreat and he'd be out of the barn completely.

  Grant closed his eyes and let out his breath slowly. Perhaps Booth was right; the war had been fought at great cost and Henry wouldn't risk his life in return. His mind raced through his military training, trying to come up with a plan. A diversionary tactic seemed necessary.

  His fingers touched a lump of hardened clay and picked it from his pants pocket. Julia always complained about his haberdashery. She was dressed in crinoline and lace for this occasion, but his lackadaisical attitude towards dress might prove useful. He tightened the dirt in his fist until it felt like a rock. He tried to recollect Julia's position behind him. He'd only have one chance with a man like Booth. He heaved the clump backwards, in an underhand motion. The clump struck something and fluttered to the ground in a brief dirt storm. He braced himself for the thunder.

  "Ulysses, what are you doing?" Julia bellowed his name so shrilly that sparrows, starlings, and a stray bat in the rafters took flight, fluttering down into the common area and through the door. The birds made her scream louder still. The noise rang from the splintered planks of the barn in all directions.

  The diversions were enough to make Booth drop his bead. As the pistol’s barrel pointed low, Grant dove at Booth. Henry assessed the scene, dropped the gun, and grabbed at the man's ankles. Julia swung from the rafters and seemed to float from her perch like a feather in the wind. The commotion made the horses rear and smash the stall doors. The old mare galloped outside with more energy than a yearling. Grant missed Booth's arm, hitting the floor with a thud. Henry's grip slid off the leather boots, knocking the assassin off balance. Booth staggered to the door and spun around.

  Booth swept a match from his pocket and struck it across the beam of the door. "This brings back memories of my last pastoral performance." He dropped the match onto a pile of hay and watched as the flames licked the dry grass. The crimson glow lit his face as he smiled at the pair. Grant thought he saw the ghost of Lincoln flicker in the man’s eyes.

  Grant started towards Julia, but Hart rode into the barn on his horse. He quickly made his way to where Julia hung and helped her slide down on the saddle.

  The horse needed no encouragement to the barn door. Julia slid off the horse to land beside Grant. She nearly crushed him with her embrace, pulling him tight and letting her mouth brush his ear as she told him how much she loved him. The birds and bats that had created a diversion had also ruined her hair as it tumbled down to her shoulders.

  He pushed Julia through the door and began stamping the flames that had started towards the stalls. The orange trails of flame burned bright as they merrily made their way across the hay-strewn floor. The horses screeched with fright, recognizing the acrid smell of smoke. Henry took a shovel and dug at the dirt on the floor, dumping it on the fire. Grant shoved the hay away from the stalls and into a pile closer to the doors. The flames stopped there, and burned out quickly. Within a few minutes, the threat was over. The men looked at each other and headed for the doorway where Julia and Ambrose Hart stood.

  Ambrose Hart had ridden his horse to the livery stable entrance. His face sweat and his eyes gleamed like a cat's in the near darkness. "General, you're never going to guess what I found out. I had to go to Cincinnati to do the research, but our friend, Mr. Tyson, is not a Pinkerton agent. Shakespeare tipped me off. The use of words. I got that impression from the high-faluting language, but I did some investigating in town and found out that Charles Tyson is a well known alias for —”

  "Booth. We learned the hard way. Have you seen him come out of the barn?"

  Hart looked at the man with furrowed brows. "He didn't come out this way. We've been waiting for him."

  Grant and Henry looked at each other. Grant let his mouth fall open. "He's not in the stables any more."

  Hart followed suit, jaw dropping at least six inches. "Where could he have gone? I don't understand."

  "I don't either, but it's a fact. Booth escaped again."

  Chapter 24

  Julia smiled serenely at her husband. "I must say you should have listened to me about that woman, Ulys. I always know a woman's true motives. And Adelaide Todd's were apparent to anyone willing to take the time to notice."

  "Yes, Julia." He tried to keep his eyes on the road and avoid eye contact with his wife. Looking at her would only encourage her to continue. With one horse and the same two-wheel carriage, he had little to occupy his thoughts.

&nbs
p; "Of course, there were the quotes too. All that Shakespeare in one man." Hart had ridden with them half way to Bethel in order to get the interview with Grant. He'd proposed an article to Harper's Weekly and the editor had happily accepted, though he had telegraphed Grant to learn if the reporter's credentials were legitimate.

  They had worried about having a bodyguard the rest of their trip. Now Grant worried about having a reporter trail them to Washington. At this rate, he'd be asking about adoption.

  "And just how did you know it was Booth from a bunch of quotes from a dead writer? Seems like a stretch to me." Grant snapped the reins to make the horse move faster.

  Hart cleared his throat and kicked his steed's flanks to keep pace. "I didn't know for sure. That's why I had to go to Cincinnati. I can't believe you thought I ran because I was guilty."

  "In war, the ones who run are always guilty. That's just a matter of fact. Besides, I found an article about Lincoln's assassination at your house." Grant pulled back on the reins a bit when he saw that Hart wouldn't let them be. His time alone with Julia would be cut short as Jesse and one of their sons were meeting them in Bethel. The events of the last few days had brought the clan running.

  "The only person I could think of associated with the Confederates that knew the Bard, knew the theater and had a slight limp was Booth. The case had a definite theatrical flair and the stage reminded me of Lincoln's assassination. Booth was a classically trained actor and was renown for his Shakespearean performances. His family still is."

  Julia smiled at the reporter. "Well, that was very clever of you, Mr. Hart. Especially placing that wily Adelaide into the picture."

  "How could I not? He was quoting Shakespeare and she had the playbill of practically every drama ever performed. They had to be connected somehow." Hart managed to take notes as he rode. "That's why I had the article on Herold at my mother's house. I was trying to learn more about the conspiracy. That article just wasn't enough. I needed to see a picture of Booth to be sure. Imagine my surprise when I read up on him and learned that Tyson was a commonly used alias for Booth, especially when he was on the run from the Federals."