Circle of Spies

by Roseanna M. White

  Now wasn’t the time for violence or to make arrests. Not with Hughes uninvolved in this scheme, and whatever had kept him so busy still tauntingly beyond Slade’s understanding. He couldn’t make his move yet, and he couldn’t risk scaring the whole KGC underground. He had to wait and make sure none of their plans came to fruition before he could determine what, exactly, Hughes was up to.

  He took a sip of the coffee that had long ago gone cold and caught Booth’s gaze. “It’s getting dark.”

  The actor muttered a curse and dashed the whip to the ground. “I know. He wouldn’t wait this long to start out. Something has gone awry.”

  “Rendezvous, then?”

  Booth bent down to snatch his crop, his expression thunderous enough to make Slade wonder if he wouldn’t rather snap it in two. “I suppose we must. Blast it! What could have gone wrong? The plan was perfect.”

  Indeed, it had been. If the first two men failed for some reason, there were another two waiting beyond them. And another pair after that, each with a carriage ready to mask their movements. And finally him and Booth, ready as a final line if all before them failed. Or, if they were successful, to supervise the transportation into Confederate territory.

  Slade had spent much of the day praying it wouldn’t come to that. If it did, he would have no choice but to show his true loyalties…and that was unlikely to end well.

  His only answer to Booth now was to swing up into the saddle. And pray that his relief didn’t show in his face. “Maybe the others know more.”

  “Of course they do.” Booth huffed once more but mounted his horse. “ ‘The best laid schemes of mice and men,’ I suppose.”

  Slade’s borrowed mare moved of her own volition into a trot and tossed her head when he pulled her back to a walk to await Booth. He would have preferred to let the beast have her head, company be dashed, but he wasn’t entirely certain he remembered the way back to the Surratt boarding house given the serpentine route they had taken from it earlier that afternoon.

  When Booth drew even with him, curious amusement colored his gaze. “The tavern keeper seemed to be trying to place you earlier. Have you stopped here before?”

  “No.” But he’d noticed the narrow-eyed stare too. And it made him wonder if maybe Ross had. “He might have met my brother at some point, though.”

  “Are you and your brother often confused?”

  Slade snorted a laugh. Perhaps not as often as one would expect of identical twins, given that Ross had always had his clothes neatly pressed, his hair perfectly combed, and his behavior well under control, whereas Slade had…not. Never once had anyone tried to blame perfect Ross for any of Slade’s sins. Why, then, did his brother seem to demand retribution for Slade’s very being, and only after he’d changed? Why did it now fall to him to clean up the mess again, when he had already done it once, with his own life?

  “More often than either of us liked.”

  “Hmm.” No suspicion entered the actor’s eyes, thankfully. “Such things always put me in mind of Shakespeare’s comedies of errors. Mistaken identity—a classic device, which the Bard so skillfully put to use. Have you ever seen Much Ado About Nothing?”

  Slade had a vague recollection of it being performed in a Chicago theater he had visited before a game of cards one evening. A brief nod was sufficient, he knew, to fuel Booth on in his talk of plays.

  “I prefer the tragedies and histories, but Shakespeare knew how to write a comedy, to be sure.” Booth guided his mount to the left, glancing at Slade as he followed. “Where is he now?”

  He couldn’t know how the question punched. “Dead.”

  “My apologies. Must have been hard to lose a brother.” Booth’s voice went soft, barely discernable over the clop of horse hooves over cobblestones. “I am the ninth of ten children, myself. My brother Edwin and I have always been rivals. He is an actor as well, you know.”

  “I’d heard.”

  Booth laughed, tight and short. “And he’s a Unionist, of all things. Still, he is my brother. And a dratted fine Hamlet, though perish me if I ever admit it to him.”

  Slade chuckled because it was necessary, but the sound was a lie. Good humor had no place in him right now. How could it? Even among enemies, sympathy hit whenever he heard of the unseen ravages of this endless war. Loyalties divided, houses divided, families divided.

  His father had once preached a sermon on how the End of Days was always at hand. It was hard to deny in this gray world. When ye shall hear of wars and rumours of wars, be ye not troubled: for such things must needs be; but the end shall not be yet.

  Booth swore under his breath. “I cannot believe we failed again. What do you suppose went awry?”

  “Hard to say.” But Slade noted that the man’s shoulders bunched up, his jaw pulsed. With the Confederacy faltering more each day, with the end in sight, failure would not sit well with any of the Knights. These are the beginnings of sorrows.

  “We were so thorough. So careful.” Booth’s fingers went tight on his reins.

  But whatsoever shall be given you in that hour, that speak ye: for it is not ye that speak, but the Holy Ghost. Slade drew in a long breath. “We always are.” Yet had always failed.

  God willing, they always would. Even if it had cost Slade so very dearly already. Now the brother shall betray the brother to death…

  “I know. Blast it, I know. Perhaps we weren’t careful enough. Perhaps there were spies about as we rode into town.”

  Spies. Though his throat went dry, Slade resisted the urge to swallow. Not a tell he wanted to indulge around an actor schooled at expression. And ye shall be hated of all men for my name’s sake. He lifted his brows.

  Booth huffed out a breath. “Unlikely, I know. But we haven’t the leisure for unlikely foils, not anymore. Time is too short.”

  But he that shall endure unto the end, the same shall be saved.

  Had he dared, he would have whispered a prayer that it be so, that the Lord would help him endure until whatever day would be his last. Contenting himself with silence, he made no objection when Booth spurred his horse to a canter. Slade followed suit, shadowing the man through the avenues, around carriages and other horses, until the somewhat familiar facade of the Surratt boarding house came into sight.

  As they came to a halt, a Negro man emerged to take their horses. Slade nodded his thanks and leapt up the stairs after Booth, who burst in without so much as a knock, his riding crop still in hand and bellowing, “John!”

  Slade closed the door behind him, while Booth strode toward the parlor, from which a steady stream of curses rang out in Surratt’s tone. He slid into the room too, just in time to see the usually cool young man gesture with his revolver.

  “Ruined! Blighted! I ought to put an end to it all here and now, I might as well—” His self-threat ended in a sputter of unintelligible groans.

  Booth paced the room, frantic. Perhaps his own agitation was heightened by his friend’s. “Calm yourself, John. We—”

  He cut himself off when he turned and spotted what Slade had noticed the moment he stepped inside the room—they weren’t alone. In addition to another Knight, one of the boarders sat in the corner, a book in hand and his mouth agape.

  The fellow cleared his throat, looking more than a little frightened. “Good evening, Mr. Booth.”

  Had the actor attempted a smile, it no doubt would have been convincing. But he didn’t bother. “I didn’t see you there.”

  Surratt charged from the room, motioning his friends to follow. They did, leaving the boarder staring after them.

  Booth scarcely waited until they were all ensconced in a chill, dim back chamber. “What happened? What is it?”

  “What happened?” Surratt spun toward the entrance with blazing eyes. “How am I to know? Perhaps one of the others fouled up. Perhaps we were betrayed.”

  The echo pulsed through the room, leeching out what warmth had been in it. Slade sucked in a breath only because the others did.

/>   Surratt sighed and folded himself onto a couch. “Foolishness, I know. It’s merely our usual bad luck asserting itself. His driver took another route.”

  Praise the Lord.

  Booth groaned and sank into a wingback chair. “Why?”

  “There was no reason, so far as I could tell. I spotted them coming, was prepared to act, and then they just turned. I tried to rush away, to alert the others or intercept him elsewhere, but…”

  But they hadn’t scouted all the other roads. They didn’t know where else they could set upon him without being noticed. Hence why changing the route had been so sensible a plan. Relief wove through gratitude within Slade.

  Lincoln was safe. Herschel was safe. More, Herschel had trusted him. Slade sat too, and rubbed a hand over his face.

  Maybe Ross hadn’t completely succeeded at ruining everything. Maybe Slade really could put it to rights. Maybe he’d emerge from this with a hope for a future.

  Maybe…but doubt still plagued him. And with doubt came the flashing of cat-green eyes in his mind. He hadn’t let himself think too much, yet, about what Walker Payne had told him that morning about the unknowns of Marietta Arnaud Hughes. Didn’t dare. Because thinking about it made him wonder. A woman willing to run off with a quadroon laborer surely couldn’t be so opposed to a two-bit detective on principle, after all.

  But principle didn’t matter a whit in these things. He was none too sure either of them had anything left to give. Wasn’t sure what it would take to overcome the obstacles. She and Payne must have loved each other something fierce to plan such a thing, but that hadn’t been enough either.

  Maybe nothing would be.

  Twenty-Three

  Marietta’s hand shook as she folded the letter and slid it onto the table beside the soldier’s cot. Last week she had made it through her first hospital visit with nary a roll of nausea. Then again, last week an amputation hadn’t been underway behind the curtain. She hadn’t heard the groans of the patient before they sedated him, the clang of surgical tools.

  Hadn’t heard the grinding of the saw. No, not just heard it. Felt it in her own bones.

  She attempted a smile for the bandaged man, but it wobbled. How pathetic that he had to give her an encouraging pat on the hand. “Are you a new volunteer, ma’am?”

  She didn’t dare open her mouth right then. If she tried, she couldn’t be sure what might come out. She nodded.

  The man settled his hand on the cot beside him again and slid his eyes closed. “You get used to it. Amputations happen every few days.”

  Every few days. How many men, then, would be leaving here—assuming they survived to leave—with missing limbs?

  The sawing hitched, and she heard the doctor say, “Bone nippers, Mrs. Arnaud.”

  Marietta pressed a hand to her mouth. How could Barbara serve in that room day after day? Catching a glimpse of her now beyond the curtain, she saw her friend’s once-white apron stained scarlet.

  The roll of her stomach brought her to her feet. She muttered what she hoped was a polite farewell to the soldier to whom she’d been reading and made a dizzy dash for the door. Fresh air, she needed fresh air. And an escape from the terrible noises. She left the ward, flew down the hall, and finally drew in another breath when she pushed out into the blustery March sunshine.

  It did precious little to steady her. She could not possibly go back in there, not unless the Lord gave a direct command.

  For once her shawl was still wrapped around her. She pulled it close and cast her gaze around the bustling estate. What was she to do for the two and a half hours until Barbara was ready to go home? Wandering the grounds was hardly an option, what with the hundreds of men milling about.

  And Pat wasn’t waiting. She had given him permission to visit a cousin in the city, too far for walking from here.

  “Mrs. Hughes.”

  She turned, her spine going stiff when she saw one of the doctors approaching, still adjusting his hat on his head. He smiled, but if he meant to ask her to come back inside for some reason…

  “Your sister-in-law asked me to check on you and see you home if need be.”

  Marietta relaxed and prayed a blessing upon Barbara. Though how the woman could worry for her in the midst of surgery… “Thank you, Doctor. Are you headed out?”

  “I am, yes. I need to call on a patient who lives near Monument Square. You are near there too, are you not?”

  “Yes. Thank you, I would be most grateful for a ride.” She walked with the doctor to a waiting carriage and accepted his servant’s help into it. Once settled, she fully expected a few questions about her quick egress, but her rescuer spoke only of people she was likely to know, and of what a blessing Barbara had been to them at the hospital.

  When the carriage neared Monument Square, he paused. “I am headed to Fayette Street. Where shall I drop you?”

  “There is fine. I would welcome a short walk.” Expecting an argument, she clutched her shawl and prepared to defend her request.

  But the doctor merely nodded and smiled. A few moments later the carriage rocked to a halt, and he bade her farewell as if it were no great thing for a woman to walk through the neighborhood alone.

  She drew in a grateful breath when her feet touched sidewalk. With a parting wave, she struck out at a confident pace, praying her knees held up. Absent distractions, impressions crowded again. The blood on Barbara’s apron, the sounds, the smells.

  Shuddering, that grateful breath turned sour and weakness seeped through her legs. Perhaps a walk hadn’t been such a grand idea. She should have had him drop her at her door. It would have been only minutes out of his way.

  Rather than head back to the square and then down her own street as she would normally have done, Marietta latched her gaze onto an alleyway that would cut her walk in half. In those cloaking shadows she could indulge in a moment of lapsed composure. That promise spurred her faster, until her wobbly legs had propelled her well into the alley and she finally dared to halt, close her eyes, and let her shoulders sag.

  In the next second a foul-smelling arm slammed over her throat and shoved her against the brick wall with enough force that her toes dangled off the ground. Eyes flying open again, she scratched at the arm and kicked. In vain, as her feet only managed to tangle in her skirts.

  Brown eyes glared at her, malice flashing with the blade the man held up. Under his slouch hat his hair was straggly and unkempt, his beard frazzled. He bared his teeth. “Money. Where be yer money, pretty lady?”

  She could only move her mouth and gasp for air, tugging at his arm. No, that was wrong. Brothers. Her brothers had taught her…the face, she should go for the—

  As if he heard her broken thoughts, his arm released her, but before she could sag, he slammed her face to the bricks. “Money!”

  Pain bit, and it tasted of blood. The smell of it filled her nose, and her vision blurred.

  Money. Her reticule. Where was her reticule?

  That gruff face. She knew that face.

  The images flashed too fast, dizzying. Her bedroom, her drawing room, a table in the library. Under her bed, wrapped in her shawl. Blood. Barbara. The hospital.

  Faces, too many faces. Bearded, clean-shaven, leering. Nodding, smiling politely. Hands held out for money. Street corners. Her house. The fence.

  There, by the soldier’s cot. Pushed underneath.

  A paint bucket. A brush in this man’s hand.

  “Where be it? Ye ain’t got no fancy bag, but sure an a fine lass like you don’t never go out withou’ ye quid.”

  The images flew too fast, spun and bobbed and wavered. A painter. Where was his name? Somewhere, but she couldn’t…

  “Hidden on ye, is it?”

  “Stop!” The feel of his hands was too much to bear as they slid up her side. Or perhaps just the impetus she needed to replace shock with rage. She spat out the blood and knocked away the roaming hand, at least, though the one with the knife still hovered at her neck. “Please, I�
�I don’t have it. I dropped my bag at the hospital and fled too quickly to remember it. Please.”

  He sputtered, curses flying from his lips along with the spittle that spattered her face.

  She winced and turned her face to the wall again, though that made the pain at her temple and cheekbone throb. “Please. Tell them I sent you to fetch it for me and keep whatever was in there. I believe I had five dollars, perhaps a—”

  “Ye think me a fool?”

  Doyle. The name materialized in her mind, though she couldn’t discern if it was his first or last. And hardly cared. “Doyle. Doyle, stop. Please.”

  Stop he did, for half a beat before he pressed the blade to her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut. Bad idea, letting him know she knew him. And now that she had the name to put to the face, the rest came flooding in, pushing aside the irrelevant images. She knew where he lived—or had four years ago, when she had hired him to paint her fence and outbuildings the summer after she wed Lucien. She knew he had a sickly wife, and eight children all under the age of ten, at the time.

  And when she heard the tap of wood on paving stone, the sick ball dropped lower in her stomach. Risking a glance only proved what the sound had told her. Doyle had only a peg where his foot had been.

  “Know me, do ye?” He stroked the blade over her skin. “Then I know ye too. And I might as well kill ye and then rob yer whole house.”

  Never before had she stared down death—were waves of sorrow supposed to slam her? She was doomed to die the same death her husband had, a victim to a violent town and starving men, and she could think only that she had done nothing with her life. A waste of twenty-three years, with nothing to show for them but a fledgling faith too young to take wing.

  Lord…be with Barbara and my family. With Walker and Cora and their children. Slade, be with Slade. Help him in his task when I’m gone. And…at least help me die with the honor with which I failed to live.

  She lifted her chin and did her best to calm her frantic breathing. “Make it quick then, I beg of you.”