The sheriff put out the cigar on the sole of his boot and stuffed it back in his shirt pocket; the request didn’t improve his mood. He managed to review the crime scene and the evidence in under a minute.
“She killed herself, right enough. You said the door was locked from the inside when you came in?” Ruffin looked at the doorframe, splintered around the lock. The door had fared little better. A few chunks of the door had sheared off when the Hart and Mitchell had broken it in.
“Not locked, but jammed. She used a knitting needle.” Hart produced the broken wooden needle from his pocket. “She used this.”
Ruffin snatched it away and looked it over. “Could be. She wanted some privacy for what she was gonna do.”
Mitchell looked away from the evidence. “Caroline was always knitting. She made a beautiful shawl for my wife last month and even paid for the yarn out of her own money. She was an enormously generous woman.”
Grant wondered where Mrs. Mitchell could be. Most women would want to know what the fuss was in their home. He hadn’t seen or heard her in all the time of their visit. He didn’t remember her from the reception two days ago either.
“She used both of those needles to jam the door?” Ruffin looked around the door to see if there were any other needles, and Grant wondered how Hart would broach such a delicate topic in front of these men.
“No, sir.” Hart took it upon himself to explain what they’d discovered in the most delicate of terms. Grant had to hand it to him; the man knew his way around words. The explanation was demure enough even for Grant’s ears. He didn’t approve of all the common talk that passed for conversation these days.
The sheriff had one eyebrow up by the time Hart had finished. “Well, sir, I must say this is regrettable, and I’ll see that the young miss gets a decent Christian burial, but I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with this matter. You’ve told me about a suicide, a disappearance, and an accidental drowning.”
“Well… we’re not so sure that it was—,” Hart started, but Grant cut him off before he could finish.
“I’m only concerned, as it was a veteran who drowned.” The only way to explain that it seemed to be murder would be to tell the sheriff about the ghost and the spiritualist’s comments about unnatural deaths. That was hardly the stuff of a good police investigation.
“I’m sure you’re upset to hear about the drowning, General Grant, but it’s not the first in the area. You’d be amazed at how many men and women have sunk in the river trying to recreate Uncle Tom’s Cabin. They’d try to come across in boats that I wouldn’t try to float across a puddle. We’ve found more than our share of bodies, I’ll tell you that. It’s heart-wrenching to think that someone was that nigh to freedom and lost it all, but after a while, you become inured to it.”
“But why now?” Hart asked. “Since the end of the war, there’s no reason to escape and no reason to drown.”
“I can’t tell you that. I don’t know. That’s why they call it an accident, son. No one meant for it to happen.”
Grant could see Hart bristle at being called “son,” but he didn’t speak. Instead, the reporter looked down at his pad and scribbled at a pace that would have made Grant ache.
Mitchell finally broke the silence. “Well, Sheriff, you’ve been very helpful. Perhaps you could tell the officers in town to keep an eye out for young Granby. If he’s found, then perhaps he could talk to General Grant and ease his mind about his father’s death. That is, if the general is still in town at that point. I understand that you’re off to Kentucky after this? Your kin lives in Covington if I’m not mistaken.”
Grant nodded, feeling a tad resentful at the major’s attitude. He was implying that Grant would be gone without a second thought to what happened to these people. Grant knew that his schedule was tight, but he’d be no type of leader if he forgot the people freed by the war. Even if the Radicals in Congress would ever let him.
Grant and Hart remained silent as Mitchell and Ruffin made plans for the disposition of the body. The discussion lasted only a few seconds longer than the investigation as the men arranged to have her moved and buried without ceremony.
Mitchell led the way out of the room and tried to pull the door shut, but the broken wood refused to stay shut. Hart wondered if Madame Blanche would blame this death on a spirit. Mitchell finally left the door slightly ajar and motioned to the staircase. The four descended the narrow stairs single-file and then repeated the process to the main level.
Hart extended his hand and shook Mitchell’s outstretched hand and then Ruffin’s. Grant did the same, and the pair was suddenly out in the crisp fall morning.
“You know that they don’t plan on looking into this very much. I think that we’ll have to find the truth by ourselves.” Hart reached into his pocket and pulled out the piece of newsprint. “I think it’s time for a visit to Dr. Trubel.”
Chapter 10
Hart casually mounted his horse, sliding his foot into the stirrup and hoisting himself up. Grant climbed into the saddle in a single motion. He didn’t know what Hart had in mind, but he wanted to see what Dr. Trubel had to say. The doctor had appeared twice now in relation to the dead woman: at the party at the Belmont and now in the newspaper clipping.
Hart led them from Walnut Hills toward the city. The road was fairly steep, but the horses seemed used to the trip. From their vantage point on the road, he could see the buildings of the city, crushed together and pushing toward the river that lay just beyond their view. Granby had died in that river, and Grant doubted that many people mourned him now.
He wasn’t quite sure why he minded so much. Assuredly, he was still concerned about the incident at the Belmont; he’d seen a ghost, or someone pretending to be one. He’d seen that as a cry for help of some nature. Grant knew that the former slaves had little recourse in terms of the law, and the sheriff’s behavior back at the Mitchell place was indicative of that attitude.
Grant knew people reacted this way, but he’d never understood why. He’d only worked with a slave once, when his family lived at Hardscrabble. The man had worked with him tirelessly to try to make the farm turn a profit. Grant had toiled beside him, never expecting him to work harder than Grant did himself. There was no sitting on the veranda for Grant—that wasn’t his style. He’d paid the man too. He’d seen to it that the slave received a good wage for his work; he’d made more out of the venture than Grant had earned.
He suddenly came back to his surroundings as Hart snapped his reins to the right. Their horses turned down a cobblestone street into a part of town that looked more European than American. The streets teemed with people running their errands, voices raised and talking at each other as fast as their lips could move, but their voices were not that of the rural peoples Grant knew so well. These folks spoke German.
Grant didn’t know a word of German, even though a few Prussians had joined the Union during the war. He’d heard of this area during his previous trips. “Over-the-Rhine” seemed to be a separate city inside Cincinnati. From Central Avenue to Liberty and from Race to Broadway, a small pocket of German immigrants had converted the blocks into their homeland.
The breweries that made Cincinnati famous were all located inside “Over-the-Rhine” as well; Christian Moerlein was just down the street from where they now rode. The rest of the city tolerated “Over-the-Rhine” for their export of fresh lagers and pilsners.
None of that knowledge made it any easier to find Trubel’s home. These people had moved to the United States in name only. The citizens spoke German; the shop signs were in German, and the street signs were the same. Grant didn’t know how Hart was managing to navigate these foreign waters. The thousands of immigrants who’d come here hadn’t worked themselves into society; they hadn’t come for the streets of gold that many people in Europe dreamed of.
It was obvious to see that the people here were still poor, and the clean-up efforts that progressed throughout the city had missed these city blocks.
The curbs still showed hog remains, and the odors told Grant that they dumped their offal in the street. The tenements abutted the church steeples, and the heaven-pointed spires stood tall enough to remind the whole city of “Over-the-Rhine.”
Grant wasn’t sure why they’d come to this area, as it didn’t look like a home for a scientist. He’d expected the antiseptic conditions he’d seen in his West Point classrooms. Perhaps Hart was lost.
“Where are we going?” Grant asked.
“Dr. Trubel lives on Thirteenth Street, between Main and Walnut. I thought we’d pay him a visit.” Hart pointed to a house that had seen better days. The stoop sagged and the rotting wooden steps didn’t look inviting to him. A few bricks were even missing from the façade.
They dismounted and tied their horses to the post along the street. Grant used a simple lashing knot, but Hart seemed to make a bow tie out of his reins. Grant decided not to comment; the reporter seemed to have his own ways to do just about everything. Grant let Hart ascend the stairs first and the wood complained under his weight, but it held.
Hart rapped on the door and waited all of six seconds to knock again. He’d raised his hand to knock a third time when the door opened inward. It squeaked loud enough for the neighbors to hear it, and Grant fancied that the curtains parted across the street.
Trubel stepped outside and shook Grant’s hand immediately. He was dressed in what had once been a white shirt. The collar was askew, and the rolled cuffs showed an accumulation of smudges, which Grant assumed to be ink. His pants bore small holes in the fabric, and he wore no shoes.
“Sir, I’m so happy you could make it. I want to share some of my findings on the Negroid race with you.”
Trubel stepped back inside, and the two men followed him.
“Can I offer you something to drink? Water? Beer perhaps?” Trubel offered.
Grant shook his head. He wasn’t sure of the water in these conditions. He’d seen too many men waste away from dysentery to be comfortable with strange water, especially when the streets were marked with litter and waste. Beer was out of the question altogether.
Hart accepted a beer and watched as their host left the room. “That’s odd. It’s almost like he was expecting you. Have you been snooping without me?”
The room had little to snoop. The pale wood floors were rough-hewn and bare, the walls hadn’t been painted, and small chips of plaster littered the floor. The sole furnishings were a threadbare sofa and chair. Any funds that Trubel wanted for research wouldn’t be spent on furnishings, Grant felt sure.
Grant looked sharply at Hart. “Not at all. I haven’t any idea what he was talking about. Everyone has an idea on what to do with the former slaves. I’ve already heard most of them.”
“Well, humor him until we can learn what we can about his relationship to Caroline. Perhaps he knows something about the Granbys as well.”
As if on cue, Trubel returned. He hadn’t bothered to tidy his appearance during his absence.
Grant watched as Trubel made a presentation of the beer to Hart. The doctor then turned and looked toward Grant. “Sir, I’m most happy that you’ve come. If the stories are true, then you’ll have a vital role in the integration of the blacks back into their new roles in the Union.”
Trubel was going to be a glad-hander of a different stripe. The end of the war had brought a host of these men to him, people who wanted to get an early seat on his train to Washington, D.C. “And what do you suggest, Doctor?”
The man smiled. “Well, it’s simple. These people need the same rights and privileges as the free men in society. I wanted to share with you the fact that there’s no scientific basis for the notion that they are in some way inferior. Did you not find that to be true during the war?”
Grant nodded. At first, the former slaves and freedmen only received the most menial of jobs to complete for fear that they’d flee in the face of battle. However, as casualty rates skyrocketed, those same men had stepped forward and redeemed themselves admirably. They’d fought like soldiers, and why shouldn’t they when so much was at stake for them? No one had more to gain from a Union victory—not even Lincoln or Grant.
“That’s why I brought that young woman with me to the reception at the Belmont, sir. I wanted you to see first-hand that she was every bit the person as any of the other guests.”
Hart looked slightly taken aback by this statement and gave a low whistle. “That would upset more than a few people in town to hear you say that.”
“Well, then perhaps they should hear it. It’s one thing to ask for these noble people’s freedom, it’s another to stand shoulder to shoulder with them in society.”
“So, are you saying that some people didn’t want your escort to accompany you that night?” Hart pulled out the familiar notebook and scribbled a few things down in it. “How did you come to be invited to the gala?”
“Indeed, they didn’t, but I knew what I had to say transcend their pettiness. I brought her anyway. John Longworth himself invited me. The Belmont still belongs to the family after all.”
Hart looked at the doctor, a sidelong glance that the doctor didn’t seem to notice. “How long have you known this young woman?”
The doctor turned and looked at Hart, who nonchalantly sipped his beer. “About a year now. She’d come from a particularly brutal master in Atlanta. When Sherman’s March came through, she escaped and made her way north. She settled in Cincinnati and started working.”
Hart swallowed his beer and frowned. “But you haven’t said how you met her.”
Color flooded Trubel’s cheeks. For a minute, Grant wasn’t sure if he’d answer or not. “We met at a party. She was one of the serving girls, and I was a guest. Someone knocked my elbow and I spilled my drink. When she came to clean it up, I was already blotting it up with my napkin, and we talked. She told me where she worked, and I met her later.”
Hart’s eyebrow arched. “I see.”
“It wasn’t like that, I’ll have you know. She was involved. One of the young men at the Iron Works. We were friends; that was all. Nothing more.”
Trubel’s face had gone scarlet, and Grant wondered what strong emotion was at work. The man could certainly never be an actor with this demeanor. He listened carefully to the man’s words and couldn’t help but notice that the doctor referred to the maid in the past tense, as if he knew she was gone.
“And your experiments?”
He laughed and the color subsided slightly. “They’d hardly be called experiments in the most traditional sense of the scientific method. I taught Caroline to read and to write. We read and discussed some of the Classics: Homer, Shakespeare. She was as adept at thought as any of the debutantes in this city.”
“Were you aware that she was… with child?” Hart asked, pausing to blush slightly himself.
Trubel snorted. “Sir, I told you that I was only interested in her mind. It wouldn’t be surprising. She is a young girl, and she is courting.”
Grant was rather surprised by this forthright answer. He preferred not to think of the sparking rituals of others; those things should stay behind closed doors. He wouldn’t think of treating Julia in such a cavalier manner.
Hart cleared his throat and looked at Grant. “Then, sir, you’re not aware of the fact that the young lady was found dead this morning?”
Trubel’s wail made Grant start. He’d expected an emotional response but not the naked grief that now confronted him. He was even less sure of how to deal with this. Grant had been around death so much that he’d grown hardened to it. Granted, he’d dearly mourn his family and friends, but the corpses he’d seen in the war were never far from his thoughts.
Hart handed the man his handkerchief and watched as Trubel continued to weep. He murmured a few words that Grant couldn’t hear. Hart pulled the newspaper photograph of Trubel from his pocket and showed the partial photograph to its subject. Grant stayed silent, watching from the far wall as the pair interacted. After demurring to Grant al
l morning at the Mitchells’, Hart chomped at the bit to take some action on his own.
“What is the meaning of this? Why do you have half a photograph of me?” Trubel blew his nose again and looked. The crying had subsided as his curiosity was aroused.
“We found this in Caroline’s room. We thought you be able to explain its context to us.”
“Not in the way that you’d want. I know that the photograph was taken a few weeks ago for the Enquirer. I’d given a lecture on how the black race can be uplifted through education. Caroline was a part of that lecture. She and I performed a scene from Romeo and Juliet.”
Hart made a note in his folder. Grant figured that the man was going to try to find out more from his fellow reporters about the story. It would make sense. He’d only seen them together once, and it would be helpful to know if others thought that perhaps Trubel loved this woman. The play seemed relevant, since Juliet had ended her own life, though Grant’s own studies told him that Othello might have been more prescient.
“Perhaps she just saved it as a memento?” Hart suggested. “A married woman and a mother would be unlikely to be able hit the boards.”
“Perhaps. Caroline didn’t really have much in the way of vanity though. I can’t see her being this intent on saving a reminder of a public performance.”
“Did you ever meet her beau, Jericho Granby? What did he think of Caroline’s learning?”
“I never met the man, so I really can’t say.”
Hart made a face of mock surprise. Grant recognized the man’s theatrics as part of a ploy to gain information. “Why not? I would think that Jericho Granby would have been excited to see his fiancée improve herself.”
“He might have been, but he never showed his face here. I can guarantee that an unaccompanied black man wouldn’t have been welcome here. I would have had to meet him elsewhere and escort him to my home.”
Grant wondered about the Granby’s absence. Had he not known about her relationship with Trubel or had he been secure in the notion that Caroline would be true to him? Even so, Grant surmised that the gossip would be tremendous, especially given the races of the two parties involved.
Some Hidden Thunder Page 7
