The Pinkerton Files Five-Book Bundle (25 page)

I stepped out of the bank, not sure what I hoped to achieve other than
to see how the men would respond. The white ones froze. They stared and kept a
distance while the slave continued to struggle forward.

My eyes were fixed on these men holding back when the slave pitched
toward me, lunging for my shoulder. He opened his mouth, wanting to say
something, but out of pure reflex I hit him with the clapper before he could
utter a sound.

The slave launched like a cannon shot. He flew back and crashed halfway
up a brick wall on the building across the street. No man should ever grab me
by surprise. When I looked back, the white men were gone. The slave shook on
the ground, dying from either his affliction or my assault, or both.

What was the point? Why did I do any of that?

I had no good answer. Shaken and exhausted, I simply left the scene and
made my way to the Drysdale home.

On the advice of my clients, I have agreed to wear the murder victim's
clothes, acting as a kind of ghost inside the home of our only suspect. The more
I turn this idea over in my mind, the more it seems both insane and perfectly
logical.

The ruse itself was easy to arrange. My clients provided me with the
dead boy's clothes. I implicated myself in Nate Drysdale's life by befriending
his suffering wife, Collette. She is miserable. They are broke. Collette is
trying to save the family by selling one of their properties. That bit of
information, offered by Gordon and Bannan, was my foothold.

I first approached Collette as she wandered Wilmington, gazing into
barren storefront windows as though pretending they were stocked with finery.
She welcomed my company and did not seem especially surprised to see a new face
in the abandoned town. I told her that my husband and I meant to invest in the
region and had not known about the outbreak of fever.

As implausible as that sounded, the lonely woman was desperate to
believe me. Collette asked if we would relocate to Wilmington. I was coy,
saying that my husband would soon join me and that we intended to buy land. I
expressed enthusiasm about the property she aimed to sell. Collette was
thrilled. When I said she could reach me at an apartment near the harbor, she
was mortified.

“You are the only civilized woman left in this city. You will stay with
us until your husband arrives.”

With that, Nate Drysdale's home was thrown open to me. I saw the
suspect for the first time when he emerged from his study as Collette showed me
the house and surrounding land. He alternated between staring at me and
scowling at her. He closed the door. That was all.

The next morning, Collette left Wilmington to deal with urgent
financial problems out of town. That would leave me, Drysdale and his slaves
alone at the house. I returned to the apartment to gather what I needed. I set
the audio device to record the intruder then got to work. The gambit was
exotic. If I had not been so desperate, and so tired, I might have refused.

The Drysdales lived in a fine home outside the city. The estate was
located on an elevated bluff that faced the ocean. The house was vast. Its main
level offered a deep fireplace in the den, a vast collection of books in the
library and the sparkle of a gold plated chandelier in the dining hall. The
Drysdales came upon their financial problems only recently, it seems.

The most unique feature of the estate stood at the far end. The home
connected to a defunct lighthouse, no longer required by modern ships. It
served as a guest house with a dramatic lookout from a sitting room at its
peak.

Collette insisted I lodge there until my husband arrived to view their
property. She apologized for having so few servants to help me. Some died from
fever. Others fled. A small crew of slaves remained to run the kitchen and
maintain the stables.

The murder victim was active in the abolitionist movement, which is a
dangerous occupation here in the south. His father assured me that those
political leanings did not come from George Gordon but rather from his good
friend, Nate Drysdale. There I was, at the Drysdale home, watching slaves prepare
food and tend to the land. It struck me as perverse, obviously, that Nate
Drysdale lobbied for abolition while also holding slaves. That was the logic of
the Confederate south.

Collette left to conduct her business. She expected to be gone for
three days, which gave me plenty of time.

I was an unwelcome guest in Nate Drysdale's home but I was still a
guest. Southern gentlemen insisted on good form. Nate sent a slave girl to the
lighthouse to tend to my room and needs. The girl was so small her bare feet made
almost no sound as she walked. Some impulse made me want to carry her around
like a doll.

I sat in the upper chamber of the lighthouse, trying to rest. It had
been so long since I slept. The slave girl slipped next to me and said that I
was expected at dinner. I asked her name and thanked her. It was a small
courtesy. My hope was that word would spread among other slaves. I needed to be
in their good graces.

The slave girl left. Alone in the lighthouse, I tried to muster an
untapped reserve of strength. The few scraps of sleep I had gotten over
previous days did me no good. If anything, wicked images in my dreams left me
feeling wearier when I woke. I was desperate for rest but sleep made everything
worse. My body felt heavy in the armchair. I held my head and tried to
concentrate on anything other than the exhaustion.

My thoughts turned to the murder. I was always able to focus when it
came to the death of George Gordon. Nightmares, exhaustion, murder; that is my
life here in Wilmington. How many times can I picture a hammer crushing the
back of a boy's head?

Nate Drysdale was in the main house, expecting me to join him for
dinner. If I pushed him hard enough, maybe this case would be over fast. That
idea got me out of the chair. I had to end it. I was so desperate.

George Gordon's clothes, still stained with blood from the killing,
were arranged on my bed. I could not just put on the entire outfit and hope
Drysdale fell apart before my eyes. The pressure needed to be applied
gradually. The weight of this unspoken accusation had to build.

To begin, I wore George Gordon's white collared shirt under my own
knitted shawl. At a glance, one might even miss it. The man's shirt was just
enough to draw the eye. I hoped it would be enough.

I walked to the house. The familiar smell of incense hung in the air.
Nate Drysdale was already seated when I entered the dining hall. He stood to
acknowledge my entrance. A tin of snuff was open next to his place setting.

Drysdale did not have yellow fever. He was one of the lucky ones. All
the same, the skin on his face looked loose. It drooped in a way that suggested
he lost a great deal of weight in a short period. Drysdale pinched snuff from
the tin. Each snort gave him a fleeting boost. His eyes flared. He took deep
breaths, trying to maintain his attention. Within seconds, the effect wore off
and he pinched again.

Bannan and Gordon told me Nate Drysdale was feeble of mind. I did not
have that impression. His head rolled. He seemed off balance, like he was
trying to stay awake. He looked like me in reverse.

Maybe I was casting my own misery onto him. I could not fall asleep. He
could not stay awake. We were not so different.

 “They say you were up all night,” Drysdale began.

“Who said so?”

“The slaves. They talk.”

Drysdale scratched the bottom of the tin. His supply of snuff ran out.

He fumbled with the tin. It fell between his fingers. His head lilted.
Slaves hurried from the kitchen. The sight of Drysdale asleep sent them
running. One of them yelled.

“Master. Wake up. Wake up.”

Drysdale's body twitched then seized. His chin lifted. Both eyes were
wide open. One pupil was completely dilated while the other contracted to the
size of a pin point. Drysdale pressed on the table and rose. The movements were
balanced and assured. He looked at me.

The slave girl came at a sprint. She brought her face close to his. In
a calm voice, she said, “Master. Master. Wake up.”

Drysdale blinked and slumped back in the chair. His arm twitched and
knocked a glass of wine over. He watched the puddle spread across the table.
When it reached my plate, he seemed surprised to see me.

“Is that a man's shirt?”

He squinted at the collar poking over my shawl.

“What do you mean wearing that here?”

The slave girl was at my side. With a hand under my elbow, she urged me
to rise.

“Master has not been well.”

“What are you saying? Where is she going?”

He was angry but drained. He slammed a weary fist on the table. Dinner
was over before it began. My immediate impression is that Nate Drysdale seemed
a prisoner, perhaps of his guilt for killing a friend. That is certainly the
way Mr. Pinkerton would see the situation. Perhaps not, though. He struck me as
a man lost in his own life, where everything he knew had, at once, become
completely strange to him.

The tiny slave girl walked with me to the guest house. I asked her to
wait outside while I changed clothes. When I emerged, I handed her George
Gordon's shirt as well as his trousers. I told her I had no use for an outfit
that made Mr. Drysdale so angry. She assured me they would be put to use among
the slaves. That was perfect.

From the lighthouse sitting room, I watched the main building all
night. Nate Drysdale was up until dawn, stalking through the home. He was not
awake, though. He was sleepwalking. Drysdale paced the estate with an even
stride, unhurried. He did not appear tired. He was more animated than during
his waking hours and appeared almost frantic in his dealings with servants.

The slaves tried to stay out of his way in that condition. After
sundown, they retreated to a shack near the edge of the bluff. This did not
deter the sleepwalker. He pounded on their door and waved his arms, ranting,
once they answered.

I was too far to hear his demands. The slaves tried to calm him but it was
no use. The men emerged to do what Drysdale asked. One was wearing George
Gordon's clothes. Drysdale saw the outfit.

A carriage was pulled from the stable and horses readied for a ride.
Drysdale stood stunned beside the slave wearing George Gordon's shirt and
trousers. The longer this went on, the more servants turned from their tasks to
gather around.

A broad smile lit Drysdale's face. It came out of nowhere. He
approached with his hand outstretched. The slave shook his master's hand,
completely confused. They exchanged words. As soon as Drysdale stopped talking,
the slave tried to walk away. Without a moment's hesitation, Drysdale attacked.
The others froze, not knowing what to do. Slaves did not have the right to
fight back, no matter Drysdale's political views.

Three brave fools stepped from the group. Their lives were at risk the
moment they entered the scuffle. The biggest among them pressed Drysdale
against the ground. Two others pulled the battered slave out of his grip. All
this, just from the sight of George Gordon's clothes. It was astonishing.

Drysdale rose. His slaves braced for retribution. Instead, he turned
and walked away without another word. He climbed on the carriage and rode off.

The following morning, I found the clothes in a rubbish bin. They were
sturdy garments but none of the slaves would risk wearing them again.

In the light of day, Drysdale again became the weary and dishevelled
figure I had seen at dinner. The slaves seemed to expect this. They cleaned and
outfitted the carriage, knowing to anticipate the same request from their
sleepwalking master after nightfall.

I stayed in the guest house most of the day and waited. The slave girl
brought my meals to the sitting room. The food was not to my liking. There was
an odd taste under the spices that clung to my palate no matter how much water
I drank. On top of everything else, now I was nauseous. It took almost an hour
for me to feel well enough to get dressed. The sun was on its way down. There
was not much time.

George Gordon's clothes felt comfortable. It was the first time I put
on the entire outfit, including the items I recovered from the trash bin. They
felt as right as my own.

I gathered my things, easily sliding equipment I might need under the
loose clothes. Dressed and ready, I rounded back to the stables. Drsydale's
carriage was waiting. The slaves saw me slip inside and hide. They also saw
that I was wearing the outfit that caused so much fuss the night before. They
let me be; better not to get involved in the strange dealings of their white
masters.

I waited in the pitch black. The exhaustion struck like a hammer on a
nail. Drifting, I saw faces from the gala aboard Lincoln's train. I felt the
whirl of a powerful narcotic overwhelm me. I felt hands on my body. I fought back,
forcing myself awake. That was as close as I came to sleeping.

The carriage bucked as Drysdale boarded. He drove the horses hard but
not out of control. Drysdale took the road back to town. Wherever he chose to
stop, I would emerge. Nate Drysdale would face his victim.

In a trance, he took us back to the bank. He drove right up to the
crime scene. I knew, at that moment, I had the right man. Drysdale dismounted.
I crept from under a bench and advanced, unseen, past him to the front of the
bank. Drysdale walked to the side and stood in the same doorway that the
victim's father entered on our first visit.

I stepped around broken furniture and the strange black pole. I slid
the clapper from my pant leg. I was no more than ten feet from Drysdale, still
waiting at the doorway. This was the time. I drew a deep breath and stepped out
to confront him.

Then the world slowed. Like water sheeting over a window, my
perceptions glossed over. I felt a sudden ease and familiarity. It was as
though I spent half my life in the bank. Instead of a burnt shell, I saw
pictures hanging on walls. Lights shone, reflecting against lacquered tables.
There was a warm glow that made me feel at home.