US Grant Mysteries Boxed Set

by Jeffrey Marks

  Hart cleared his throat. “Was your late husband a gentleman?”

  Grant winced, thinking of all the more polite openings to use with the woman. After all, her husband was dead, killed by some unknown hand. She’d been abandoned by Granby, only to learn of his remarriage to another. Grant would have opened with a gentler gambit.

  The woman’s laughter rang out through the room. “Not hardly. Not like you mean. He had his courtly moments, Israel did, but them were few and far between. More’n likely, he’d just do for himself.”

  “How so?”

  “Despite having more than most, Israel weren’t never much of a family man. Right enough that he didn’t have a choice about being sold, but he didn’t waste any time in sparking a new girl once he was. By my tally, he’d got her in the family way in less than six months.”

  “You kept track of him?”

  She smiled, showing off a row of small corn kernel teeth. “A body can’t help but hear things. People always want to tell you the bad stuff… can’t wait to share it usually.”

  Hart scribbled at a pace that would have cracked Grant’s wrist. “What type of bad stuff?”

  “That he was sniffing around the others at the new master’s quarters, that sort of thing. But I don’t want you thinking it was all bad. He had his good points too. When we was first sparking, I was just a girl of fourteen. He’d stop by my parents’ cabin and say hello. Maybe bring me flowers. We’d sit and talk for hours back then. Israel is all about the hunt. He’s like an old hound dog that way, he is. Still like to chase down that rabbit, but has no idea what to do with it once he catches it.”

  “So you caught him with other women?”

  Grant listened to Hart’s questions but remained silent. He couldn’t imagine a life like this. He would never hurt Julia by deserting the marriage bed, even if they were separated. He’d been faithful on the West Coast. He counted those days apart from her as the darkest of his life: miserable, lonely, unhappy. He’d left the Army to come back home and redeem himself. He never would stray from Julia, no matter what the circumstances or distance.

  “I didn’t catch him. Never had time when I was with him. The master kept us too busy to look at each other, much less anything else. I heard though that once he got to Mississippi, he began cheating with any old thing.”

  “Did the other wife know?” Hart still scribbled away. He seemed oblivious to the pain that must have come from this situation. The view from the window of the shanties that lined the street served to emphasize the unfairness of the situation.

  “Sure enough. And it didn’t stop once he got to here either.”

  “Granby’s been unfaithful since he’s been in Cincinnati?”

  Grant knew that Hart was thinking of all the motives that came from infidelity. The man had two wives, two families, and a mistress to grow tired of his games. Any of them might kill to avenge their honor.

  “Indeed he had, sir.” Mrs. Granby drew herself to her full height, and Grant wondered if she’d been made to hold that posture as a slave. “Israel ran away from Mississippi without his family. He came to Cincinnati by hisself and got a job at the Mill. His family didn’t get here until the war had started. So the mouse was all alone here to play, since the cat was locked away in the slave quarters back home.”

  “What about after the family arrived?”

  “You don’t give up, do you, sir? Yes, then too.” She looked around the room, eyes darting here and yon, but Grant couldn’t see what she was trying to find. There could be nothing hidden in the scantly decorated room.

  “I wouldn’t want to say this in front of my boy, but frankly, I saw Israel and Caroline together a few days before he was killed.”

  “His son’s Caroline?” Grant’s eyes widened. He had counted on at least Jericho being innocent of the crimes. After all the trouble he’d gone to to drag Grant into the matter, he possessed a motive as good as anyone’s. The thought troubled him. Would the father have gone to such lengths for his son? It certainly seemed unlikely based on what they’d learned. Israel Granby wanted what he wanted, price be cursed.

  “That’s right. Now how do you tell a boy something like that about his old man? Nigh on broke my heart, it did.” Her eyes were moist and bright now.

  Grant noticed that a fighter had replaced the gentle hostess. She had her hands clenched, and her nostrils flared as she spoke. “I saw them together at the Fifth Street Market. He was talking, and she was listening. Then he passed her something. Looked like paper to me, but I couldn’t see without moving closer, and I didn’t want them to know that I’d seen them. It might have provoked them to tell Jericho about the matter. I didn’t want that. Jericho was so tickled to have that girl. They was gonna have a baby soon. It would have broke his heart.”

  Grant nodded, recognizing the lioness protecting her cubs, even after they were grown. He knew that Julia would have done the same to save her children from heartache. “You don’t know anything about the paper he handed her?”

  She shook her head. “No, sir. It wouldn’t have done me any good anyways. I can read, but my eyes are failing me these days. Israel could read as well, and so could Caroline though. Not like Israel’s no-account new woman. She can’t read a lick.”

  “This was just before he passed?” Hart didn’t seem to slow down to think about the ramifications of this. “Do you think that your husband was killed? That it wasn’t an accident?”

  The woman nodded slowly. “Indeed, I do. My granny used to say that only the good die young, and by my counts, Israel Granby had a good number of years left in him.”

  Chapter 16

  Rather grudgingly, Grant had to admit that the Pike Opera House was an amazing structure. Julia had stood outside and taken in the incredible façade while he waited. Five stories tall topped by a beautiful dome, its sheer magnificence seemed lost amongst the mundane retail, Carroll’s Books and Sumner’s Sewing Machines. The opera house towered over these other buildings, but it still sat squeezed in between the commercial architecture of Fourth Street between Walnut and Vine.

  The interior had made him forget those thoughts. There were offices and studios for musicians and actors here somewhere, tucked out of sight. The structure’s dome and ceiling were captivating; Grant could understand why this place was called the grandest opera house in the nation.

  Even so, Grant was glad to hear that the opera troupe was in Lexington this week. He could stomach either plays or music, but not both together. It didn’t sit well with him, and he’d been glad to hear the organizers mention a concert tonight instead.

  Besides the opera, Pike’s was home to acting groups as well. Actors who wanted a venue for their works had founded the place. In the months since April last, no one would have dared to put on a play for a Union government official. It simply brought back too many regrets of Lincoln’s loss, but grudgingly the nation had begun to heal.

  Grant had heard the stories that Junius Booth had been performing at Pike’s on the night that Lincoln was assassinated. The actor had fainted upon hearing the news, which had ended the performance of Othello. It came as no surprise to Grant that the other Booth had the role of Iago, the manipulative mind behind the tragedy. The troop was spirited out of town in the middle of the night to stop a possible lynching of the assassin’s brother.

  Grant looked around as he and Julia took their seats in the box nearest the stage. They sat in the front row, while his father-in-law sat directly behind them, enjoying the envious stares. Grant had expected Ambrose Hart here tonight. After all, the Daily Enquirer’s offices were only a block or so from the Opera House. There was a chance for a story tonight, and Hart would be unlikely to miss it.

  Julia tapped his elbow and brought him back to the auditorium. She pointed her fan in the direction of a point in the audience. “Look, Ulys. There are the Mitchells. Didn’t you say you hadn’t seen her yet? You had a silly notion that she was locked up somewhere.”

  Grant followed her gaze and fo
und the major with no problem. The woman next to him must have been his wife—a mousy little thing. She had a bun of indeterminate color hair and a tan dress that seemed to fade into the seat. She stared straight ahead, and the couple didn’t exchange words.

  Grant caught sight of another man from the corner of his eye. Dr. Trubel was here tonight. He hadn’t expected the scientist. Tonight would have cost a pretty penny that Trubel could ill-afford judging from his lodgings. Grant had assumed that the man would be home trying to find a new pupil for his efforts. The man’s presence bothered Grant for a reason he couldn’t pin down.

  He felt uneasy. Maybe it was just being so near to where one of the Booths had played, or maybe it was the thought of watching a play from a box seat, but he couldn’t shake the air of impending trouble. He was as het up as he got before battle. His remedy for that was to sit against a tree smoking cheroots until the situation was over. That wasn’t possible in a city the size of Cincinnati. He had cigars by the houseful, but trees were as scarce as hens’ teeth in the cramped town.

  The conductor came out and introduced Grant and Julia. They stood and waved at the crowd as applause erupted. He was back in his seat long before Julia sat down again. The music started and Grant settled back in his chair, hoping to shake the foreboding sensation.

  The jangling music didn’t help him much. The group had selected the William Tell Overture by a man named Rossini. As he read the program, Grant suspected that the piece had been selected particularly for him; this Tell had fancied himself a hero as well. The music was loud and repetitive, so much so that Grant felt his eyes slide shut on more than one occasion. A light tap on the arm from Julia brought him back to the opera house and the music.

  Finally, the music finished, and the crowd burst into polite applause. Grant knew that the event had been set up for him, and it came as no surprise that the audience broke into more applause when he, Julia, and the colonel stood up and made their way to the box’s entrance.

  Ambrose Hart stood just outside the box, leaning against the wall. The man had a smile on his face as he saw them exit. “Good evening, General. Mrs. Grant. Colonel Dent.” He nodded and fell into step with them as they made their way down to the foyer and the reception waiting for them.

  As they alit on the bottom step, Julia doubled her pace into the crowd. “Follow me, Ulys. I want to show you that your poor Mrs. Mitchell couldn’t possibly be someone sinister.”

  Julia made her way through the crowd like Sherman cutting his way through Georgia. She smiled, curtsied a few times, and waved her fan at a few men that Grant knew were politicians in Cincinnati. Grant shook hands with Richard Bishop, who had been mayor before the war. There were rumors of an eventual run for state office, and if that happened while Grant was president, the man might be a valuable ally.

  Finally, Julia found the major and his wife speaking with another couple. The din of the crowd made hearing what she said to them difficult, but within seconds, Grant had joined the couple.

  “Nice to make your acquaintance,” Grant said to the woman. “We were at your home the other day. You have a lovely place.”

  She blushed and fanned herself, despite the chill of the night air that swept in from the street. “Thank you, sir. My husband chose it. Our home on Eighth Street no longer suited our needs.”

  Mitchell handed his wife a wineglass full of dark red liquid and nodded to Grant. “Nice to see you again under better circumstances.”

  Grant murmured something appropriate to finding a dead servant during an informal crime investigation, but he kept his eyes on the woman. She blanched at his comments and took a discreet sip of her wine.

  “When do you move on, sir?” Mitchell asked. That was the second time in as many days that he’d referred to Grant’s departure. Was he merely trying to make conversation, or was there another more sinister reason for asking?

  “In a day or two. My next stop is Covington, a chance to visit with my parents.” Grant knew that he wouldn’t receive a gala reception from Hannah Grant. The stern woman would more likely continue her chores than make a fuss about her son’s triumphant return to their home, though Grant had no doubt that his father had informed all the newspapers in four counties.

  “And will your father-in-law be accompanying you? I noticed him with you tonight.”

  Grant paled, thinking of such a meeting. His father and Colonel Dent were about as far apart on the subject of slavery as Cincinnati from California.

  Mitchell waved a hand to summon a waiter. Grant looked down to see that Mrs. Mitchell had drained her glass at some point.

  Julia winked at her husband and then faced back to the major. “I believe that my father will be going home after this visit. He has things to attend to at White Haven.”

  The major nodded. A black man in a tuxedo and carrying a tray of glasses approached, and Mitchell snatched two glasses quickly from the tray. The empties were deposited with the waiter.

  Julia curtsied slightly. “You’ll have to excuse us. We’re expected to mingle tonight. So many people to see.” She took her husband by the arm and pulled him along to another part of the foyer.

  “Ulys, that Major Mitchell beats his wife.”

  Grant looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping on their conversation. Disparaging city leaders was not a good idea for garnering votes for November. “How do you know that? I saw no marks on her.”

  “She’s in mortal fear of that man. I could see it in her eyes.”

  For a moment, Grant wondered if Julia had been spending too much time with Madame Blanche. Her certainty was unnerving.

  Grant looked at his wife and nodded. Much as any woman could gossip, Julia was usually accurate with her pronouncements. She had a way of knowing things that amazed Grant at times. He had no such feeling for people.

  “That would explain why she wasn’t available the day you went to see her. If he’d hit her, she wouldn’t want to be seen. I remember a woman in Galena. Every time her husband set out drinking, she disappeared for two days after. This could be much the same.”

  Julia’s back arched suddenly, and Grant turned to see Dr. Trubel standing behind them.

  “Good evening, sir. It’s nice to see you again.”

  Julia gave the scientist a smile. “Thank you. Likewise, I’m sure.”

  The doctor looked wan tonight. His lids were thick and puffy, and his cheeks were ashen. He was alone, Grant noticed. Apparently, he’d decided not to start with educating another woman.

  “The general of the Union Army was telling me about your social experiments. I think it’s most admirable, and something that is long overdue.” Julia deigned a smile on the scientist, who seemed pleased with the attention.

  Trubel nodded. “Thank you, madam. I thought that I would be able to publish my results soon, but my work is lost. Without my subject, I fear no one will believe my study. It’s a rather bitter debate, and as such, a paper without proof will carry little weight with the scientific community.”

  Grant stopped to wonder. He hadn’t stopped to consider Trubel’s story until now. Yes, men of color possessed raw talent and artistic ability. He’d seen their works and read a couple of poems by them. What if Caroline had not been one of them? What if, despite Trubel’s best efforts, she hadn’t been able to read or write? What if she’d not proved to be what he’d expected? Grant knew that the man cared for her, but did he care for his career more? With her gone, he could make whatever claims he wanted about the woman without contradiction. His work would otherwise be for naught.

  “When did you expect to release your work?” Grant asked, with more casualness than he felt.

  “Next year perhaps. I wanted to make sure that her writing skills were a bit more polished before I announced my findings.”

  Grant nodded. He was about to ask another question when Hart tapped on his shoulder. “Excuse me, General, but some of the members of the press wanted to ask you a few questions. I thought we could step back into the ha
ll for a minute so that we wouldn’t disturb the guests.” Hart looked annoyed, perhaps that he had to share his access to the presumptive next president. He’d have to work harder now to make a name for himself in Cincinnati journalism.

  Julia smiled. “I’ll be fine here with Father, Ulys. You run along.”

  Grant reluctantly followed Hart to doors that separated the performance hall from the foyer. Two other men stood there, poised with pencils and notepads. They reminded Grant of the violinists he’d just seen with bows ready to start.

  Suddenly it seemed as if Hart were part of a regiment of reporters. Grant really had hoped to slip through tonight’s appearance without speaking with the newspapers. While he tried not to hold a grudge, it was hard not to after what the Cincinnati papers had said about him—a failure, a drunk. They’d encouraged Halleck to fire him, even after he gave them Fort Donelson.

  Grant hated to talk about himself. Let his actions speak, and his mouth be silent. That had been his motto throughout the conflict, and his mother’s before that. People had published what they would, but he’d shown them results. Of course, his father had peppered the newspapers in Cincinnati with stories of Grant’s exploits, but there was a small humiliation in the unbridled bragging of his father.

  One of the reporters fired off a question before they’d even opened the doors to the theater. Hart looked displeased and stood next to Grant instead of facing him like the other members of the press. Grant answered in one or two-word answers when possible, wishing that someone would rescue him from this interrogation.

  A shout that seemed to last forever came from behind the doors, followed by a crash. Both noises made the reporters jump, but Grant was more frightened by the deadly silence that followed. Hart pushed through the group and opened the doors to the hall. Grant followed him and stopped short.

  There on the floor lie Jericho Granby, head cocked and body twisted in a way that no living man could be.

  Grant heard Hart’s voice from in front of him. “It looks as though Jericho has fallen.”