"Our destination?" I asked.
He winked and left.
The gesture normally brought a smile to my lips, but I was in no mood for his rakishness. Damn Franklin for putting that handle on the bath.
I asked him why he had as we rode into the Pennsylvanian countryside. I may have inflicted some Russian insults upon him between my questions as well, which only delayed his answer until we reached our destination, which was a farmhouse surrounded by fencing too short to be for cows or horses. Ben gave me a shrug as he climbed from the vehicle.
I readied a second volley of insults, chasing him around the carriage, only to come face-to-face with a tall, gangly older gentleman coming onto the lawn to greet us. I knew him at once.
"Mr. Jefferson," said Franklin, bending at the waist.
"Temple, I'm heartily glad to see you, though I wish it was under different circumstance," said Jefferson, his face etched with sadness. "How like your grandfather you are. Seeing you brings my mind back to the Revolution."
It always took me a moment to remember that Ben was known by his grandson's moniker, Temple, as a way to keep his political access without giving away his alchemy induced youth.
"Ben would be glad to see you. He always spoke well of you," said Ben.
The undercurrents between the two men were deep, though Mr. Jefferson was not privy to most of them. Ben had confided in me that if he could invite anyone into the Transcendent Society, it would be Thomas Jefferson. Only the desire to keep the Society more multinational had stayed Franklin's hand. I'd met all the members except Immanuel Kant, the German philosopher, and Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who had inspired the French Revolution with his writings. I wondered if I had taken the place Ben had set out for Jefferson.
Jefferson turned to me. His eyes were bloodshot with worry.
"And who is this lovely young lady?" said Jefferson, putting a diplomat's smile on the greeting.
"Yeka Carmontelle, my assistant in these matters," said Ben.
"Yes, these matters," said Jefferson.
The former Vice President seemed like he was waiting for someone to take charge. Ben stepped forward, clearing his throat so that Jefferson would notice.
"Oh yes," said Jefferson absently. "I should take you there."
"Apologies, Mr. Jefferson, I know this is hard."
Ben's glance told me that the situation was grave. We followed Jefferson across the lawn to the small barn at the back of the farmhouse.
Jefferson began to speak in a low voice, as if he was afraid of disturbing a funeral.
"This is our home when I have business with the party, which is quite often these days. Sally usually stays at Monticello, but the spring was lovely, and I thought the travel would do wonders for her bad airs. It was a dreadful winter."
He hesitated when we reached the barn. It was a small structure. Not really a barn for animals, but built in the style that included diagonal runners across the front of the door. It was probably a storage building for their steam carriage.
The hinges wheezed. Jefferson left the doors open so the light would flood in. I changed my opinion of the barn. It wasn't for the steam carriage. It'd been made for small animals like goats, or sheep, hence the smaller fences.
Before we could take a step inside, Jefferson spun on us, his forehead lined with unexpected anger.
"Do not judge poor Sally for what has befallen her. Though it pains me to leave her in this state, I left her as I found her, so not to disturb the investigation that would be necessary," he said.
His hands shook, and he clenched them into fists before storming away from the barn, back towards the house. I stepped inside, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness, unprepared for what I was about to witness.
Ben's intake of breath warned me, the moment before I saw. A dark haired woman with mocha skin was sprawled against the wall, her rear on a milking stool, her arms stretched wide and bound to the fencing on either side.
It was Sally Hemings, a former slave of Jefferson's.
The identity of the woman was not what surprised me. Rather, on her skin, symbols had been painted from her forehead to her feet. She wore a pale undergown, but it appeared the symbols did not stop at the edges of the fabric.
"Mercy."
"There will be none of that if this gets out," said Ben.
"What do you mean? It's not a state secret that Jefferson took his former slave as his amour," I said.
"No. Not that," Ben replied. "Rather that she was killed with magic."
"We can't know that yet," I said.
He wrinkled his nose at me. "Then what was it? An unfortunate calligraphy accident? You know quite well what this appears to be. And if it gets out, this will only give the Federalists more reason to pursue war."
"So that explains why he came to you rather than going to the Warden. If he went through official channels, he would be playing into Bingham's hands," I said.
"We're at a very delicate point in our country's history," said Ben. "I worry this act had a second purpose, to eliminate Jefferson's opposition to the Federalists."
"Were it me, it would spur me to double my efforts against my enemies," I said.
Ben glanced back towards the house to ensure Jefferson wasn't within listening distance. "Thomas is a reluctant warrior, not one for confrontation. He prefers philosophy to politics, writing letters to oration. Despite his many roles, he would prefer to return to Monticello and write his letters. Only great need has kept him in the game."
Jefferson's lack of an invitation to the Transcendent Society became abundantly clear in that explanation. Ben preferred men of action, and Thomas Jefferson, though a great man and thinker of the Revolution, no longer wished to fight the endless war.
I moved closer to the dead woman to examine the circumstances of her death. Immediately, I noticed the parched lips, sunken cheeks, and ashy skin. Before she'd died, Sally had been quite dehydrated.
Ben was poking around the barn, looking over the straw-covered stone floor.
Sally's eyes were wide, and her jaw hung half-open, as if she'd been surprised in death. The cracks in her lips were covered in scabs, so her lips appeared purplish-gray.
"For what purpose do you think those symbols have been etched on her skin?" asked Ben.
"Your knowledge of magic is the same as mine. You have the gauntlet that can call forth a portal or lightning, much like the Uthlaylaa, but nowhere are there markings on them that suggest witchery," I said.
"Was it a ritual perhaps? Does your reading suggest anything in that realm?" he asked.
I briefly searched my memory, but it didn't take much. I recalled no myths involving arcane symbols painted on the skin. I told him as much with the shake of the head.
Using a piece of straw the length of a nail, I scraped the ink on her skin, hoping the removal wouldn't release a deadly curse like a trap. The ink flaked off, floating to the floor through the sunbeam.
"India ink. Rather than printer's ink," I said.
"Are you sure?"
After flaking a bit more into my palm, I gave it a sniff. It had the smell of burnt wood and glue.
"India ink. I would wager the city on it. There's no iron smell to it," I said. "And the coloration is purple-black, rather than the carbon black of India ink."
Ben leaned in close, examining the flakes in my hand. "I concur, but how does this help us?"
I gave him a desultory shrug.
"We know the murderer wasn't a printer," I said.
"So we've ruled out the pair of us as the murderer," Ben said sardonically. "And maybe a half-dozen others in Philadelphia."
"Progress," I said. "Only another few hundred thousand to go. But what I don't understand is how these symbols were painted so precisely, but yet no ink was spilled onto the stones. Either the ink was applied with magic, or our villain is a master at their art."
Ben examined Sally's wrists, pulling away the rope to view the bruised skin beneath.
"It appears she was
here for some time. Her bruises have yellowed, and the skin is irritated from excessive rubbing," said Ben, quirking his lips in thought.
"Do we even know how she died?" I asked.
Ben startled before turning to me. "By the blazes, you're right. How did poor Sally Hemings die?"
"I see no blood, or bruises around her neck. No wounds to suggest the manner of her death," I said.
There were similarities to the way Rowan Blade removed the blood from her victims, but I could tell it wasn't the same. Those bodies looked like mummies dug from the desert, completely desiccated of every ounce of moisture.
"Could magic have stopped her heart? Sucked the soul from her body?" asked Ben as he paced around the small barn. "Maybe what we see is only the mortal shell."
"Then why go through the trouble of tying her up and painting symbols on her?" I said.
"Rituals," said Ben gravely.
We stared in silence at the body. Images of animal-masked cultists dancing around a bonfire flashed through my mind.
"We don't even know the reason she was killed," I said.
Ben's gaze narrowed. "That we do, Kat."
I wasn't ready to argue with Ben. I was still a little wounded from when he thought I was a spy and an enemy of the Society. So I kept my thoughts private.
Ben clapped his hands, marching towards the farmhouse. "We should speak to Thomas," he said, then, quickly correcting himself, "I mean Mr. Jefferson. He may provide some additional insight."
Before we reached the farmhouse, I asked Ben under my breath, "Do you find it difficult to visit upon friends while hiding your identity?"
"Difficult only in my guilty conscience for not inviting them into the Society and gifting them quasi-immortality," he said.
"Why not invite them?"
Ben sighed. "And fill the world with people who cannot die? Should we not look to Otherland to see the result of such a policy? Some of those beings have lived longer than I care to fathom."
"Then why even have the Society and take part of the powder?" I asked.
"If we're to fight these beings, we must have hearty folk who can maintain vigilance no matter how long it takes. Otherwise, they would just wait us out and try again at a different time," he said.
There was no time for further questions as Mr. Jefferson, having seen us approach the door, welcomed us in sullenly. He led us into a sitting room with thick woven rugs. The place had the feel of a monastery with bare walls, a place Jefferson could retreat to during his forays into American governance.
The former Vice President poured us black tea and pulled sweet biscuits from a wooden container stained dark brown. I was struck by the precise manner of his movements, an American elegance that was simple in action, but spoke of deep consideration for even the smallest things.
"My condolences, Mr. Jefferson," said Ben, leaving his tea untouched. "We'll do everything we can to find her murderer."
Mr. Jefferson chewed on his biscuit for a moment, clearly in thought. His jaw was firm but the skin papery. When he looked up, his steely gaze put a stone in my gut.
"Did she suffer?" he asked.
Ben looked to me for the answer.
"Apologies, I believe..." I began, planning to tell him that we had no way of knowing, but then I saw in Jefferson's eyes a pain that would lead him to thoughts of revenge, "that while the death was tragic, she appeared to have no signs of suffering. Whatever magic held her, did so painlessly."
Jefferson's face broke into relief while I nearly let out an exclamation of surprise. The prophecies in my head pulsed at the last phrase, a subtle acknowledgement of my guess? I couldn't tell the meaning, but what I'd said was significant.
Ben cleared his throat gently. "Mr. Jefferson, you and my grandfather were good friends, and I have nothing but respect for you and what you've meant to this country, but I must ask some difficult questions now. Is that alright?"
Jefferson acknowledged the request with a nod.
"Do you have any ideas on who might have killed Sally?" asked Ben.
"Knowledge or conjecture?" asked Jefferson.
"Conjecture."
"If I had to guess, I would say William Bingham. Philadelphia has turned strange in recent years. The whiffs of sorcery have emanated from his camps; he's even hinted at things in our discussions about the direction of the country. Both in warning that our enemies have greater powers, and that we should acquire some of our own. Twenty years ago I would have thought him a madman, now I don't know what to think," he said.
Ben and I shared a terrible glance as Jefferson's gaze sunk into his lap. The concerns aired outside proved true enough that we would have to tread carefully.
"Did you find evidence of Bingham's involvement?" asked Jefferson.
"No," I said at once. "Truthfully, we still have much to uncover, which is why we've come to speak with you. As you've said, Philadelphia—and the world—have gone strange with magic. We cannot yet know the intent of this unfortunate event."
Jefferson's eyebrow rose during my little speech. A recognition of my French accent. I hoped he didn't understand the subtleties enough to know where I'd been born, though he'd been a diplomat in France and had to know my accent wasn't typical of the area.
"Mr. Jefferson," said Ben, "tell us the circumstances of the discovery."
He gave a heavy sigh before launching into his explanation.
"The political situation in the capital is quite tenuous. I've barely been at home, spending my evenings with the weak spined of my party, bolstering their resolve to oppose this march to war.
"Many a night, I've been forced to impose on my hosts for a bed, too tired to return to the countryside with Sally, though it pained my heart. Doubly it hurt, that when I did return, Sally made requests to accompany me to the city, saying that she was feeling abandoned.
"Explanations into why she could not attend went unheeded. At times, she grew quite angry, a touch of madness that now, in the wake of her death, makes me question my understanding of her mood," said Jefferson.
Once again, Ben and I shared glances. I knew he was drawing similar conclusions. Had Sally gotten mixed up in some magical event, or cult, which turned hellish in the end?
"Sally had been alone here that whole time?" I asked.
Jefferson nodded.
"What did she do when she was here?" I asked.
"Sally loved to knit and tend her goats, though when I found her, I also found her animals were underfed and near death, so I sent them to a neighbor’s before I contacted you," said Jefferson.
"When did you see her alive last?" asked Ben.
"Three days past," said Jefferson with a heavy heart.
A thought crept into my mind, and though at first I wanted to dismiss it, eventually I had to acknowledge it as a possibility.
Clearing my throat tentatively, I spoke up. "Do you perchance have a writing station that I might have a look at?"
At once, Ben knew what I implied, though thankfully Jefferson did not understand, or if he did, it was skillfully hidden.
Solemnly, he led me into a writing room with a simple table and implements upon it. A quick sniff of the ink in the well told me it was an iron gall mixture. Not the India ink which had been used in Sally's murder.
When Jefferson looked at me curiously, I gave him a perfunctory smile. He seemed to guess at the meaning and paled, leading us back into the parlor in thought.
Sensing the mood had changed, Ben made a motion behind Jefferson's back, asking if I had more questions. I gave him my response, and Ben made no motion to sit.
"Mr. Jefferson, I think we've learned what we can about Sally's murder. Miss Carmontelle and I will return to the city for the next phase of the investigation. If we learn anything we'll be sure to inform you," said Ben.
"And what should I do...?" asked Jefferson.
"We need nothing further with the body. You may put her to rest. I know a funeral parlor that can be discrete. I'll send them tomorrow," said Ben.
We left and returned to the steam carriage, riding in silence across the countryside, the bump and clatter of the vehicle rambling across the dirt road providing the background to our thoughts.
"Did you notice anything else unusual?" asked Ben.
I nodded. "A certain lack of knitting materials in the house. If Sally had loved to knit then she hadn't been of a mind to do so. They've been at the cottage for the spring, and Jefferson saw her three days ago, which means she had plenty of time for knitting."
Ben acknowledged my observation. He'd seen as much. He added, "I also noted a pair of women's boots with caked dirt on them sitting in their coat room. When did it rain last?"
"A week ago," I said. "Which doesn't make sense. Sally was in the barn for more than a week. Yet he said he saw her three days ago, despite the mud on her boots suggesting that she'd been away from the house."
"Nothing about Sally's death suggests that we even know the right questions to ask," said Ben. "I worry this is meant as a distraction from our main task."
I shook my head vehemently.
"And what makes you so certain?" asked Ben.
"The prophecies," I said, resulting in a raised eyebrow from Ben. "Sitting quietly as I was, staring into the countryside, I probed the prophecies that might be similar to the circumstances of Sally's death."
"Are you sure this is a safe endeavor?" he asked.
"No. I'm not sure at all, but it's a resource in these confusing times. I believe, or maybe hope, that we are a long way from the conclusions of these prophecies, so why not utilize them for our benefit?"
Ben seemed reluctant, a light questioning scowl on his lips, but eventually he made a go on motion with his hand.
"The phrase of the prophecies that jumped out at me was the illustrated woman reflects the dagger pointed at the heart of the world," I said.
"That's the only one?" he asked.
"Many others hint or skim across the surface of the events, but like a skittish bird, do not dare to land. No, this one hits closest to the mark," I explained.
The Franklin Deception (The Dashkova Memoirs Book 4) Page 3
