The Conductors

by Nicole Glover

  Penelope must have visited. In the first weeks after Thomas’s departure, Hetty and Penelope had taken pity on Oliver and cleaned up the house when they could. Hetty lost patience with him around January, but Penelope still came by.

  The prospect of tea appeared to soothe Marianne, and as Hetty placed a steaming cup in front of her, her old friend sat there as if she hadn’t been screaming at Oliver mere moments before.

  Their last conversation hung in the air between them. Hetty sat there sipping her tea unable to find the right words to keep the calm. Anger, after all, was an endless resource. Forgiveness was not.

  In the end, she kept things simple.

  “I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “The funeral is tomorrow and I need to make sure everything is in place.”

  “That is quite soon,” Hetty admitted. Seeing how Marianne’s gaze sharpened, Hetty added, “Do you need any assistance with arrangements?”

  “Oh, no need for your help—Eunice has taken care of matters. Although, there is something you can do for me.”

  From her pocket, Marianne pulled out a watch.

  “I was going through Charlie’s things, putting them away, seeing what could be left aside for Junior, and I found this in the drawer. He always had it with him. First thing he bought after gaining his freedom. When I found it, I began to wonder . . .”

  “About what?”

  Marianne’s voice was almost a whisper. “What was he up to that night?”

  Hetty glanced at the watch, uncertain if there was any residual magic that could tell her a tale. “All from a pocket watch?”

  “Not just the pocket watch. From the man who came to leave a wilting bouquet of flowers.” Marianne placed the watch on the scratched table, her hand shaking just a bit as she did. “I never seen that man before this morning. He said he came to pay respects to Charlie, but I suspect he’d come about gambling debts.”

  This would be the first Hetty heard of such a thing, but she was hardly surprised. Charlie was the one that taught her how to play various card games, and he always upped the stakes by adding money into the mix.

  “I didn’t know he gambled,” Hetty said, deciding to take a lighter approach this time around. “Was it on horses?”

  “Why would I know? Gambling is such an ugly pastime. Filled with nothing but lazy men and loose women.”

  “Do you have money to pay the debts?” Hetty asked.

  “My husband took care of me!” Marianne slammed her hand on the table, and Hetty quickly changed course.

  “I meant”—Hetty swallowed a few choice words—“if someone like that shows up again—”

  “He won’t.”

  “But if he does, please be careful. This business might have caused Charlie’s death. If he had debts, you’ll be the one to pay now.”

  “I told you—wrong time, wrong place.”

  “You only hope that.” Hetty spread her hands. “If he’s tied to gambling, it might mean more trouble for you and your children. It won’t go away if you pretend otherwise.”

  Marianne met Hetty’s gaze, but instead of anger there were tears in her eyes. “None of this will ever go away.”

  As Hetty reached to comfort her old friend, Oliver rapped his knuckles against the door frame.

  “Would you like to see him?” he asked.

  Marianne closed her eyes and placed the teacup firmly on the table.

  She held her head up high as she went down into the cellar, Oliver following closely behind.

  Content to remain where she was, Hetty reached for the watch Marianne had left behind.

  The first time Charlie had shown it to her she had thought it enchanted. While it certainly was accurate in telling time, it was also an astrolabe. It could point out stars and determine their location, which was useful for travelers and even practitioners hoping to increase their knowledge of the stars. It was an object of many ironies. Such a watch would have been invaluable in its assistance in escaping to freedom. But for a Freedman, it was just a pretty token.

  Hetty opened the watch. The clock face’s hands were locked in place. Just like its owner, she couldn’t help but think, before her fingers moved to wind it up. But the knob nearly popped off when she met resistance from the gears.

  “It needs to be fixed.” Marianne strode back into the kitchen. Her eyes weren’t red, but they shimmered with unspent tears. “Could Benjamin repair it? I won’t have it buried with Charlie, so he can take as long as he needs to make the fix. Charlie always said something worth doing is worth doing the right way.”

  Behind her, Oliver nearly choked, making it doubly hard for Hetty to bite back a smile.

  Said earnestly by his widow, Charlie’s words took on a regal air. Yet all Hetty could hear was Charlie yelling at them before jumping into a wagon with the horses flying at a full gallop, and other times the man went off and did something dangerous, unwise, or both.

  “I’ll take my time then,” Hetty said, tucking the watch into her sewing kit.

  “As for other business,” Oliver said, “I don’t wish to insist, but Charlie was my friend. The least I can do is his homegoing services.”

  “You insist?” Marianne queried. “I already—”

  “I’ll do it for no fees. It isn’t much, but I insist on the honor.”

  Marianne nodded. “I’ll bring a set of clothes. Is there anything I need to do?”

  “You’ve done enough. Let me take care of the rest.”

  Marianne sniffed and threw her arms around Oliver.

  Oliver stood as straight as a rod as Marianne sobbed into his collar. At Hetty’s beckoning, he lowered one arm and stiffly patted Marianne’s shoulder until she released him.

  “Thank you,” she repeated, this time to Hetty. “Both of you.”

  The moment Marianne slipped away, Oliver sighed loud enough to rattle pots.

  “You insist on the honor,” Hetty echoed.

  “Not out of the kindness of my heart. But it shouldn’t be too hard with the beneficial society ladies helping.”

  “Do you need me and Benjy to—”

  “No, I can handle it,” Oliver interrupted. “I’m well practiced. All these bodies you bring here for me to poke at. I end up burying a third of them!”

  “You can refuse, you know.”

  Oliver snorted. “If I did, you’d find someone else to hand off your dead bodies to. There are plenty of hospitals that will turn a blind eye to bodies as long as they are whole.”

  His words sparked her interest, bringing her back to what Maybelle had told her.

  “Have you heard of new cases of grave robbing?”

  “No more than what Benjy told me. Why?”

  “Just an odd word or two. From Maybelle.”

  “That busybody,” he scoffed.

  “You’re thinking of Jobelle,” Hetty said, “she’s the one that gleefully spills gossip. Maybelle’s the one with the shoe shop.”

  “I thought she owned a cigar shop.”

  “That’s Clarabelle. And it’s her husband’s shop.”

  Oliver sank into a chair. “Penelope has too many cousins. No wonder she comes here to escape them.”

  “She was here?” Hetty asked innocently.

  “Don’t act like you don’t know.” Oliver nudged Marianne’s abandoned mug aside. “She stopped by to chat. I told her about Charlie. She got so upset, she started to clean. I left her alone because it would be my only chance to have a clean kitchen this week.”

  “You are a terrible person.” Hetty shook her head.

  “I’m an understanding one. You all have your quirks, and I know how to deal with each of them.” He studied his fingernails. “I’m not sure how you’d manage without me.”

  “With great difficulty, I suppose.”

  “Isn’t that why you’re here?” he asked. “Come to see the body and to admire my work?”

  “I would like to,” Hetty said, spying the clock in the kitchen. Unlike the pocket watch, that one w
as still ticking away. “But I have to leave. I need to meet someone for a different case.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Oliver suggested. The words seemed to surprise him as much as they did her. “I found a few interesting things I wanted to tell you in detail.”

  “Did you notice if the knife wounds were different?”

  “No.” He blinked. “They aren’t. Should they be?”

  “Just a theory we can lay to rest.” Hetty stood up then. “That’s all I came to ask about.”

  Oliver tried to hide it, but like a stormy sky brightened by lightning, an emotion buried under late nights and copious amounts of alcohol was revealed.

  Loneliness.

  GEMINI

  11

  HETTY ARRIVED AT THE GENERAL GOODS store a few minutes earlier than the marked time. This was fortunate, for it allowed her to familiarize herself with the shop. While the selections of most of the goods were far more expensive than she cared for, she only came here for fabric, since the shop had the highest quality. When she had commissions from the rich ladies up on Society Hill, Hetty came here to purchase fabrics, knowing the good quality would only further elevate her work.

  She was studying a roll of golden pink, wondering if it would be suitable for an underskirt, when footsteps approached and stopped right next to her.

  “Will you be buying this?”

  A shop assistant stood right in her shadow. The same one who kept her in sight as she moved toward the more expensive side of the store. Although he was not tall enough to look down his nose at Hetty, he made a fool of himself trying.

  This was vexing, but she knew how to handle people like him.

  She held up the fabric in her hands. “Yes,” Hetty said. “I will be buying several yards.”

  “Who is this for?” the assistant said, his eyes clearly taking in her plain dress as much as her brown skin. “What name shall I place on the tab?”

  “Alice Granger.”

  A white woman approached them. Her gray dress was plain, but the fabric was of a quality equal to the ornate butterfly brooch at her neck. A few curls of light brown escaped a neat bun, and her smile was distant yet pleasant.

  The shop assistant, who looked ready to toss Hetty out of the shop just moments ago, was all smiles now.

  “Miss Granger,” the shop assistant said, “you’ll be wanting . . .”

  “Everything she just said,” the strange white woman declared. “Although, double the order. I didn’t tell you earlier,” she said, turning to Hetty, “but I changed my mind. I will have several dresses made with the material. It is so versatile.”

  Hetty went along with this ludicrous statement, enjoying the shop assistant scrambling even as she kept a wary eye on the stranger.

  Continuing with the ruse, Hetty followed the woman out of the shop. On the street awaited a cab driver, who jumped down from his perch to help them inside.

  Hetty pressed the package close to her chest, less of a shield than a ready weapon to throw if needed.

  “Thank you for purchasing this for me,” Hetty said, with her eyes lowered to the ground. “I’m very grateful.”

  “It was no trouble,” the woman said. “It looks ready to rain again. Come, I can take you to where you’re going next. Hop inside.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t.”

  “I insist. I have a favor to ask of you.”

  Those simple words stopped Hetty’s protests. Not because she believed them, but because they explained her circumstances quite clearly. With this clarity, Hetty broke her rule about not entering a wagon with strangers and climbed inside without any more protest.

  “A favor from me,” Hetty asked after the woman tapped on the side closest to the driver. The wagon lurched forward. “I’m not sure about that.” She looked the woman straight in the eye and dropped all pretense. “I am not in the habit of helping white women. Though I suppose it does not matter, since you are not one.”

  Alice sat back, more than slightly stunned.

  “What gave me away? Was it that I helped you?”

  “No.” Hetty tapped her nose, and the act made Alice touch her own in horror. “If you know what to look for you can see the truth.”

  People who could pass for white often did. Many of the runaways that escaped the plantation leveraged their light complexions to hide in plain sight. While it was often a temporary act dropped the moment trouble ended, some chose to live their lives out in full this way. For most, it was not an easy choice. Passing meant cutting ties to family and friends and living in fear of the smallest mistake that could end everything. While some used that privilege to aid others, some passed purely for personal advancement.

  Given that Hetty sat across from Alice in a cab with a package of fabric worth several months’ rent bundled next to her, she suspected the latter to be the case here.

  “I heard stories about you,” Alice said. “About what you do, what you have done. Amazing things, remarkable rescues, escapes, all right under people’s noses.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear. It’s often exaggerated.”

  “You are the only one that can help me.”

  “Help you how? You appear well off.”

  “I’m exceedingly well off,” Alice admitted. “But it’s not me that needs your help. There is—” she paused, and started again, “There is someone teaching servants Sorcery.”

  “Good for them. Though rather risky, given the laws. But, as there isn’t a citywide uproar about it, I don’t see how this is a problem.”

  “It might explain her disappearance.”

  “Whose disappearance?”

  “My sister. Judith Freeman. I haven’t heard from her in several days.”

  “Do you talk regularly?”

  “Only through letters,” Alice laughed. “Though she has visited me on occasion, pretending to be a servant on an errand.”

  Hetty’s hand curled into a fist, and she shoved it into the folds of her skirts. “If you’re worried, why are you wasting time talking to me?”

  “I can’t seek out my sister,” Alice admitted, stating the obvious. “I would lose everything!”

  “I think you already have.”

  Alice’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m not asking for your help. This is a job. I just purchased several reams of fabric for you. Consider that your payment.”

  “I have a right to refuse this job.”

  “You do not.” Alice smirked like every rich girl Hetty had seen before. “Or we’ll have to bring others into this conversation. Some of them might be curious about the fabric in your possession.”

  And who, Alice’s smug smile seemed to say, would people believe if Alice claimed Hetty had stolen it?

  Certainly not Hetty.

  “We have our differences,” Alice went on, “but my sister would never have willingly disappeared like this. I’m worried. The rich have ways of making problems quietly vanish when they desire it.”

  Hetty grimaced. Despite the protests on her lips, she knew in the end what her answer would be.

  She already said no to someone else who had been desperate for her help, and he ended up dead. Benjy might say she bore no blame for Charlie’s death, but that was a lie. Charlie’s death was on her back. Alice might be exaggerating her sister’s plight, but Hetty would take no chances this time.

  “I’ll take the case. But I need information to help me start.”

  Alice gladly gave Hetty the information she wanted. It wasn’t much. An address for Judith’s apartment, names of a few friends, an abridged history of the sisters’ separate lives in the city. Information full of holes that needed filling if Hetty was going to get any use out of it. All of this paled compared to Alice’s reluctance to give Hetty any easy way to contact her.

  “If you need to talk to me,” Alice said when they arrived at the address Hetty had given her, “I sell perfume at the store on Grand. Slip me a note saying it’s an order from your mistress and I will meet you in a place where
we won’t be seen.”

  So much caution for such a lie. Hetty couldn’t help but wonder if Judith had disappeared simply to stop playing her sister’s games.

  The unkind thought lingered in Hetty’s mind as she turned the corner to the blacksmith’s shop.

  Sy Caldwell stood in the front, fumbling with a horse’s tack as Hetty entered. The lanky young man fought a losing battle, and it slipped out his fingers the more he worked at it.

  “You need to unbuckle it,” Hetty pointed out.

  “It’s fused,” Sy said, just as his elbow bumped against the table.

  One of Penelope’s younger cousins, Sy had run off the plantation to join up with Union soldiers at the tender age of fifteen. Not wanting to spend his time doing laundry or playing nurse, he cut his hair and changed his name. Doing this left him tasked with leading supply wagons instead, and he soon discovered that what had been a disguise was something that reflected his true self. In his transition to civilian life, he took night classes at Darlene and George’s school, where his interests ran toward numbers. However, his best skills didn’t lead to any employment until Penelope persuaded Benjy to take him on as an apprentice. Sy was practical, easily excited, and still had the job at the forge only because the owner was seldom there.

  “Looking for Ben?” Sy asked. “He’s around back making horseshoes.”

  “That shouldn’t keep him busy,” Hetty observed.

  Sy lowered his voice, “It’s for one of those folks uptown.”

  “Are they there watching?”

  “No.”

  “Then,” Hetty said, “I shall not bother him too much.”

  Sy’s protests followed Hetty as she slipped into the back of the forge.

  She heard the banging of a hammer long before she saw him. Clouds of steam rose up around Benjy, obscuring him partly from sight even as Hetty drew near. The heat pushed her back, and she could see his work shirt tossed haphazardly on the stool, covered in soot and drenched with sweat.

  Hunched over the forge, Benjy struck the metal over and over with a hammer hard enough that sparks flew. The fire behind him cast long flickering shadows that made him loom even taller in the room. He was drenched in sweat, and each movement only served to emphasize his well-formed muscles—the product of working in the forge since he arrived in Philadelphia.