The Blue and the Grey
Page 1
Table of Contents
Cover
A Selection of Recent Titles by M.J. Trow
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
A Selection of Recent Titles by M.J. Trow
The Inspector Lestrade Series
LESTRADE AND THE KISS OF HORUS
LESTRADE AND THE DEVIL’S OWN
LESTRADE AND THE GIANT RAT OF SUMATRA
The Peter Maxwell Series
MAXWELL’S ISLAND
MAXWELL’S CROSSING
MAXWELL’S RETURN
The Kit Marlowe Series
DARK ENTRY *
SILENT COURT *
WITCH HAMMER *
SCORPIONS’ NEST *
CRIMSON ROSE *
TRAITOR’S STORM *
The Grand & Batchelor Series
THE BLUE AND THE GREY *
* available from Severn House
THE BLUE AND THE GREY
A Grand & Batchelor Victorian mystery
M.J. Trow
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This first world edition published 2014
in Great Britain and 2015 in the USA by
Crème de la Crime, an imprint of
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2015 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
eBook edition first published in 2015 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2014 by M.J. Trow and Maryanne Coleman
The right of M.J. Trow to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Trow, M. J. author.
The Blue and the Grey.
1. Americans–England–London–Fiction. 2. Murder–
Investigation–Fiction. 3. Undercover operations–
Fiction. 4. Lincoln, Abraham, 1809-1865–Assassination–
Fiction. 5. London (England)–History–1800-1950–
Fiction. 6. Great Britain–History–Victoria, 1837-1901–
Fiction. 7. Detective and mystery stories.
I. Title
823.9’2-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-070-6 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-552-7 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-622-9 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,
Stirlingshire, Scotland.
ONE
Ford’s Theatre, Washington, Good Friday, April 14
‘I don’t believe it!’ Arlette Ross McKintyre’s eyes flashed fire as she looked up at the Presidential box. A handsome couple stood there, waving and smiling at the audience in the stalls as if they were the President and First Lady themselves. ‘How in the name of God did she wangle her way up there?’
Captain Matthew Grand smiled at her. ‘Henry Rathbone’s just been made Assistant Adjutant General of Volunteers,’ he said. ‘I must say he looks very pleased with himself.’
And he did. Major Henry Riggs Rathbone usually had the look of a startled rabbit, but tonight, in his full-dress uniform with sash and epaulettes, his auburn hair carefully Macassared and his side whiskers flowing in the half light, he looked like a cat that had got the cream. Arlette thought that too, but she was also thinking that Clara Harris, the major’s fiancée, who was also his stepsister, was looking out into the middle distance as she always did when she knew a crowd was gazing at her. A faint smile played on Clara’s lips, and she instinctively ducked her head just a touch so as to present her best side – not, in Arlette’s opinion, that she had one. Newspapermen were scribbling on notepads all over the auditorium, and Arlette just knew that Clara’s name would be all over the Washington papers the next day. Had it not been so unladylike, she would willingly have spat.
Grand did not quite catch what his fiancée said next. It sounded like ‘bitch’ but that could not be right. Arlette Ross McKintyre was part of the aristocracy of Old Boston, where the Lowells and the Cabots spoke neither to each other, nor to God. Matthew Grand did not share his fiancée’s petty hatreds. He had ridden under ‘Fighting Joe’ Hooker at Brandy Station, galloped with Custer at Gettysburg. Hell, he was just glad to be alive. The war, at last, was over. And men could start to count the cost. And he also knew the real reason why Rathbone and his lady were in the Presidential box. The papers had said that General and Mrs Grant would be at Ford’s Theatre tonight, but any officer in the Union Army knew that wasn’t going to happen. There had been a nasty moment at City Point a few days earlier when the General’s wife had sat down on a coil of rope on a warship in the harbour. Mrs Lincoln had snapped at her, ‘How dare you sit in the presence of the wife of the President of the United States?’ Mary Todd Lincoln seemed to have forgotten that without Ulysses Grant, her husband might have no United States at all. No, the Grants would not be sharing a theatre box with the Lincolns, not tonight, not any night.
Arlette decided to calm down, even though she was feeling less than generous to her fellow woman this evening. She knew for a fact that even though she was sitting in the stalls, in an even fight she would always be more beautiful, better dressed and better company than Clara Harris, whose complexion was muddy, whose eyes were poppy, whose lips were cruel and unkind and whose dress already looked as though she had slept in it. Arlette loved Matthew dearly, but sadly he was still only a captain. Rathbone was a major, hobnobbing with the highest in the land; and Clara, for all her ghastliness, was the daughter of a senator. The handsome, dashing young soldier sitting beside Arlette tonight, wearing his epaulettes, sash and the red cravat of the Third Cavalry Division of the Army of the Potomac, was a graduate of West Point, second in the May ‘Class of 1861’. That idiot Autie Custer had finished bottom of his class, looked like a stupid chipmunk and was a major-general. Where was the sense or the fairness in that?
It was getting late. The audience was getting fidgety, fans and papers wafting the stifling air of the packed theatre. If the President’s guests were in place already, where was the President? There wasn’t an empty seat in the house. Laura Keene knew why. She was the first woman in the history of the theatre to manage plays and companies. From New York to Baltimore to San Francisco, the crowds adored her, fascinated by her English accent. And here she
was, in her gorgeous crinoline, about to go on as Florence Trenchard. Edward Sothern knew why as well. He stood in the wings, tweaking out his enormous side-whiskers and adjusting his monocle. He hadn’t wanted to play Lord Dundreary at first and had whinged to Joe Jefferson about it; the role was too small, he had said, for an actor of his monumental talent. Jefferson had looked the arrogant buffoon in the face and told him flatly, ‘There are no small roles, Eddie; only small actors.’ Well, Sothern had done something about that. He had taken the role in Our American Cousin and, with the maximum of business and ad-libs, had practically become the star. And here they all were, the cream of the East Coast drama, and they were having to wait for the President. Did the man have no sense of occasion at all?
Harry Hawk had had enough too. He was playing Asa Trenchard tonight, and his collar – actually Joe Jefferson’s – was killing him. He popped his head around the crimson velvet of the curtain and hissed at the orchestra leader, ‘Strike up, for God’s sake. We haven’t got all night.’
William Withers leapt to attention, pulled his tailcoat into position and smoothed down his luxuriant moustache. He had written a special piece for the President, to be played in the intermission. For now, though, it would be standard fare. He rapped his baton on the rostrum to bring the musicians together. In the wings, Joe Jefferson, usurped from his role as Asa Trenchard by the fame-hungry Hawk – ‘Just for tonight, Joe,’ Hawk had said. ‘I just fancy treading the boards again, don’t know why’ – stood with fingers crossed that Hawk would measure his length as he walked on stage. The orchestra struck up and the audience fell silent. At last; now they could all relax and enjoy an hour or two of nonsense after all they had been through for the last four long years …
It was about half an hour in and towards the end of the First Act that Withers suddenly leapt to his feet in the orchestra pit and waved his baton hysterically. His musicians struck up ‘Hail to the Chief’ and all eyes swivelled to the Presidential box. The cast froze in mid-sentence and bowed or curtseyed respectively as the audience rose to their feet, clapping, whistling and cheering. Mary Todd Lincoln was wreathed in smiles, and she waved and nodded in appreciation. The little woman, who barely reached her husband’s shoulder, was mad, they said. Broken by the passing of her boy, Willie, she consulted spiritualists and spoke to the dead. The President was smiling too, but the man looked old and tired, as if he had fought for every inch of ground in the war himself. And he had. In the long watches of the night, Abe Lincoln had, in his mind, sadly hauled down the flag at Fort Sumter; he had bled at Chancellorsville and Little Round Top. He had starved in the prison camps of Libby and Andersonville and had seen Atlanta burn, reflected in those sad, world-weary eyes. He waved but there was suddenly no smile on his face. Edward Sothern fumed inwardly. The President would cast a gloom over the evening. The leading man had just made his entrance, Sothern thought, but he was a tragedian and this was supposed to be a comedy. Sothern shook his head. Whoever told him that the President loved the theatre was out of his mind.
Arlette McKintyre fumed too when she saw Clara Harris reach out and whisper something to Mrs Lincoln. Mary Todd nudged her husband, and he seemed to acknowledge Clara for the first time. Had Arlette been less vain and willing to wear her spectacles in public, she would have seen the expressions on the faces of the First Couple and would have gained some comfort, but as it was, she snapped her fan shut and sat back, shaking her head and tutting. Lord Dundreary was declaiming, hoping to win the limelight back from Lincoln – ‘Birds of a feather gather no moss.’
In his box, Lincoln wasn’t listening. His thoughts were far away, and he murmured to Mary, ‘How I should like to visit Jerusalem some time.’
The world would remember, in the days and weeks and months ahead, exactly when it happened. It was halfway through Act III, Scene 2, and Harry Hawk, sweat trickling down through his greasepaint, rounded on little Mary Wells playing Mrs Mountchessington. ‘Don’t know the manners of good society, eh?’ he drawled, in the hick Tennessee accent he had been doing all night to the surprise of the rest of the cast. ‘Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal – you sockdologizing old mantrap!’
The audience roared their delight, and Hawk was so pleased with himself that he stepped out of character and winked at them. In the wings, Joe Jefferson covered his eyes with his hand and groaned. This may be a comedy, but that was uncalled for, unprofessional. To Hawk’s horror, almost everyone in the theatre was now looking to their right, up at the Presidential box. A crash had echoed in the laughter, and grey smoke drifted in front of the flags draped there. Every soldier knew that sound. It was a pistol, its bark exaggerated by the echo and re-echo around the halls.
Grand was on his feet; so were others. Grand saw Rathbone in the Presidential box wrestling with somebody – a blurred shadow – and Mrs Lincoln cradling the head of the President, who had slumped to one side in his rocking chair. Clara Harris was screaming, stumbling back into the shadows, her hands clasped at her chest in an almost melodramatic gesture of distress. Her hysteria was taken up by everyone, the women screaming and crying although as yet they could hardly know why.
‘Stop that man!’ It was Major Henry Rathbone’s voice. He had just lost his grip on a madman who was leaping down on to the stage, a strip of the Stars and Stripes fluttering from one of his spurs. Grand could see that the major was bleeding, the theatre lights flickering over the blood trickling down his sleeve. From his angle, he couldn’t see the President at all, but he could see the man who had just shot him.
Wasn’t that an actor? Grand thought to himself. Wasn’t that John Wilkes Booth? He’d seen him on stage many times. And now, here he was again, eyes blazing from the handsome face, in his last starring role, the one that would surely make him famous for ever. He battered the bewildered Withers aside, hacking at the man as he ran, and raised a Bowie knife, red with Rathbone’s blood, and he screamed, ‘Sic semper tyrannis,’ before dashing into the wings. Harry Hawk had run backwards to get out of his way, losing his balance and falling awkwardly, at the foot of the backstage stairs. Booth jumped across him, kicking him as he went, leaving tonight’s leading man flat on the ground and groaning.
In the stalls, Grand gripped Arlette’s shoulders, forcing her down into her seat. ‘Stay here,’ he said, looking her hard in the face. ‘Whatever happens. You’ll be all right.’
Arlette said nothing as her man fought his way through the shrieking, hysterical crowd. Above it all, she could hear Clara Harris screeching for water, and she could hear the shouts of the men: ‘Hang him! Lynch the bastard!’
Matthew Grand did not know the layout of Ford’s Theatre. He only knew that Booth had run to his right and that there was an alleyway off F Street with a door to the backstage area. The captain shoulder-barged that door now and pitched into blackness. He collided with a brick wall ahead of him, his boots skittering on the cobbles. He looked right. F Street was partially lit, and revellers, in their fifth day of forgetting the war, were drunkenly winding their way home. There. There was his man. Booth must have hurt himself as he landed on that stage because now he was dragging his foot as he caught the reins of his waiting horse. A young boy was holding it for him, and Booth slapped the lad aside, lashing out with his knife for good measure and vaulting into the saddle. Grand was with him, dodging the skittish animal’s flying hooves and trying to grab the bridle. He cursed himself that he was not armed, but he had gone to the theatre with his fiancée. That was no place, surely, for a sabre and a brace of pistols. But this was America, after four years of madness; when would a man be able to walk unarmed again?
Booth rammed his spurs home, feeling the agony in his ankle again, and he clattered out of the alleyway.
Grand stumbled over the boy and helped him up. The lad was dazed and his face was bloody, but he would keep. At the end of the passage, Grand could see F Street clearly. He had just reached the corner when the light was blotted out and a huge man stood there, in a long duster
coat and wideawake hat. His eyes burned into Grand’s, and his lips parted in a snarl. ‘You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you, soldier boy? You didn’t think Johnny would come alone? The Devil’s with him.’ It was an English voice, like the ones Grand had been listening to all night. Instinctively, the captain grabbed the man’s lapels, and he felt cloth tear. Then he felt a sickening slap across the face and his head collided with brickwork. The broken cobbles hurtled up to meet him. And the play was over.
TWO
The Haymarket Theatre, London, Good Friday, April 14
‘Hello, handsome; want some company tonight?’
The girl was perhaps eighteen, but she had done this before, many times, and was full of confidence, her shoulders swinging and her head thrown back to show her smooth throat and creamy breasts off to their best advantage. The man was not as handsome as all that, but the demi-monde were good at flattery. If the man was interested and they wandered together into the shadow of the stalls, she would tell him in a minute how big he was and what stamina he had. That would be after she’d helped himself to his wallet.
‘Company? I thought I had some.’ James Batchelor had gone to the Music Hall tonight with three colleagues. Colleagues who seemed to have vanished through the cigar smoke and the limelight. The audience was hooting and whistling as a chorus line of girls high-kicked in their frothy folderols and the orchestra belted out a polka.
The girl understood that perfectly well, because she already had her fee in her bodice, and the fee had come from the three friends James Batchelor thought he had. ‘Ah, they’re no company,’ she trilled, sitting beside him in a rustle of petticoats. Then she paused and raised an eyebrow. ‘Unless it’s a bit of brown you’re after. In which case—’ she tapped him on the chest with her fan – ‘you don’t need me.’