Trumpet of the Dead (Raven Trilogy Book 2)

by Kurt B. Dowdle

  “I believe there may have been a murder on that night. In the churchyard.”

  Eberstark produced a whiskey bottle from a desk drawer along with two shot glasses. He poured the whiskey and slid one to Kamp.

  “No, thanks.”

  The reverend stared at Kamp with a flat expression until Kamp picked up his glass.

  Eberstark said, “To Martin Luther,” and they tossed back their shots. The reverend lit a candle and gestured for Kamp to follow him down the hallway, then down the creaking stairs to the church basement.

  Enough morning light slanted in the windows for them to be able to see most of the room, and Eberstark blew out his candle. While he surveyed the cellar, Kamp made sure to keep the reverend in his field of vision at all times. He saw what he expected, namely spare pews and other old furniture along with building materials for maintenance projects past and future.

  “Reverend, do you know whether this cellar was ever used for anything besides storage?”

  “Such as what?”

  “Hiding people.”

  “What?”

  “Runaway slaves.”

  He watched his words register on the reverend. Eberstark’s brow darkened. “Ach, I knew it.”

  “Knew what?”

  “Knew you come to make troovel.”

  Kamp measured the distance between himself and the stairs. He also looked for the door that led from the cellar to the outside.

  Eberstark continued, “I will tell you the truth, though. Even though no one else will.”

  He faced the reverend. “What’s that?”

  “Reverend Alcock was a fine man. But he was misguided on some things. Important things.”

  Even in the partial light of the cellar, Kamp saw the color rising in the man’s face.

  “Like what?”

  “Ach, he didn’t understand Luther, not well enough. He allowed them wretches to secret themselves in this very cellar.”

  “Wretches.”

  “Slaves. Them, them Shwartzes in full flight from the law. Alcock had no problem with that.”

  “Why would he?”

  “Ach, don’t play dumb. Luther knew, I know and you know, we’re all slaves in this world. Slaves to sin. Slaves to Lucifer. And Shwartzes! We can’t just do what we want. That’s rebellion. Look here.”

  Eberstark walked to the door that led to the churchyard and opened it. He went to the bottom step, turned around and pointed to the lintel. Kamp stood beside him and looked. Letters had been carved into the wood. The lintel had been painted over, but the letters remained clearly visible.

  It read, “Tutum loco.”

  Eberstark’s face twisted in disgust. “Tutum loco. Latin. The language of the papists. Do you know what it means?”

  “It means safe place.”

  “Yah, exactly. So when them fugitives from justice found this door, they’d know they could hide here and Alcock wouldn’t do them no harm.”

  “Do you think there may have been a runaway slave here the night of that concert?”

  Eberstark gave a self-satisfied grin. “I don’t just think. I know.”

  “How?”

  “Why, Alcock told me. Thought I’d go along with it.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I told the correct authorities. Not the police. And they put a stop to it. It wasn’t safe for them fugitives no more. Believe me.”

  Kamp scratched his forehead. “I thought you said you weren’t in charge yet.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Then why would you go against the reverend’s wishes? Isn’t that disobedient?”

  Eberstark’s anger boiled over. “God will not be mocked! Listen, Luther himself said, ‘Man is like a horse. The horse is obedient and accommodates itself to every movement of the rider and goes whither he wills it. Does God throw down the reins? Then Satan leaps upon the back of the animal!’ ”

  “What’s your point?”

  “It’s time for you to go. And know that you, too, will answer for your wretchedness. For living in sin. For disobeying. For leading that child astray.”

  “What child?”

  “Why, Becket Hinsdale! You put demonic ideas in his head. There was probably hope for him before that. But now there’s none. Do you know what they intend to do to that boy in that so-called hospital?”

  “No.”

  “They’re going to cut into his head, his brain. Ach, you can’t loose demons that way! But they’re going to do just that, I’m told.”

  “Who told you?”

  Ebertstark shook his head violently and then looked at Kamp. “Jesus said, it would be better for you to have a millstone tied around your neck and be thrown in the river than to cause that little one to suffer. It’s your fault, Kamp. You’re just a schnickelfritz who can’t see straight!”

  “Thank you for your time, reverend.” Kamp put on his hat and left the churchyard.

  Eberstark’s words trailed after him. “I pray for your soul every day, son. Remember that. Every single day.”

  24

  KAMP JOGGED onto the road to Bethlehem, settling into the fastest pace he could manage, lungs burning, legs getting heavy. It occurred to him that he might be arrested or shot on sight once he reached town, for breaking into Druckenmiller’s house, for helping E. Wyles escape, for any number of things. But the kid’s situation was dire, maybe hopeless. And his concern outweighed the consternation he might have otherwise felt upon hitting the city limits.

  When he came to the toll booth at the entrance to the New Street Bridge, Kamp fired a penny at the toll collector without slowing down. He kept running until he reached the courthouse steps, bounded up three at a time and went inside before the uniformed policeman at the door even recognized him. When he made it to the Judge’s chambers, the door was locked. He pounded on it with his fist.

  “Judge! Judge! Open the door. I need to talk to you.” He heard no reply, though he thought he heard floorboards creaking inside, so he lowered his shoulder, his good one, and slammed into the door, breaking the lock and forcing it open. He tumbled and rolled on the floor. The Judge stood in the center of his chambers, wearing his court gown and looking down.

  Kamp said, “You can’t let them do it, Judge. Don’t let them.”

  “Do what?”

  He stood up and brushed himself off. “Some kind of surgery. Sounds like they’re going to kill him. Or turn him into him into some kind of half-wit.”

  “Who?”

  “The kid. Becket Hinsdale.”

  “It’s outside, far outside, my jurisdiction. I could not interfere in such a way, even if I wanted to. Now if you’ll excuse me, I won’t make you pay for a new door.”

  “You’re responsible, Judge. You sent him there.”

  “I saved his life, Wendell. They had worse things in mind for him. And for you.”

  Kamp raised his eyebrows.

  “That’s right. I’m still looking out for you, my boy. The unseen hand has a mind to slap you down. I’m not letting it.”

  Kamp studied his face. The Judge appeared haggard, old, and beaten. “Why not?”

  “I have my reasons.” The Judge turned and walked to the door that led to the courtroom.

  “One more question.”

  “One more, and another, and another.”

  “Were you aware of people harboring runaway slaves around here during the war?”

  “Before, during, after. Yes, I knew about that.” He turned the door knob to the courtroom.

  “What about at the church? Did you know that was a safe haven?”

  “Yes, yes. Come back later. Come back when court’s not in session. Please.”

  Kamp followed the Judge into the courtroom, where everyone—the attorneys, the defendant and the spectators—was standing and waiting for the Judge to sit down. He heard a collective gasp and saw the bailiff put his hand to the pistol at his hip.

  Under his breath Kamp said, “Did Eberstark tell you they were sheltering runaways a
t the church, and to put a stop to it?”

  “That fool knows better than to approach me with any of his idiocy. Now, leave immediately, or I will have you shot.”

  HE MADE IT BACK to his house even faster than he’d run to town, and he formulated a plan along the way. He intended to tell Margaret Hinsdale what Eberstark had told him in the hopes that she’d immediately go to the hospital and have the surgery called off. First, though, he’d stop at home and let Shaw know what was going on.

  When Kamp reached the front door of his house and looked through the window, however, he saw the now-familiar figure of Margaret Hinsdale standing inside. Arms crossed, eyes downcast, she accosted him the moment she saw him come in.

  “Did you hear what they’re planning to do to him?”

  “I did.”

  He looked over his shoulder at Shaw, who stood in the doorway with Autumn crouched behind her, clutching the hem of her dress. Shaw’s expression was blank.

  Margaret Hinsdale said, “You have to do something.”

  “I am. I’m trying.” He looked at her drawn face and red eyes. “What does your husband say?”

  “About what?”

  “About getting Becket out.”

  “He says it’s the best treatment money can buy.” Kamp saw the cords in her neck straining as she talked.

  Kamp said, “Have you considered riding to the hospital yourself?”

  “I can’t! It’s stolen! They stole it.”

  “What is?”

  “Last night someone stole our carriage and all of our horses.”

  “And you and your husband were there?”

  “Of course. We returned home at four-thirty yesterday afternoon. They came in the dead of night, apparently. Burgled our home as well.”

  “What did they take?”

  Margaret Hinsdale furrowed her brow and stared at the floor. “An assortment of Raymond’s clothing. A suit and some casual clothes, a top hat. One of my dresses, several items from my toilet table.”

  “What items?”

  “Rice powder and hydrogen peroxide. They also took my gold locket and chain. It has a bird, a crane on it. The crane is holding a silver coin in its beak. It was a gift from my mother.”

  “But not everything.”

  “What?”

  “They didn’t take all your jewelry.”

  “No. Just the locket.”

  Margaret Hinsdale sighed deeply and looked out the window and then back at Kamp. She buttoned her long coat. “They’re going to take him away from me forever, aren’t they?”

  He searched for something to say and came up empty. Margaret Hinsdale put her hand on his arm and said, “It’s not your fault. You did everything you could.” Then she pulled her coat closed at her neck and left.

  He stood at the front window and watched her trudge down the path and to the road. Shaw stood next to him, and Autumn tugged at the leg of his pants, asking to be held. Kamp picked up his daughter, kissed her on the forehead and then turned to face Shaw. She could see his wheels turning.

  “What is it?”

  Kamp said, “Someone took all those things from their house while they were out and then came back and took the horses and carriage while they were home.”

  “She’s lying. Or she’s nuts. Probably both.”

  He shook his head. “No. Whoever it was broke into their house earlier in the day and then came back and took the carriage later, probably waited in the woods until they went to sleep.”

  “None of it matters anyway.”

  “Unfortunately, it does.”

  FROM THE DETAILS MARGARET HINSDALE PROVIDED, Kamp deduced who’d stolen her property and why. He didn’t know exactly what was about to happen to the kid, but he felt certain it would happen soon. And he knew the last train to Philadelphia, the 2-8-4, would be leaving the Third Street yard around midnight and that if he caught the Black Diamond Unlimited into town at eleven thirty, he might barely make it.

  He reached the tracks in plenty of time to catch out, but the Unlimited was late. One minute, then five, then ten. He felt his chance for getting the Philadelphia train out of Bethlehem drifting away. Then he heard a whistle, faint at first and then the next one louder. Finally he saw the headlight and heard the train chugging toward him.

  Kamp began to jog, and as the train cars started gliding past, he picked up the pace. By moonlight he saw the first open boxcar and leapt immediately, catching the handrail and then planting his foot in the iron stirrup. He swung his body into the car and landed with a solid thud.

  Thirty minutes later the Unlimited began to slow on its approach to the train yard. Kamp knew that since his train was late, the 2-8-4 would already be pulling out. He leaned out of the boxcar and saw that, in fact, the train to Philadelphia was leaving the yard on the track adjacent to his. Kamp climbed out of the boxcar and onto the roof of the Unlimited.

  Even with the gaslights in the yard, he couldn’t see the tops of the cars on the 2-8-4 very well, and from his perch, he couldn’t see the sides of the cars at all. He hoped to jump onto another boxcar and then climb down inside it and ride all the way to Philadelphia. But given the poor visibility and the overall difficulty of jumping from one moving train to another one heading in the opposite direction, he decided a safe landing was more important than a comfortable ride.

  The Unlimited swayed to and fro, lurching now and again while it slowed. At the same time the 2-8-4 was gaining speed out of the yard, Kamp stood up on the roof of the boxcar, leaned back and then vaulted himself over the gap between the tracks and landed feet first in a coal hopper. He tumbled to the far side of the car, already covered in coal dust. It would be a cold and dirty ride to Philadelphia, but then again, riding in a car with no roof afforded him a perfect view of the stars.

  25

  “WELCOME TO PHILADELPHIA.” The conductor roused Kamp from a dead sleep by poking him in the throat with a nightstick.

  “Where am I?”

  “You’re in a coal hopper, idiot.”

  “Where?”

  “Broad Street.”

  He climbed over the side of the car and jumped down to the ground with the conductor following him.

  “You know, riding like that is a good way to get yourself killed.”

  Kamp surveyed the train yard, trying to get his bearings. “Where’s the hospital for the insane?”

  “The what?”

  “The nut bin. Which way is it?”

  The conductor pointed across the yard. “West.” Kamp started hustling away, and the conductor called after him, “And I hope you have a nice, long stay.”

  THE KID SAT STRAPPED in a chair outside the operating theater, forced to listen to sounds inside. He’d seen one patient go in already, a young woman. She’d been shrieking and fighting hard against the restraints. Minutes later, the shrieking abruptly stopped. A short while after that, she’d been carried out, eyes closed and smiling at the corners of her mouth, as if enjoying a blissful dream. The only evidence of the operation was a bandage wrapped around the top of her head.

  The kid said to an orderly, “I’m feeling a lot better now. Honest. How ’bout we skip this part?”

  No one responded. Instead, the orderlies carried in the next patient, a young man missing his left arm.

  THE HORSES PULLING THE FINE CARRIAGE trotted to the iron gates of the Pennsylvania Hospital for the Insane and stopped. A uniformed guard emerged from a small cottage carrying a record book and said to the driver, “Good morrow, sir. May I know the purpose of your visit?”

  The driver said, “Good morning. My wife requires a doctor. It’s most urgent.” He wore a topcoat over a grey three-piece suit and had delicate features, a slight build and hair combed straight back under a stovepipe hat.

  The guard stared at the man for a moment, then said, “May I know your name, sir? So that I can make a record of your visit.”

  “Augustus Kneff.”

  The guard looked him over again and then studied the impressive ho
rses and carriage, its shiny brass fittings and black lacquered wood.

  “May I see inside, please?”

  “Of course.”

  The guard walked to the side of the carriage and peered through the window. He saw a woman, head down, hair cropped close. The guard stared at the woman’s porcelain neck and at the place where it curved and met the base of her skull. The woman snapped her head around to look at the guard. She raised her eyebrows slightly and smirked.

  The guard said, “Thank you, Mr. Kneff.” He tipped his cap and swung open the gates.

  KAMP HAD TO KEEP ASKING for directions as he made his way from the train station to the hospital. Some gave him what seemed to be accurate directions. Others, noting his sooty, disheveled appearance, simply scoffed at him or told him to go back the way he came. But he persisted, picking up the pace and fighting the fear he might get there a moment too late.

  ANOTHER PATIENT WENT IN SCREAMING and then emerged half an hour later, same as the first two. Asleep, pacified, bandaged. The orderlies approached the kid.

  He said, “Boys, iff’n there’s some sort of arrangement we can make, I’d prefer we do it now. At least, let’s us make peace.”

  The orderlies didn’t take him into the operating theater. Instead, they walked past, the first orderly saying, “Be patient, fella. It’ll be your turn soon enough.”

  THE HORSES LED the carriage around the circular gravel drive, stopping at the base of the steps that led to the main doors.

  Dr. Alastair MacBride sat at his desk filling out paperwork. He’d told his staff not to bother him, as he had a great many forms to complete. He heard the carriage wheels crunching on the gravel outside, and since he didn’t have any meetings scheduled and didn’t expect visitors, he tried not to pay attention. A glint of sunlight from a horse’s brass throatlatch caught him in the eye, and he looked out the window. He saw the driver in the top hat, coat and expensive wool suit. MacBride remained determined not to be disturbed. He didn’t have time for a new admission, and these people, whoever they were, would have to wait.