My comment struck Mr. Bridgewater in an unexpected way. He took a second glance at me, as if he were seeing me for the first time. Suddenly, I felt vulnerable despite my hidden weapon.
If Mr. Bridgewater was the killer, and I most certainly believed his was, then he had arcane means that I might not know how to defend against. I could call on my magic if necessary, but only under last resort, as its use would leave me defenseless afterwards.
He moved to the side of the writing desk, testing to see if I would flinch and leave the room. His eyes were steady, his jaw resolute.
"Who are you really, Miss Morwen?" he asked.
I placed my hands behind my back so I could reach the pistol quickly. "A woman of Philadelphia and America."
"As you well know, my employer has a great distaste for Russia. He would be quite disappointed to learn your origins." Mr. Bridgewater seemed to be trying to incite me, daring me to break the mummer's part.
He took a step away from the table and towards me. Then he paused, gauging my reaction.
"Do you enjoy your penmanship?" I asked, standing my ground.
He was about to take another step, but hesitated. "It's an art that soothes the soul, and its like proves a common thread across all cultures."
He completed the step. He could lunge and grab me, unless I pulled my pistol.
"But what is your favorite canvas? Upon what material do you enjoy placing ink the most?" I asked.
Mr. Bridgewater's forehead wrinkled with confusion. "Each canvas has its benefits. I find the way the ink absorbs into vellum to be quite pleasing. Goatskin parchment has a particular smell that I enjoy, though the ink tends to smudge."
"Then what about a dead girl's skin?" I asked.
When his face contorted in anger, I knew he was the one. I had the pistol out before he could grab me. He took one glance at the weapon and sprung away towards the open window, diving gracefully through as if he were an acrobat.
I did not fire, as I had no authority to kill the man and I was a guest in William Bingham's house. Mr. Bridgewater gave me a seething glace from the balcony and hitched himself over as if he were dismounting a horse to fall to the garden below.
I yelled for Ben as I ran towards the back of the house, knowing the layout well from previous visits. Ben had been in the dining room near the back, so was ahead of me as we pursued Mr. Bridgewater.
He ran with a cunning grace. I almost expected him to drop to his hands and spring away like a leopard. He cut through the hidden path towards the carriage house in back.
The bushes tugged at my clothing as I dodged through the torturous path. Ben stayed ahead of me, running with his pistol in his left hand.
When we reached the alleyway behind the estate, I thought we'd lost him. Ben was bent over with his hands on his knees, catching his breath.
"Where is he?" I asked.
Ben pointed towards a stone-lined arched opening in a lone building along the side of the street. It was an entrance to the tunnels beneath the city, in which the water lines and sewer pits traversed.
We went down the stone stairs into the darkness, pausing halfway to let our eyes adjust. Reaching the bottom, we found the tunnel went opposite directions. Echoes of boots slapping against stone surrounded us, though neither of us could determine which way Mr. Bridgewater had fled.
"Shall we pursue, or safely pull back?" asked Ben.
I was going to suggest that we let him go, as following Mr. Bridgewater into the sewers would be too dangerous since he could set up an ambush, but something about the way he'd moved made me think we needed to understand more about our foe.
"I don't think that this Alden Bridgewater was taking direction from Mr. Bingham," I said. "Which means we must pursue."
"And why do you say that?" asked Ben. "The prophecies?"
"No," I said, shaking my head, trying to suss out the reason for my gut feeling. "Rather, he spoke about Mr. Bingham not as his superior, but with contempt. I know the sound of deference, and this man had none. His voice carries the tone of command, a man not suited to be a servant."
"Which might indicate he's of our common enemy," said Ben, nodding.
"Either way, we must find the truth of why Sally Hemings was murdered, and if we let him escape then I don't think we'll see him again. Leaving us in the dark to their plans," I said.
"Fairly spoken," said Ben, though he did not appear eager to enter the tunnels. "You take that tunnel, and I'll go the other direction. And it seems we're in luck. I see a lantern box here, so we won't stumble around in the dark."
Ben opened the wooden box on the wall and we each took one, sparking them to life. The warm glow of whale oil flame pushed the darkness back down the tunnel.
"Good luck to you," said Ben as he turned to go the other direction.
"And to you," I said, then as an afterthought, "How can Mr. Bridgewater travel the tunnels without light?"
The unspoken answer was enough to give us pause. I marched forward with pistol ready.
Chapter Fourteen
As I crept forward, a Russian proverb came to mind, one that had made its way to Europe and eventually America: a bird in the hand was better than two in the bush.
Philadelphians liked to call on this saying often, a reminder to be practical and take what you've got rather than be overly ambitious and lose everything. It was a nice proverb, and I rather liked the sentiment. The American tenants of hard work and prosperity shined through those words.
Except that in Russia, the proverb had a different meaning. Any Russian serf woman would know to break the bird's neck, place it in her apron, and then go after the other two birds, because hunger was real and you had to take opportunities when they came. However, the meaning was lost in translation because the bush in the proverb was a honeyberry bush, which had a particular meaning in my former homeland.
To keep serfs from stealing fruit, the nobles planted their bushes in the same fields they kept their bulls in. The aggressive creatures had no interest in blueberries or honeyberries, providing a determined guard for any intruder.
Thus, the proverb was a reminder that to go after the birds in the bushes on a noble's land was to court danger both from the horns of the bull and the landowner should the peasant be caught, because it would be assumed they were after the fruit.
By going after Alden Bridgewater in William Bingham's house and following him into the tunnels beneath the city, we'd jumped the proverbial fence. It would have made more sense to go back to the estate and wait for William Bingham to arrive, acting as if nothing had happened.
With Ben and me, along with the head of house, missing, William Bingham would have reason to suspect our involvement. Never mind that we prowled beneath the city in dark tunnels, following a man who would probably prove to be the bull.
The tunnels themselves were quite remarkable. The builders had done their job well. The stones fit together neatly, keeping the earth at bay. The floor was relatively dry, except for a few sections with water seeping through the ground. Multiple sets of footprints crossed these areas. I had no skill in tracking to know if any of them were Mr. Bridgewater.
Black iron pipes extended along the ceiling, bringing water from the Water Works building to those houses lucky enough to be connected. Occasionally they vibrated, either from the water being pumped through them, or the steam carriages traveling overhead on the busy streets.
My lantern exposed the surprised critters that made their homes in the damp tunnels. Bugs with black carapaces skittered into cracks. Glistening webs filled with dead insects sometimes connected the space between pipes and the stones.
After I'd gone what felt like a mile, I was wondering if it was time to find an exit and return to the Franklin Estate when I heard a pistol's echoing bark. Turning my head back and forth, I determined which direction to run.
The light bobbed and swayed, twisting the shadows into blobs and towers as I ran. Fearing the worst for Franklin, I abandoned my cautious approach at e
ach corner and sped headlong into what I knew would prove to be danger.
When my footfalls expanded in my ears, I realized I approached a wider space. Ahead, the tunnel opened into a room. Pipes traversed the space, heading into various openings. The room was a hub. A pit formed the middle, ringed by a pathway that had a protective wrought iron railing. The painted iron bled with orange rust.
I saw movement across the pit and called out, "Franklin."
The man on the other side snorted with derision. I pointed the lantern in that direction, lighting up the maze of pipes. Alden Bridgewater stood on the opposite side, his eyes reflecting red in the lantern.
"Miss Morwen of Saint Petersburg. How nice of you to join me down here," he said.
I thought about taking a shot, but I didn't have a good line and feared the bullet would deflect off a pipe.
"And Temple Franklin, though he has not shown his face yet," he said. "I'm beginning to understand who it is that pursues me."
"Why did you kill Sally Hemings?"
"Because she'd served her purpose," he said without hesitation.
"What purpose was that?" I asked.
He tapped his fingernail on the railing. The sound rang like a dull bell.
"You think you know so much about me," said Mr. Bridgewater, "yet you know nothing. While I'm learning more and more."
"Whatever your plans are, they've come to an end," I said. "Now that we know who you are, you'll cause no more mischief."
"Unlikely," he said. "You haven't the slightest clue of why I'm here or what I'm doing in Philadelphia."
"Then why don't you elaborate?" I said.
He moved to the right. I wasn't sure if he was moving around towards me, or an exit. I set the cock on the pistol with my thumb, holding the lantern high with the other hand.
"You realize if you shoot me, you'll be as ignorant as you are now," he said as he kept moving around, unfazed by the weapon in my hand.
I stood my ground, though I was feeling more exposed by the moment. Mr. Bridgewater seemed to be pursuing some strategy that I could not determine. I checked behind me with the lantern to confirm he didn't have accomplices, swinging it hastily back around when I heard his nearby footfall.
"Enough of this," I muttered, and marched boldly forward.
He retreated towards a tunnel. "Don't you want to stay and talk? I'm enjoying our conversation."
"Stop or I'll kill you," I said.
He chuckled. "Doubtful."
Before I could make it around the pit, he fled into a tunnel, moving with unnatural grace. As I pursued, I realized what he was: a predator. He hadn't been talking to me because I'd trapped him in the room, he was stalking me—in his way—but for what purpose I couldn't determine.
When I made it halfway down the tunnel, I realized he was too far ahead and slowed my pace. He was drawing me into an ambush.
But what did he want? Was he a wanton killer, not associated with any of the parties trying to sway the American government? I found that hard to believe, since he'd hid himself in the retinue of William Bingham, the most powerful man in Philadelphia and possibly America.
He had to have joined Bingham's household recently. Which suggested that either he had powerful friends or had supernatural abilities in his own right. I suspected the latter, though it could be both.
And what had he learned from me in our brief conversation? I didn't think I'd given away anything important.
I realized that the further I went, the closer to the river I was traveling. The pipes had a faint vibration to them, a result of the water plant pulling the river into the huge storage tanks peppered around the city. The vibration was stronger here, with occasional ticks as the steel pipes rocked against their moorings.
When I heard Ben Franklin calling my name, a chill went straight through me. His voice echoed through the tunnels. The tone of grim resolve was thick, suggesting his circumstances, which did not surprise me upon arrival.
Ben waited at another cross tunnel, pipes heading in all directions like spokes on a wheel. He was standing at the railing. We were close enough to the river to hear the clank of its pistons echoing through the passages.
Mr. Bridgewater stepped to Ben's side, holding a knife against his throat.
"We meet yet again," said Alden. "This time under more pressing circumstances."
"Kat—" Ben started to speak, but Mr. Bridgewater squeezed the knife against his throat.
"There are no pipes to protect you here. If you spill even one drop of blood, I will kill you," I said.
Mr. Bridgewater moved behind Franklin. I didn't have a good shot. Ben had both hands on the railing, his mouth set at a grim line. He was expecting the worst.
"Why did you kill Sally Hemings?" I asked.
"You're rather persistent," he said.
"You said she served her purpose. What purpose had she served?" I asked.
His laugh was like being slapped. I heard absolute contempt in his voice. He felt in complete control. I was missing something terribly important, and not figuring it out might cost Ben Franklin his life.
"If you don't know why I killed her, then you don't know anything," said Alden. "Put down your weapon. I know you're not going to shoot me."
I let my hand fall to my side.
"Now, tell me how Morwen of Saint Petersburg and Temple Franklin know Sally Hemings," he said. "Might I remind you that Mr. Franklin's life depends on your cooperation."
Mr. Bridgewater had relaxed with my pistol down, though the knife stayed at Ben's neck. I didn't think I could aim and shoot if he moved over, but maybe I could blast him with sorcery.
The only problem was that I'd hit Ben at the same time, and then I'd probably be incapacitated for a bit. I wished I had better control of my magic. If I couldn't knock the blade of grass off the pile of sticks then I couldn't knock the knife out of the killer's hand.
"Answer me, or I'll bleed him," commanded Mr. Bridgewater.
I decided to go with the truth, or as much as I could. "Because we work for Mr. Jefferson. He knew that if her murder was common knowledge, it would further play into the Federalist's hands and undermine his efforts to stop the war."
"Interesting," said Mr. Bridgewater.
The news seemed unexpected to him, which perplexed me in turn. This meant he was certainly not working for William Bingham, or this angle would already have been considered.
"So no one else knows about her death?" he asked.
"No," I said, realizing my mistake only moments after the words left my lips.
Mr. Bridgewater lifted his knife. I didn't have enough time to raise my pistol, so I blasted him with sorcery. A wave of dark energy flowed across the pit in a flood, throwing them both into the wall.
I slumped against the railing, trying to keep my hands on the pistol. I wanted to put my hands to my temple. It felt like knives had been shoved into my open eyes.
Through the black spots in my vision, I saw Mr. Bridgewater climb uneasily to his feet like a newborn foal. He moved towards Franklin's unconscious body.
I fired my pistol, the flash of white filling in between the spots. By his reaction, I might have hit Mr. Bridgewater. It was hard to tell through the reduced vision. He leapt away, fleeing down a tunnel.
Using the railing, I stumbled around the pit until I came to Franklin. He was unconscious but alive. I moved to the tunnel, aimed down its length, and fired three times.
Ben's pistol lay near his feet. I grabbed it and leaned against the railing, wishing I'd brought the lantern.
Eventually, Franklin woke, though he spent some time on his hands and knees groaning.
"What happened?" he asked.
"He was going to kill you," I said. "I'm sorry I don't have better control over my magic. I almost did the job for him."
"A little pain is a price worth paying to stay alive," said Ben with a chuckle. "Though let's try not to do that again."
"Still practicing your virtue of mirth?" I asked as I helped him
up.
"Possibly, though it's hard to tell. I think at the moment I'm practicing the virtue of not vomiting on your lovely boots," he said.
When he was well enough, we collected our gear and moved through the tunnel Mr. Bridgewater had fled. It led towards the water plant on the river.
At the next cross tunnel there was another pit. Stairs went up into the ceiling on the other side. The pistons clanked loudly, giving me a headache. We were standing beneath the pump house along the river.
Ben grabbed me as I moved towards the stairs. He pointed into the pit.
We'd found Mr. Bridgewater. He was dead. The body lay at the bottom of the pit, facedown in the muck. I could tell it was him by the gray trousers and jacket.
"It appears you hit him," said Ben.
"I fired blindly down the hallway. Dumb luck," I said, rubbing my neck.
"Better lucky than dead," replied Ben.
I frowned. "But now we won't learn why he killed Sally Hemings and what he was doing in Philadelphia."
Ben nodded. "A small price."
"What shall we do about William Bingham? I just killed his head of household," I said.
"We won't tell him anything," said Ben. "Most of the servants were gone, and none saw us leave. I'll send him a note tomorrow apologizing for not waiting around. As for Alden Bridgewater, his disappearance will be a mystery until I can have some close friends of William's suggest they saw Mr. Bridgewater leaving on an airship. Maybe I'll have some valuables go missing so there's ample reason to suspect nefarious deeds from his former head of house."
"Such deception," I said. "And the body?"
"I know a coroner who will take the body without comment," he said. "Once that's handled, we can focus our attentions on the upcoming vote."
"Yes," I said, though I didn't really believe it. "The matter is settled."
Chapter Fifteen
Two days later, and eight days from the war vote, Ben Franklin and I sat on a wooden bench in the house of Representative Isaac Van Horne. The cottage was starkly barren. We sat on what appeared to be old church pews.
Our host, Representative Van Horne, was in the other room shaving. He had informed us upon arrival that he shaved at three o'clock in the afternoon each day without deviation, and that we would have to wait.
The Franklin Deception (The Dashkova Memoirs Book 4) Page 10
