"No sir, I don't." Her eyes turned down and she looked like she would rather be anywhere other than here.
"She seems to come and go quite a bit. Don't you find? I expect she's spending a lot of time with her mother, being sick and all."
Molly's brows furrowed. "Mrs. Duncan, sick? Sir, she was here yesterday and fit as a fiddle."
Grant closed his eyes. "Are you sure of that?"
"Yes, sir. Will there be anything else?"
Grant sighed. Where were gossipy servants when you needed them? Most times he would have no use for tale-carrying maids. He'd been cursed with scrupulous help. On the other hand, Mrs. Massie had probably warned her about propriety with the Commander of the Union Army.
"One more question. My wife locked the door when she left, but there was soup on the sideboard when I awoke. Did you borrow Mr. Massie's keys or do you have your own set?"
The maid blushed and took a step back. "Well, sir. I don't have a set of keys. On those times when I need to, I just use a hatpin. Opens them right up. My pa showed me how to do it."
"That's all. Thank you." Grant muttered under his breath. All the investigations into the locks and the fool girl could come and go as she pleased with a hatpin. Anyone could have entered their room to deposit the body. Simple as that. No special means were necessary.
Molly slipped from the room quietly. The door had not been closed during their conversation. Grant wondered if anyone had overheard his questions about Adelaide. Even so, could they guess his motives for interrogating the girl? Most likely, someone would assume he was still infatuated with his old flame. As if he could ever stray from his Dearest Julia.
He had decided that a direct conflict with Mrs. Todd would be the best approach. He'd take her by surprise, and attack from the flank. He'd used the maneuver with success in the past.
With a plan in mind, Grant set to the soup and finished it in a few minutes. Not like the fare he'd been feted with in Washington, but better than rations or forages from the battlefields. The fare had been a strong barley that made him choke on the first thick spoonfuls. Heat from the soup made him sweat as he finished the bowl and returned it to the sideboard.
Full and ready for the next stage of his personal investigation, Grant rested his head against the back of the chair and dozed.
Chapter 15
The door kicked open. Grant jerked up. The kerchief, which had rested on his neck, fluttered to the floor. Hart and Tyson stood in the room, looking triumphant. The men reminded Grant of his sons, Fred and Buck, the time they caught a ten-pound catfish at White Haven.
"Good God, man. Pinkertons don't know how to knock?" Grant shook his head. The headache had subsided, but his whole body felt crampy, far older than his forty-three years.
Tyson looked around the room, scanning the corners. "General, I keep trying to stress the need for security here. Your door was unlocked Stanton and Seward will have Mr. Pinkerton's ass if any harm befalls you. And mine too. I don't relish that thought."
Grant cleared his throat. "Your concern overwhelms me. However, the Massie's cleaning girl informs me that a hat pin will overcome any lock in this establishment."
Tyson clucked his tongue. "So much for that line of questioning. Anything is possible again."
"Where have you two been all day?" Grant checked the window. The sun had indeed started its descent in a tumble of black clouds, heading to the West just as he hoped to be doing soon without the company of Pinkertons and reporters.
Tyson held out a box. "First, we picked up a box of cures for your headaches. The apothecary assured us this medicine would be good for what ails you."
Grant took the box and slid the matchbox cover open, tiny white squares of paper arranged in neat stacks. Grant extracted one and sniffed at it from arm’s length. These newfangled remedies made him suspicious. How did these little papers know where to go to cure him?
He looked up to see Hart and Tyson watching him. "This certainly didn't take you all day?"
Hart smiled. "Not at all. We've been out trying to learn more about the dead man and the attempt on your life."
Tyson cleared his throat and turned to look at the young reporter. Grant noticed how tall Tyson was in relationship to his companion and that Hart mimicked the theatrical pose of the Pinkerton man. "Well, yes, but of course, Hart knows this is all confidential. I don't want to see any newspaper articles on this."
Hart's face fell. Grant could see the wheels turning on how much longer it would take him to escape from this town after the news story broke without him. The postponed dreams shot across his face.
Grant recalled how much he'd wanted to see the world, turning his back on the family's tannery. Even then he knew. Animal slaughter, blood, and hides were not a part of his future. Yet here he was back in Georgetown and the town was turning on him — their only claim to immortality in a fickle world. "So what did you learn?"
Hart shuffled scraps of writing paper from one pocket to another. "Not a damn thing, sir."
"It wasn't that bad. We talked to several people and none of them recognized the man. That much is true." Tyson had been standing in the doorway and he took a few steps forward as if to assert himself into the conversation. Grant wondered what Allan Pinkerton would say about his failure to identify a dead body.
"I assume that Verity told you about the missing rifle from the pawn shop. Seems our killer didn't come prepared."
Tyson bit his lip. "Well, sir. A rifle is a conspicuous weapon to carry. Not like the little gun that killed our Mr. Mathers."
Before Grant could speak, Julia entered and shook off her shawl into the hall. The expression on her face let Grant know she suffered these men in her quarters only on his behalf.
"Julia, dear. How was the visit?"
She patted her hair for a second, stuffing wayward ebony and silver strands back into her bun. Without hesitation, she pushed her way through the men and studied her husband for a moment with crossed eyes. "You're looking wan. Should you have visitors?"
Grant smiled at her. "Whatever you think, dearest."
She tapped his arm to let him know what she thought of his sudden acquiescence. "I suppose it doesn't hurt seeing as they've already disturbed your sleep."
Tyson's eyes narrowed to slits as he watched them. The Pinkerton man wasn't used to being put in his place by the woman of the house. Obviously he'd never been married. An oddity, he supposed, for a nice-looking fellow.
"So tell me what you've learned?" Grant tried to re-adjust the blanket over him. He cursed the headache sickness again, wishing he could take a more active part in the murder investigation and the capture of his assailant. Then he could show Georgetown the full measure of his military skills.
Julia nodded and cleared her throat. "Well, I had a long talk with Mrs. Wethington when I went to pick up my dress. Shame on you, General, forever thinking that she could be involved in any plot against you."
"And pray tell, Mrs. Grant, why not?" Tyson's words dripped with disdain and Grant shot a look, commanding him to silence. "She is a suspect like any other. I'm sure Mrs. Wethington could shoot a straight shot if required."
"Well, Mr. Tyson, we had a long conversation and she's quite embarrassed about her connections to the assassins. I truly believe she would have disavowed Mrs. Surratt if some of the townsfolk hadn't come out so strongly against her niece. It brought out the fight in her."
Grant tried to rise and thought better of it. "That's no reason to support a murderer."
Julia snorted. "General, you of all people should know that one cannot control your relatives, no matter how much you honor them. I've heard the whispers since I've been here about your father's doings."
"Now what?"
"Apparently Mr. Grant's been trying to sell products associated with your name. Letters, guns, knives — items supposedly owned by you as a boy."
"Where did you hear this?"
"Some people were quite disturbed to find that they never received the merchan
dise for which they paid good money for. One man in town lost ten dollars to Jesse Grant."
Grant moaned. He'd demanded his name be kept out of the elder Grant's business concerns. His father looked on Ulysses’ success as a personal cash box. Jesse had reminded his son that he'd been happy to work in the family business in Galena when Ulysses couldn't keep a farm running. Now he wanted usury from his son in the form of government contracts and favors. Grant slowly swiveled his head to face his wife. "I thought you were going to visit my aunt."
"I did, but I made some other stops along the way as well. Things needed looking after."
"What else did you do besides gossip with my schoolmarm and locate men who have a grudge against my father?"
"Well, a woman does have to pick up her alterations, especially when the tears were caused by bullet holes. I couldn't send the Massies. One can't trust secrets to the help. Word would be all over town before the first stitch was placed."
Hart's eyes lit up and a smile played at the corner of his mouth. "Mrs. Grant. In a town this size, I can assure you that everyone knows your business already."
"Oh." Her cheeks reddened. "Whatever will they think?"
Hart seemed to have forgotten his earlier disappointment. "You'll be happy to know then that no one outside this town will know a thing. Shane still doesn't have the telegraph line fixed."
Grant cleared his throat. "I don't think that lollygag is working too hard. Especially now that it started raining." The tap of drops against the roof filled the pauses in the conversation.
Tyson raised an eyebrow. "You think he's involved in the attempts on your life? After all, the telegraph could give us a description of the people in town who are out to get you."
The General sighed and rested his head against the back of the chair. "I doubt it. He's not got the smarts to execute all this. Though he's the spiteful type who'd put a dead body in my room to reflect poorly on me."
"Well, that body didn't die a natural death. Someone killed that man with a bullet through the head and no one here seems to know a thing about him before he crossed the town limits."
Hart cleared his throat. "There's only a thousand or so people in this — town. If no one recognizes his face, then he's not from these parts."
"Fat lot of good that does us. He could be from any city - North or South." Tyson shoved his hands deep into his pockets. His bottom lip stuck out in an exaggerated pout. Grant ignored the man’s theatrics.
The general barked out a laugh. "You'd think the entire Army of the South was in Georgetown, lurking behind the corners. Today I even suspected Adelaide of misdeeds."
Julia perked up at once. "How so?"
Grant cursed himself. The headache was making him far too loquacious. He’d managed to keep his mouth shut through four years of war, but now he might as well tell everything. Once Julia smelled a problem surrounding someone she despised, she was as hard to remove as a tick on a dog. "I saw Mrs. Todd taking money from a woman downstairs. Mrs. Massie, I think."
Hart moved closer. "You think? What do you mean by that?"
"I couldn't see the other woman's face, just hands. They were wrinkled and very made up."
"And you suspected Mrs. Massie?" Hart had pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and scribbled some notes on it.
Grant shook his head. Damn this headache. "At first, but then I noticed the maid's hands and I began to doubt myself."
Julia turned to look out the rain-spattered window across the town. Grant wondered if it was any coincidence that she faced East to Washington and away from the rest of their planned tour of Ohio. "That Mrs. Todd could tell you who she was taking money from — and under what circumstances."
Tyson smacked his knee. "Now why didn't I think of that? It's not like I'm the Pinkerton man."
Julia turned to glare at him and Grant swore he saw murder in her eyes. Good thing Verity wasn't here to note her expression or he'd locked her up for sure.
Tyson and Hart headed for the door. Julia's skirts swept the hardwood floors as she trailed them. Grant stood up and thought better of it. The world spun around him as he sat back down in the rocker.
"General, I think it best if you stay here. Mr. Tyson is a professional. He can take charge." A half-smile played on Julia's lips and Grant knew who would lead the interrogation.
He stood up again, willing himself to health. He wanted to be finished with this murder so they could move on to Bethel and eventually home. No telling what Andrew Johnson had done to Washington in his absence. That man was as cantankerous as an old mule.
He began to despair of solving this murder, chasing leads to nowhere and feeling poorly. For all the traipsing about, they had found out precious little. No one could still tell him who the dead man was or what his business was in town. He might as well go back to Washington with his tail tucked between his legs. Georgetown had defeated him.
Once standing, his joints ached, but Grant shuffled towards the door with the others. His presence might help defuse the situation. "I accepted the South's surrender with a headache far worse than this. I'll be fine."
Julia began to speak and halted, opting instead to press her mouth into a thin red line. Tyson's head bobbed as he opened the door. They descended to the lower floor, a parade of people: Pinkerton, reporter, wife and Union general covered in mustard plaster and kerchiefs.
Mrs. Massie started as she looked up from a newspaper on the front desk. "Where on earth are all of you off to?"
Tyson stopped at the counter. "Ma'am, could you tell us Mrs. Todd's room please?"
Her eyes widened. "I can't have unescorted men in a lady's room. It's unheard of — scandalous."
Tyson tapped his foot. "We're not unescorted. Mrs. Grant is with us, unless you think her capable of overseeing a licentious gathering. This is not pleasure, I assure you. It's official business regarding the Federal government."
The woman crumpled the newspaper she'd been reading. Hart looked personally affronted to see his precious Brown County News treated in such a manner. "Very well. It's number five, but I'm not responsible for what people are going to say. What would your mother think, Ambrose Hart?"
Tyson strode off without a word. Hart scurried after him, trying to avoid Mrs. Massie's hawk-eyed glare. Grant followed Julia, whose mood had improved tremendously in the past few moments. He could have sworn he heard her humming a tune. She was probably rehearsing her opening salvo.
When the Grants reached Number Five, Tyson and Hart recoiled from the opened door. Grant glanced inside the entrance and knew Adelaide wouldn't be answering any questions about the money. Ever.
Her body had fallen across the small rag rug covering the middle of the room. She'd changed clothes since he'd seen her last. She wore a green dress with a hoop skirt indecorously flipped to the sky. Long gloves that fit her like a second skin covered her arms. The careful styling of her hair had been crushed by the attack and someone had stepped on one of the jewels from her coif, crushing it into shrapnel on the hardwood floor.
Her outfit had been accessorized by a woolen kerchief wrapped around her throat with such force that her face had gone blue, highlighting the artifice of her rouged cheeks. Grant thought his face might join rank as he realized that her neckpiece was Army issue. He hadn't checked his supplies, but he was willing to bet that at this point, he was missing an identical kerchief.
Chapter 16
Sheriff Verity studied the quartet through half-glasses. The lawman hadn't bothered with a hat in his hurry to the National Union. The rain had pasted the wispy remnants of hair to his skull. "Let me get this straight. You all just came down here for a friendly social call and found her dead?"
Hart nodded his head, making his hair droop into his eyes.
"And I'm supposed to believe this the second time in less than a week three of you just happened to find a dead body in Georgetown - when no one else has?" A gnarled finger accused Grant, Julia and Hart.
Grant cleared his throat. "We had a fe
w questions about a financial transaction made by Mrs. Todd and an unknown party along with some questions regarding her mother's health. We didn't think we needed to concern you with such matters."
Verity squinted at them again. "Don't think I don't know what you've been doing. Cavorting all over town questioning folks and stirring up trouble. And all you've learned from your flumadiddles is that the dead man wasn't from around here. Like I couldn't have told you that first time I laid eyes on his gourd."
Tyson took a dramatic step forward. "But can you tell us who he was?"
The sheriff laughed. "Son, I haven't left Brown County in nigh on forty years. If he ain't from these parts, how can I know him? Not like these Pinkerton fellows who go gallivanting over the country. Not me."
Tyson mouth twitched with the start of a smile. "Fair enough, but we'll need to know his name in order to identify him."
Verity perched on the edge of the marble-topped wash basin. "I doubt it. Vance says his name is Mathers and that's good enough for my mind. Sometimes it's not who a man is, but what he's done that important. Might try turning your attention to that hunt for a while. You’re following a cold trail here."
Lines as deep as cornrows appeared across Tyson's brow. For once, confusion showed on the Pinkerton's face. "I don't understand."
"Back when I was tracking this here land, I stumbled over a dead body. Hair scalped and throat slit. I started to turn back when I noticed that he was carrying Shawnee papers in Miami land. So I figured out he was spying where he shouldn't have been and I weren’t in no danger. I didn't need to know his name to know what I needed out from the situation."
US Grant Mysteries Boxed Set Page 11
