Yellow Teeth shrugged. "After your friend came, 'e went somewhere else. Same as the last time. I assume she got what she wanted."
He thought I was connected to someone else. What she wanted? Had Morwen's husband not really gone missing? Had she set me on his trail thinking I'd not be able to follow?
"Friend, do you all live together?" I asked, nodding inside.
Yellow Teeth grinned. "Like four farts under the bedsheets. Though we each got our own rooms."
"May I see his room?" I asked.
Yellow Teeth thought for a moment, before nodding. He left the door open as he went inside. I followed, wondering if the cane still held its charge.
Two other men sat inside, around a table made from a shipping crate. Small piles of coins sat at three corners with a pair of bone dice in the middle.
They were hard men, with hands smudged with marks of petty crime. The tall one on the left lifted his pewter mug and drank deeply, his eyes never leaving me.
"A little elbow shakin'," said Yellow Teeth, before leading me to the back of the house with a candle in his hand and pushing open a door.
"Here's Jonas' room. Not much, I suppose. He's given everything to her Ladyship, but you can poke around and see if he forgot something," he said with a nod as if we were co-conspirators.
"Her Ladyship thanks you," I said, trying to hide my confusion. "I'll only be a moment."
Yellow Teeth stood in the doorway, until he realized my patient stare meant he should leave. He handed me the candle before leaving, which I placed in an empty brass fitting on the wall.
With the door closed, my first consideration was not the contents of the room, but the identity of her Ladyship. Was Marvelous Morwen's Confectionary and Sweet House merely a front for a criminal operation? Nothing made sense to me at this point.
Down the hall, the game of dice resumed, and I heard shouts peppered with bursts of laughter. How quickly they forgot the woman they'd let into their apartment. But of course, they thought me someone else.
The name Jonas did nothing for my investigation, though it was good to have a name, if only to confirm his existence. When Morwen had first spoken of her husband, I'd thought she might have made him up, based on her hesitation.
The room itself had the transient quality of someone who didn't live long in any one place. His bed had a thin, threadbare sheet wrapped into a ball at the foot. The mattress, if you could call it that, was yellowed and had a dark stain etched in one corner, as if it had been gnawed on by a muddy dog.
A warped shelf on the wall, held up with makeshift pegs that looked like rusted railway spikes jammed into holes in the plaster, contained trinkets that didn't match the fellows outside, nor my idea of Jonas.
A tiny porcelain cat. A silver bell with an orange string tied to the loop. A cloth doll that would fit neatly in the palm of my hand. Among the various objects, the only thing that seemed to fit with the image I had of this Jonas was a glim: a tiny candle in a brass carriage that would hide most of the light. It was a thief's candle.
Seeing it made sense of the other objects on the shelf. These were things he'd pilfered from homes, but chosen not to sell. Or was he merely a collector?
It occurred to me that Jonas was probably not Morwen's husband. She was too finely packaged, her shop too meticulously crafted, to be married to the sort that lived in a temporary space.
Had Jonas stolen something from Morwen and she'd come to me for help finding him, so she could get it back? That seemed too simple an answer, so I dismissed it.
It didn't make sense to show up to my print shop to ask for pamphlets describing the thief as her husband. Why not take the matter to the Warden? Unless she, too, was a criminal?
I rubbed my temples, which aggravated the wound on my shoulder. It was late and I was tired. I was still recovering from the attack in my home, which seemed like a dream now. Maybe the powder was causing me a temporary insanity, like it had with Voltaire. This worried me deeply. How would I figure this out if I was slowly going mad? And would I even know it before it was too late?
By the time Ben returned, if he ever returned, I would be dead or in an asylum, mumbling about Sweet Houses and duck eggs. The only thing I was sure about was that Anne Bingham was out to ruin me.
Leaning heavily on my cane, I prepared to leave when I noticed something glinting beneath the bed. Even before I crouched down, my knees cried out in anguish, reminding me I'd already walked the length and breadth of the city this day.
I prepared to examine the object when I heard a heavy knock on the door outside, the one at the front of the house. The laughter of the men cut short, as the knock was one of purpose and authority.
I wondered if they would answer, and then I heard the door slowly creak open. Words were exchanged, but I couldn't make them out, even with my ear pressed to the door.
Eventually, footsteps headed my way. Worried that Jonas or the woman who had hired him had arrived, I stepped away from the door and turned the cane a few more times, preparing to jab a potential attacker and escape out the front during the confusion.
When the door handle squeaked, rattling in its hole, my heart leapt into my throat. I gripped the cane tighter, wishing I'd come to see this place in the daylight rather than the middle of the night when only the black arts were practiced. Any screams I made would probably go unanswered, as the other residents of the city were safely resting in their beds as I should have been. The door wheezed opened, and I immediately knew the identity of the visitor by the scuffed leather boot stretching into the room.
Chapter Eleven
It was Warden Snyder. He stopped right inside the doorway with his back to me, telling Yellow Teeth to return to his dice game. I nearly threw myself beneath the bed, but I doubted I could get there without making a ruckus, and my aging body rebelled at the idea of throwing myself anywhere except onto my own bed.
He wouldn't be pleased when he saw me. I was not why he was there, but it crossed my mind to hit him in the back with the cane and hope I could get away before he identified me.
It was tempting. It had been a rough few days. I could be away in a heartbeat, and I doubted the men outside would help the Warden.
The only thing staying my hand was that he was a good man and disabling him with the cane would only confirm that I was a criminal, to myself at least. And though we'd had our unfortunate differences, I'd enjoyed his brief courtship.
"What woman?" asked Warden Snyder, turning around until he could see me standing next to the bed, leaning on my cane.
"Warden," I said, giving the intimation of a curtsey, as my knees wouldn't have it any other way.
His face shifted from surprise to confusion to disappointment, all in the space of a breath. The depth of his final emotion was like a razor cut across my chest, doused with salt.
"To think I gave you leeway on Lady Bingham's request," he said. "I was prepared to argue with her about the window of time to complete the task, but now I see you've been playing me."
"Playing you?" I asked, feeling a heat rise in my chest. "I've been nothing but honest with you from the beginning."
"Then why are you standing in the home of the thief I found in Ben Franklin's parlor? And why did my new friend here tell me that his fence had come for more goods?" asked the Warden, while holding tight to the linen coat of Yellow Teeth.
The connection stunned me into momentary silence. When I recovered, I looked to Yellow Teeth.
"Jonas is the thief?" I asked.
Yellow Teeth could only swallow, and the sound of a door slamming echoed in the hallway. His companions had abandoned him to the Warden.
"You're a fine actress, Miss Carmontelle. If you weren't probably a Russian spy, I'd say you could have worked at the Globe," he said. "To think I was falling for you when I courted you. Here I thought I wasn't good enough, thinking a woman with your worldly experiences wouldn't be interested in a simple constable, but it seems that was just an act, and you're a practitioner of the
black arts like the rest of them."
"Simon," I said. "I didn't know Jonas."
"Then why do you know his name?" he asked, exasperated.
I pointed at Yellow Teeth. "He told it to me."
Yellow Teeth shook his head frantically, as if someone'd asked him if he wanted to be branded.
"He's lying," I said to Simon, but he didn't believe me. "He did tell me."
A great empty cavity was forming in my chest, like I was being slowly pulled apart. "You must understand, Simon. I'm here on behalf of Mrs. Morwen Hightower. She runs the Sweet House on White Horse Alley, near South Street. Her husband went missing and my investigation led me here."
Simon's brow was rippled with knots. He looked like he wanted to punch a wall. Instead, he dragged Yellow Teeth into the room and shoved him into the corner. Then Simon stood in the middle of the doorway, blocking the exit, and crossed his arms.
"You're telling me that the candy shop lady asked you to find her husband, rather than coming to me?" he asked.
"Not a candy shop. Confectionary," I said.
"It doesn't matter," he growled.
I held my breath. "Right."
He reacted as if he had a sudden thought and glanced to the side. "White Horse Alley? There couldn't be a candy shop there. It's all residential, wait, and one blacksmith. I was on that street last week."
"I thought that, too," I told him. "But I swear it's there. I was there tonight. She came by the Patriot Letters yesterday asking for pamphlets, but I have no paper, so I couldn't make them. I'm in a bind on funds, so I asked if I could find her husband rather than make the pamphlet, but get paid the same."
As the words left my lips, I realized how convoluted it sounded. If he started asking how I ended up here, I wouldn't be able to explain Chloris, not that I understood how she'd known where to find Morwen's husband. Or was Morwen's husband the thief?
"See, Miss Carmontelle. Even you don't believe your lies," he said.
"No, wait. My source"—I held up my hand—"and don't even ask, told me to find her husband here. So, what if he's the thief from Ben's parlor?"
He frowned, which made his mustache sag over his lips. "So you're saying the candy shop lady is in league with the dead thief?"
"It sounds ridiculous, I know." Then a thought crept into my mind. "Wait, Morwen told me her husband's name was Francis. Francis Hightower. Do you suppose Jonas is an alias?"
I looked to Yellow Teeth, who held his arms up. "He was just living here. I didn't know him nothing."
"How did you find him?" I asked Simon.
"Calling in favors and asking around. While we haven't seen Ben in over a year, minus the President, he's the most important man in the city, and having a dead man in his parlor isn't a good omen," said Simon.
"Maybe Morwen doesn't even know her husband's a thief," I said.
"You seem quite certain they're the same person," said Simon.
"Both our sources led us here, and the description sounds like the same person. If Morwen's husband had just gone out for a walk, he'd have returned by now, but he's missing like Morwen said. Probably because Francis and Jonas are the same person, and now he's dead."
Yellow Teeth choked, and his words stumbled out of his lips. "Jonas is dead?"
Both Simon and I glared at Yellow Teeth, silencing his outburst. He turned inward and started mourning his roommate by mumbling to himself.
Simon pulled his tricorn hat from his head and knocked the dust off of it before jamming it back on. He looked like he'd swallowed a spoon full of black molasses and couldn't quite work it down.
"I'd think you're in your altitudes if I didn't know any better," he said. "Or maybe I am for even considering your story. But I will consider it. I suppose it'll only take a visit to this candy shop to confirm your story." He rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. "But not tonight, tonight I need rest." The Warden swayed wearily on his feet.
"Are you well, Simon?" I asked, having never seen him display even a hint of weakness.
"City council hasn't approved more constables for me and with all the military maneuvers happening around the city, I can't keep up with the drunken fights and petty theft," he said. "Can't say I want to see another war, but keeping these soldiers on high alert all the time is only making them anxious, and anxious men with nothing to do leads to trouble."
I nodded in agreement, remembering the near-assault on my person by the sailors.
"Then we should both take our leave and retire for the evening," I said.
Simon frowned, but nodded eventually and moved out of the way. We were both out on the street before I remembered the object beneath the thief's bed, but Yellow Teeth set the locks as soon as we were out of the house, and I didn't think he'd open them back up unless I had the Warden's backing, and I wasn't sure I wanted to continue my investigation with him around. And quite possibly, it didn't matter, since we'd identified the dead man in Ben's parlor.
"Good evening to you, Miss Carmontelle," Simon told me before turning away from me.
"Good evening to you, too, Warden Snyder," I replied.
"I'll inquire upon your candy maker tomorrow," he said. "And if she can't confirm your story, I'll be taking you to the courthouse."
"Fair enough," I said. "I'll sleep easy tonight."
Simon lifted his hat and made a brief bow before taking long strides in the other direction. I curtseyed, but he was walking away already.
My house was only three blocks away, a short hop compared to the miles I'd traversed already. Thankfully, the streets were well lit by gas lamps and I worried little about assailants at the late hour, though I kept my cane at the ready in case.
The shadows between the lights left me hurrying with a quick step, and only as I neared my destination did I notice a pamphlet adhered to the iron post of a gas lamp. Pausing to read the missive, a sharp intake of breath passed by my lips as I realized what it was about.
The Launching of the Brave Eagle
PHILADEPHIA, (Friday) August 25, 1801
On the fair Day of August 29, 1801, will the maiden voyage of the BRAVE EAGLE, an airship of the Highest Quality, boasting twelve guns, be taken before God and Men. The Binghams have donated the Ship to the American military in hopes that our shores will be Defended from Foes from the Far East. The Treasure of Our City, PRESIDENT WASHINGTON, will be in attendance...
Beneath the paragraph, more text explained that the festivities would be held in the Public Square and that residents of Philadelphia were welcome to attend, one and all. This, of course, left out the private party that would occur two days before. I read the whole thing three times before tugging the parchment from the nail and slipping it into the pocket on my riding coat.
I made the last block without incident, finding a bundle of red cloth waiting for me on the doorstep of my home. It appeared to be a dog wrapped in a blanket. Cautiously I approached, holding my cane like a dueling rapier and hoping the charge still held. As I neared, the bundle moved and I realized it was a man, and a thin one at that, to look only slightly larger than a terrier curled into a ball, and that what I thought was the tail was a pistol.
It was Voltaire in his revolutionary coat, clutching the ornate pistol he'd fired upon me the day before. His cheeks had sunken in until he looked like a skeleton with a thin coat of skin painted on. I was no doctor, but he looked like he'd die before morning's light kissed the sky.
Chapter Twelve
I was able to get Voltaire into my front room by sliding him across the floor, and lifting him onto the divan proved easier than I thought it would be, since he weighed less than a sack of flour.
After dumping out its load of shot, I placed the ivory-handled pistol on the armoire. I left the gunpowder and shot in the pistol case. Even if he didn't die by morning, he wouldn't be able to make it across the room.
Using a rag and a bowl, I dripped water into his frail and pitiful mouth, which opened like a baby bird’s. His breath was so shallow that his chest
barely moved. He seemed to be oozing air from his lips and taking it back in through some sort of osmosis.
I sat next to him on the divan, stroking the wiry grey hair on his head. His eyes were sealed shut while his mouth mimed at chewing. I couldn't believe that this was the Voltaire I'd known in France. We'd only met once or twice in person, but had shared letters over the years. He was a consummate writer, exhausting his foes with a relentless wit. My adopted country, the United States, owed a lot to his arguments about freedom and religion, and maybe it would be fitting if he died here, but I didn't want him to die in my house.
I picked up his bony hand—his skin was parchment thin. The fingers were stained with ink, down to the cuticles, which appeared to be tiny black eclipses. A man never far from his letters. I set his hand on his chest before standing.
Content that I'd done everything I could, I moved to the stairs, but a weak cough brought me around.
Voltaire was looking up at me with cavernous, bloodshot eyes. His voice came out as a whisper and I strained to hear him.
"Katerina," he said.
"Voltaire," I replied, my heart warming that he recognized me.
He motioned for the rag and I fed him again. He looked ready to crumple into a pile of dust and seemed to be holding on through sheer will.
"Franklin?" he asked, and looked away when I shook my head. "He abandon us," he said then, in halting English.
"No," I said. "Something's happened. I know it. Ben wouldn't abandon us."
It was easy to say but hard to hold in my heart as truth. I didn't know Ben as well as I should. Even when I was around him, he was like a whirlwind of ideas. And the long-term effects of the powder worried me. Voltaire's bout of madness could have been brought on by extending his life, and Ben had been taking the powder longer than the rest of us.
"Your eyes say otherwise," said Voltaire.
I patted his hand, carefully, so I didn't break his bones. "I'm worried is all." I almost mentioned the other night, when he'd attacked me, but thought it prudent that he should rest. If he recovered, we could laugh about it later.
A Cauldron of Secrets (The Dashkova Memoirs Book 2) Page 8
