The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution (17 page)

Misery swam through her soul.
 
"You
are
hard-headed."

He stood and helped her up,
enclosing her hand a moment longer in the callused warmth of his hand while
gazing into her eyes.
 
His gaze placed
her troubled heart in the realm of acceptance and non-judgment, the way she
felt around Sarah, Lucas, and Sophie.
 
"I prefer to think of myself as devoted, rather than
hard-headed."

Scarlet in Betsy's peripheral
vision fragmented the peace, and she and Tom dropped each other's hands in
surprise.
 
Rising sunlight on Lieutenant
Fairfax's face failed to thaw his gaze and emphasized the blood red of his
coat.
 
"Ah, if it isn't
both
happy neutrals."

Chapter Thirteen

WITH THE CONFIDENCE of a cat
cornering his next meal, Fairfax strolled forward.
 
"I'm not surprised to find you two together.
 
At least it spares me an extra trip before I
leave Augusta."

Rose flew from the house flapping
her apron.
 
"Shoo!
 
I told you out front to question him after
he eats his breakfast.
 
How dare you set
foot in my back yard without my permission?
 
Now shoo, you vile critter, and take those men out front with you!"

Tom eyed Fairfax.
 
"What do you want?"

"I've more questions for both
of you."

"How long will this
take?"

"Five minutes."

Exasperation flooded Tom's
face.
 
"Five minutes,
Mama."
 
With a loud sigh that
echoed her son's irritation, Rose marched back inside, slamming the back door
after her.
 
Tom strode toward
Fairfax.
 
"Make haste.
 
I'm not courteous on an empty belly."

Betsy followed him, reading
infinite patience in Fairfax's expression.
 
Her stomach flip-flopped.
 
What
further questions could he possibly have?

"Mr. Alexander, do you think
the foreign language spoken by those men yesterday morning might have been
Spanish?"

"I already told you I don't
speak foreign languages."

"Colonel Brown has reports of
Spanish agents involved in a rebel spy ring in Georgia and the Carolinas.
 
The agents are known by multiple aliases,
but their true names are Basilio San Gabriel and Francisco de
Palmas."
 
His gaze darted back and
forth between Tom and Betsy, scouring her face for the smallest flinch that
betrayed her recognition of the names.

"I don't recognize those
names.
 
As I told you, I didn't see or
hear much before they hit me."

"Did Mr. Sheridan have
business with Spaniards?"

Tom shook his head.
 
"Not that I ever noticed."

"Madam, you kept the
books.
 
Any Spanish customers?"

She hoped Fairfax didn't plan to
instigate a witch-hunt among the Spanish families in the area.
 
"José Garcia ordered shoes from Clark
in March.
 
He's our only Spanish customer."

"Who supplied Mr. Sheridan's
leather?"

"Mostly Dutton and Sons out of
Charles Town or George Gaskins in Savannah.
 
There were some traders who made the rounds several times a year, like
Sooty Johns."

"Any Spanish suppliers?"

Betsy shook her head.
 
"Not that I'm aware of."

Fairfax opened a portfolio and
withdrew an incinerated piece of leather about twelve inches square.
 
Just before he handed it to Tom, Betsy
spotted the rich, red Cordovan finish on a corner spared the flame.
 
It required all her discipline to keep
acknowledgement from her expression, and she sensed Tom doing the same.
 
Fairfax was baiting another trap.
 
"Identify the type of leather for me,
please, sir."

"It's too badly burned.
 
Cowhide, I'd guess."

Fairfax pointed out the reddish
corner.
 
"Does that help?"

"No, I've never seen anything
like it."

"Curious, Mr. Alexander.
 
You're reportedly Mr. Sheridan's most
skilled apprentice, and yet you cannot identify Spanish Cordovan leather while
his next most experienced apprentice did so last night.
 
He also said a new shipment of it waited in
Mr. Sheridan's shop the morning everyone was outside cleaning 'Tory Scum' off
the house.
 
I found this piece of
leather in the ruins of the Sheridan house.
 
What a coincidence."
 
He
replaced the burned leather in his portfolio and closed it up.

"I never entered the shop
Tuesday.
 
I was outside all day cleaning
the house."

"That's true.
 
He stayed outside all that day."
 
Too late, Betsy reminded herself not to
volunteer information.

Fairfax homed in on her.
 
"But
you
saw the Cordovan
leather.
 
When did the delivery
arrive?"

She wouldn't be able to repair the
slip.
 
"The night before our house
was defaced."

"Who delivered it?"

"I don't know.
 
I was asleep."

"You were asleep when a
delivery of expensive, exclusive Cordovan leather arrived?
 
Is it standard procedure for your husband to
receive deliveries in the middle of the night?"

Her right shoulder projected what
she hoped looked like disinterest with a lopsided shrug.
 
"I don't know about standard procedure,
but it isn't unknown.
 
Those traders can
keep late hours.
 
Sometimes they'll
close down the taverns before paying Clark a visit."

"When was the last time you
saw Sooty Johns?"

She regarded a cumulus cloud.
 
"A few weeks ago."

"How about Monday night,
delivering the Cordovan leather?"

How in hell did Fairfax find that
out?
 
"No."
 
Betsy heard the extra firmness in her voice
and regretted it.

A smile slithered across Fairfax's
mouth before vanishing into the granite of his expression.
 
"When was the last time you saw the
Spaniard who killed the Givenses?"
 
Mind-reading creature of the netherworld, he advanced into her
hesitation with victorious eyes.
 
"Last night, here in Augusta?"

"Actually I-I saw him in the
brush yesterday.
 
That's why I blundered
out into the bandit.
 
The Spaniard
recognized me and was trying to kill me as a witness."

Mock sorrow pinched Fairfax's
face.
 
"A pity you didn't inform me
so I could hunt him down and rid us of the menace.
 
Alas, poor Mr. Johns has paid for your hesitation with his
life."

Betsy scowled.
 
"What are you talking about?"

With his forefinger, Fairfax drew a
line across his neck.
 
"Just like
the Givenses.
 
His throat slit from ear
to ear some time last night.
 
We found
his body stuffed in a rubbish barrel behind the Bronze Boar tavern this
morning."
 
He jutted his chin
north.
 
"Just a few streets in that
direction, you know."

Betsy felt her face drain of
color.
 
Poor Mr. Johns indeed.
 
"He wasn't worth a Spaniard's
knife.
 
A local wretch followed him when
he left the tavern drunk, then robbed and murdered him."

"He hadn't been
robbed."
 
Fairfax's gaze hopped
between Tom and Betsy.
 
"And
assassins from
Casa de la Sangre Legítima
slit their victims' throats
from ear to ear."

Casa de la
— what?
 
Tom stirred.
 
"You've
lost me.
 
What language are you
speaking, Lieutenant?"

"It's Spanish."
 
Betsy swallowed, liking the sound of it less
with each passing second.
 
"It
means House of the Righteous — no, Rightful — Blood."

"Ah, so you speak Spanish,
Mrs. Sheridan?"

"A little.
 
But I don't know anyone who goes about
calling himself by such a preposterous title, and I don't know why an assassin
would kill tanners in Alton or waste his time on a slimy peddler."

Fairfax fondled the silk on the
nearest corn stalk and cocked his head to study both of them, his eyes green
mockery.
 
"Does Mr. Sheridan know
you two are cuckolding him?"

In the stunned silence that
followed, a crow cawed.
 
A flush climbed
Betsy's neck.
 
Tom whispered, "I
beg your pardon?"

"His business is robust.
 
He needs you, the most talented apprentice
in Augusta, so he cannot afford to let you go, no matter the indiscretions you
commit beneath his nose."
 
His
fingers continued stroking the corn silk.
 
"I imagine the tension is incredible for all three of you.
 
How much easier if he was out of the
picture.
 
So you paint a slur on his
house and burn the house the following night after some Spaniards conveniently
cart off all the furniture."

"How dare you accuse me of
such atrocious deeds?"
 
Tom
snarled.
 
"You're a scoundrel.
 
You haven't the decency to take your miserable
carcass from this town where your company is sought by no one!"

"Tom, no!"
 
Betsy gripped his upper arm, halting his
advance toward Fairfax.

Fairfax continued to caress the
silk.
 
"Ah, so even though I saw
you and Mrs. Sheridan holding hands behind the corn a few minutes ago, you
aren't —"

"No, we aren't!"

He released the silk and snapped
his fingers.
 
"The deuce.
 
How conveniently that would explain several
motivations.
 
And how you, madam,
maintain neutrality amidst your family's rebel infamy astounds me.
 
The pressure to yield to them and convert to
the rebel cause must be tremendous.
 
I
wager it was overwhelming this past Tuesday morning."

Her brow lowered in confusion.
 
"Tuesday morning?
 
I don't understand."

"You know, when your Uncle
David popped in on you for a quick visit before he left town."

She felt lightheaded and worked her
mouth in shock and futility.
 
Fairfax
most certainly saw the truth blaze across her expression in those seconds, but
she had to save face anyway.
 
"My —
my uncle is free of the Indians?
 
Is my
mother free also?"

"Come now, I knew you were
lying in Alton when you told me you hadn't communicated with them.
 
Thanks to my — er — persuasive abilities
with a certain widow here in town, I've discovered he paid her a visit Monday night."

The reason behind Abby Fuller's
haunted, red-rimmed eyes became clear to Betsy then, and her stomach knotted
when she imagined how Fairfax might have "persuaded" information out
of the widow.
 
She lifted her chin.
 
"Did this widow say my uncle had planned
to visit me on his way out?"

"I find it hard to believe
he'd leave town the next morning without saying hello to blood kin, without
telling you where he, your grandfather, your mother, and that half-breed Creek
Indian who was helping them were headed."

"I never saw him."

Fairfax sighed.
 
"Let's be reasonable.
 
You come from a family of traitors.
 
I believe you know where most of them are
hiding.
 
If you refuse to cooperate, you
aren't a neutral.
 
You're as much a
traitor as they are.
 
Tell me everything
you and your uncle discussed Tuesday morning, and I shan't arrest you."

Tom rolled his eyes.
 
"You cannot arrest her.
 
Did someone see her with her uncle?
 
You've naught but circumstantial
evidence."

"A mountain of circumstantial
evidence creates warrant for arrest."
 
His tone lashed Betsy.
 
"Out
with it, or I shall see you lodged in Augusta jail this morning!"

"I never saw my
uncle."
 
Her chin trembled, and she
pressed both lips together.