Trubel excused himself from the room, and Hart looked at Grant. “I don’t think he had anything to do with this. That man is painfully in love with her.”
Grant scoffed. “Sir, you know that the people closest to someone are the ones most likely to kill them. It could easily be him.”
“And that performance? Could he fake something like that?”
Grant thought about it. The man was a scientist. He didn’t seem to be the type to act, and yet he’d confessed to reading Shakespeare as part of a scientific lecture. It wouldn’t hurt Grant to find out how well that performance had gone. If the man could act, he could be performing now. He’d held a low opinion of actors since April last.
“I think that anything is possible, given the proper circumstances,” Grant conceded. It wouldn’t do to tell Hart everything. He might see it in the next day’s papers.
After a few minutes, it appeared that their host was not returning. Hart led the way to the door, probably planning his lead for tomorrow’s edition. Even though Grant had to admit that the death of a former slave was unlikely to get much press. No one wanted to think that the Union had spilled the blood of hundreds of thousands to free the slaves only to see them do away with themselves.
Grant was glad to see that the horses still waited outside the building. He and Hart rode together in silence until Hart turned to the right at Sixth Street. Grant returned to the hotel, happy to be alone with his thoughts.
Chapter 11
Grant found Julia and her father, Colonel Dent, sitting in the hotel lobby chatting and laughing. The light tinkle of Julia’s laughter could still make him smile after all these years. She had leaned in toward her father, who seemed to be spinning some yarn.
Grant steeled himself for the encounter. Julia was inordinately fond of her father, and if possible, even more so since the death of her mother before the war. She looked up to her father, and the self-appointed colonel adored her in return.
His feelings for Grant were another matter entirely. The man had wanted his daughter to marry better than an Army man and the son of a tanner, even though Grant had roomed with Julia’s brother at West Point and Jesse Grant had made a fortune in the leather industry. The Dents fancied themselves as a step above the Grants.
One can harbor a sentiment; it’s another thing to declare those feelings in public. Dent, on more than one occasion, had denigrated his son-in-law in public. The world knew Colonel Dent’s views on Grant. He’d deeded some of the 950 acres that made up White Haven to the Grants in hopes of setting them up as farmers, but their farm hadn’t made a profit. How ironic it was that Grant had just paid the taxes on all of White Haven this summer, six years after they’d moved to Galena to live off the beneficence of his own father.
His father was glad to lure his son away from the slave-owning, illiterate Dent. Jesse Grant was as radical in his anti-slavery views as Dent was in his pro-slavery views. The elder Grant was fond of telling how he’d apprenticed in the tanner trade with the Brown family, the same Browns who’d begat John, whose body was now a’moldering in the grave. Jesse’s wealth had increased during the war, almost in proportion to the decline of the Dents. Now the roles were reversed, and he and Julia found themselves supporting the old colonel.
Not that Dent would notice a thing like that. He hadn’t been grateful enough to keep his views on slavery to himself, and the man was becoming an embarrassment to Grant as the Radical Republicans in Washington heard rumors of Dent’s Southern sympathies. They brooked no dissent, and Andy Johnson was about to learn that lesson the hard way.
Even worse, Grant could not deny the stories. Dent had owned probably more slaves than any other landowner in the St. Louis area. At times, the count came near two score. Julia had owned four of her own that she declared she couldn’t do without. They had all been manumitted with the end of the war.
The matter of slavery had become a personal matter between the men. Dent had sympathized with the Rebel cause and had flown into a rage when he heard that Grant and his own son had joined the Union Army. Things had grown so testy that Dent had threatened to shoot Grant with no more feeling than a rabbit if the man stepped foot on White Haven.
Now Colonel Dent lived off the Grants, and while Grant bore the man no harm, it was still difficult to forgive his earlier transgressions. He’d spent a good part of this trip keeping his father-in-law away from the press and reporters who’d love nothing better than to get a Rebel quote from the leader of the Union Army’s kin.
Grant approached the pair, who didn’t seem to notice him until he was practically standing over them. “Hello, dear. How was your day?”
“Ulys, where on earth have you been? The porter said that you’d left early with that reporter from Georgetown. Please tell me that you’re not doing anything rash.”
He pecked her cheek. She’d turned her head to one side. Even to Grant himself, she tried to hide her crossed eye. “Not at all. We paid a visit to Major Mitchell and then to the scientist we met the other night, Dr. Trubel.”
Dent snorted. “That man is no scientist. He had the nerve to tell me that the Negros were every bit as smart as you and I. I just laughed in his face. Please don’t tell me that you’re planning on using any of his fool notions when you get into the White House. You’ll be laughed out of Washington.”
Grant noticed how no one doubted that he’d be the next President of the United States. It still shook him, though he knew deep in his heart that they were right; he’d earned that position. He held tight to the edge of Julia’s chair.
“We went to talk to him about the woman that he was working with. She was found dead today at the Major’s house. It looks like suicide.”
Julia made a clucking noise. “That’s such a waste. I always hate to hear that.”
“Didn’t you meet her at the party? She was a rather striking black woman. I think she wore a blue frock.” Grant valued his wife’s impressions of the fair sex. Women were always something of a mystery to him, even his own daughter, Nelly.
“It was navy taffeta with a jacket bodice and… and yes, I did meet her.”
Grant could trust that Julia would know a woman by her haberdashery.
“That scientist person introduced us. I was scandalized at first; I thought they were married,” Julia stated.
Grant nodded. He too had wondered about Trubel’s intentions to the woman. Even though she was engaged to one of her own race, the scientist had seemed too broken up about her death. It seemed as though he had more invested than the time he’d put into her education.
Dent harrumphed. “This is what you wiseacres didn’t think about when you let those people go. What are they going to do but cause trouble?”
Julia patted her father’s arm. “Papa, I’m sure it was all innocent. So many women are admired by men who are not appropriate for them.”
Dent eyed Grant as if Julia’s statement was an opening for an old argument. Grant ignored him as Julia spoke again.
“None of that explains why she would deign to take her own life. It’s shocking!”
Grant knew that women left alone on their family farms in the South had taken their own lives rather than face the prospects of the onslaught of Union troops. The business end of a shotgun seemed like the lesser of two evils. The hurried circumstances hadn’t allowed time for correspondence, and the results were nearly always messy.
Grant tried to explain to Julia in the most delicate of terms that she’d been in the family way, and for once, Colonel Dent was speechless.
“Well, Ulys, in some families, that’s not as shocking as it would be for us. Didn’t you tell me that Mr. Granby had two wives? That would be scandalous for the Dents, but the Granbys seem to have weathered it. Why, we had one fellow at White Haven who fathered three children by three different women and he hadn’t married a one.” Dent laughed in a knowing way.
Grant pondered the things that his own family had done. His mother would have boxed his ears if he’d come ho
me with any news like that. Her unyielding Methodism wouldn’t have tolerated such indecency.
“It’s a shame that she couldn’t write. She could have left a message saying why she’d seen fit to leave this world before her time.” Julia looked off in the distance, as if she couldn’t imagine ceasing to exist. Grant knew that the hard times were behind them, and that Julia had every reason to live these days. She’d be the First Lady in three years, a goal that she’d aspired to for some time now.
“She could read and write. Trubel taught her.”
“Then why not leave a note? Isn’t that how it’s done? I remember when Farmer Smith killed himself. Do you remember that, Papa?”
Dent shook himself back to life. “Indeed I do, daughter. He was behind in his taxes, and his wife had just passed on.”
“Didn’t he leave a note?” Julia looked stern, trying to think of why someone would break God’s law in this manner.
“Yes, he left a note nailed to the wall. The note just apologized to those who loved him and explained why he found it necessary to do that.”
“See, Ulys. It might not have been suicide. Perhaps someone did away with the girl. We’ve had to look into these things before, and you’ve always shown yourself to be quite perceptive in these matters.”
Grant wished she hadn’t brought back memories of their recent visits to Georgetown and Bethel; it didn’t bode well for a peaceful trip. “It had to be a suicide. She was in a room with the door jammed. It was on the third floor, so no one could get in or out.”
“Well, there’s always more than one way to do things; you should know that. When you were up against Vicksburg, you tried a number of different methods of attack before you found the one that gave the Union back the Mississippi. How different could this be?”
Grant smiled at his wife’s confidence in him. At least she was always his ally, his helpmate. “Then you think it might be foul play?”
“Let’s look at the facts from a new perspective. If you’d found her in the parlor, would you have suspected that she’d been done away with?”
Grant noticed with a wry smile that some of the other patrons had moved away from their table. Apparently, the Grants’ polite conversation had become shocking to them. Grant forgot that many of these people had spent the last four blood-soaked years at home with their families, only aware of the war from newspaper accounts. After the likes of Cold Harbor and the Wilderness, a soldier built up a resistance to bloodshed that served him even more than a resistance to the grub that passed for food.
“I would have suspected death from foul play. After all, Israel Granby was found dead in the river, and now his son has gone missing. And then the son’s girlfriend kills herself. It is a mite suspicious.”
“That’s why I would tell you to suspect a dastardly force behind this and not assume that the poor girl did away with herself. Women are often more resourceful than you give them credit for.” She smiled and tapped him on the arm.
Grant knew of Julia’s resources. She’d been courting the women of power in Washington, wanting to help pave her husband’s way. She’d take all those problems in stride, just as she had during their dark times in St. Louis.
“You’re most likely correct. You have a knack for being on the mark.” He smiled back at her.
Ambrose Hart burst into the hotel, out of breath and visibly excited, and interrupted the moment. “Sir, I’m glad to have found you here.” He nodded at Mrs. Grant. “I’m pleased to see you again, Mrs. Grant.”
Julia pursed her lips and turned back to whisper something to her father. Grant knew her feelings about the young reporter all too well.
“General, we need to go. I’ve come across something that you’ll be interested in.”
Grant noticed the slight turn of Julia’s body. She might not like Hart, but she was still interested in what he had to say.
“And what is so all-fire important?”
“We’re going to go talk to Israel Granby.”
Chapter 12
Grant sat across from Ambrose Hart and scowled at the reporter. He didn’t know how he’d let himself be talked into such buffoonery. He certainly had no use for the likes of the spiritualist, who was now preparing the room for a séance.
Hart had brought Grant to Madame Blanche’s house on Ninth Street. Her home was a brownstone subdivided into apartments. Appropriately, the ground floor of the building had been converted into a funeral home. If indeed Madame Blanche were in contact with the dead, she’d get no sleep living over such an establishment.
He had to admit that she looked exotic and beautiful tonight. Hart circled her like a firefly. The medium wore a long flowing gown of shimmering fabric that seemed to sparkle in the light of the room’s candles. Her form wasn’t even visible in the loose-fitting garment. A cloth that glittered with jewel-like intensity covered her head. Her hair had been tucked into her turban, lending her an ageless air. There was little evidence of the bright young woman that Grant had met two days ago.
The room wasn’t nearly as striking as its mistress was tonight. The parlor had a lone round table in the center of the room surrounded by ten chairs. A few candles and a single oil lamp shone just bright enough that Grant didn’t stumble over the meager furnishings. The other guests didn’t seem to mind as they stood huddled around the perimeter of the room.
It had been bad enough that Hart had brought him here, but he’d managed to do it in the presence of six other people. Grant was concerned that word would get back to his mother, a devout Methodist who would lecture him for days about his sins if she even suspected a dalliance with spiritualism.
Grant recalled his own youth when a phrenologist had visited Brown County. The man had asked for volunteers to have their head examined for bumps and crevices that might tell the person’s future. After much cajoling, Grant had gone up to the man and submitted to the indignity of reading. The phrenologist had shocked Grant and the crowd by announcing that the boy could easily grow up to be president. Grant had scoffed at the notion then, thinking that this was a part of the man’s patter in every city, making for a state full of presidents. Yet on reflection, given that in three years he was likely to assume that office, Grant wondered. Had there been more to the pronouncement than he’d allowed? Had he a presidential skull?
Grant was brought back to the medium’s apartment by the sound of voices. Hart introduced the other people as “sitters,” people who participated in the séance along with Madame Blanche and her associate. Three of the sitters were older women who’d come in as a herd, tittering amongst themselves and not paying much attention to the others. Grant had also seen a man, tall and gaunt, who looked spent before his time. He wondered what sorrows made this man appear so careworn. The other two sitters hadn’t arrived yet, but the table, covered with a brocade cloth, had places for ten.
Hart directed Grant to a seat and sat down on the opposite side of the table before they arrived. He’d explained that in this way, they could observe first-hand any skullduggery at work here. Despite his obvious infatuation with the medium, Grant knew that the reporter’s mind focused on the conundrum of faking a ghostly appearance. If Grant could explain how he had seen Israel Granby, then he would be one step closer to finding out what had happened to the former slave on the night he died. Someone had suspicions and had brought Grant into this mess.
Grant sat down and impatiently waited for the performance to begin. He’d have tapped his foot to show his annoyance were it not likely that these people would have taken it as a sign from the other world.
He was very aware that many people in Washington accepted such chicanery as fact. Even Stanton, the Secretary of War, had participated in séances with Mrs. Lincoln. When pressed by his enemies to denounce these anti-Christian views, Lincoln would never directly speak against the spiritualists. He knew how much his wife needed them after the death of their son, Willie. Her years in the White House had been fraught with death, and Grant tried not to judge her too harshl
y. Despite her histrionics at the funeral and in her demands for Lincoln’s burial, Grant wasn’t sure how he’d behave if he lost Julia and Buck.
Grant had been patient as Mrs. Lincoln explained spiritualism. He’d heard enough from her to know that the movement had drawn attention when two young girls, the Fox sisters, had produced tapping noises that purported to be communications with the dead. The pair had been studied and watched, but the discussion raged on. The war had only given the movement more believers among those who wanted to talk to their kin lost in battle.
Grant empathized with those who’d lost someone dear. He was much too practical to try to contact someone after death; he wasn’t sure he liked the idea of the dead being all around the living. It seemed to impede his thoughts.
Madame Blanche moved to the head of the table. The two seats were still empty, and Grant looked around wondering what had kept the other two sitters. Had they changed their mind about contacting the dead or were they just running late? He smiled to himself, thinking that as a psychic, Madame Blanche should have known that they wouldn’t make it tonight.
“Thank you all for attending our séance tonight. We will begin in a moment. I would ask that you all make yourselves comfortable and then place your palms on the table in front of you.”
To demonstrate her techniques for her guests, Madame Blanche adjusted her robes and sat down. She placed both of her bejeweled hands on the table before her, and each of the guests quickly followed suit.
Hart smiled across the table at Grant as he put his hands on the table.
Madame Blanche rested against the back of the chair, and her form seemed to go limp and her shoulders sagged. Grant wondered for a second if she’d fallen asleep. No one spoke, and he felt an air of anticipation.
Some Hidden Thunder (U.S. Grant Mysteries) Page 8
