A Matter of Principle (47 page)

St. Louis

The Character of a Murderer

Herbert Q. Percival

What is a murderer made of?

Motive, certainly.

It might be that a life was threatened. Or a business. Or a reputation. Perhaps a goal thwarted, and the obstacle killed. Perhaps, caught in the act of a crime, a witness is silenced. It might be that a man wants what another has, and kills to get it. Or it is as simple as an unforgivable insult. Or the wrong color of skin. Or loving the wrong sort of person.

And once the motive is there, the method must be chosen. Violence is usually involved. Guns, knives, ropes, fire. Blood everywhere.

Then, the escape.

Swiftly, the murderer must go in an unexpected direction. They must dispose of the weapon and hide their identity. They must never reveal their motive to anyone.

That is the character of a murderer.

Only a fool would kill someone while others watch. Or kill someone with whom that fool has a public disagreement. Or simply go home afterward and continue a normal life.

Have you met Siobhan Hansen ~ the woman called ‘Sydney’ by friends and family?

She is most assuredly not a fool.

And, as much as I dislike uncharacteristically championing anyone’s particular cause, even I find it hard to believe that she could ever take a life.

So, dear Reader, consider carefully what you hear.

Sydney Hansen has suffered substantial losses of her own. I cannot believe she would wish the same on anyone else.

Nicolas read the article three times to be sure it said what he believed it said. He leaned back in his chair, hand resting loosely around his coffee mug. Steam swirled above it lifting the rich dark aroma to mingle with the essences of brandy and cigar smoke; entrenched residents of the apartment now that only men resided there.

“
I’ll be damned,” he whispered. “Rodger came through…”

He was not sure how he felt about that.

Rodger lived a life that repulsed Nicolas. How any man could think of—no,
desire
to forgo a woman’s special gift, and ram his yard up another man’s arse instead was beyond his comprehension.

Nicolas loved the soft touch, the sweet smell and the giving warmth of women in general, and Sydney in particular. Kissing someone whose morning stubble would rasp against his own was unthinkable.

He shuddered.

“
It’s only to save his hide,” Nicolas muttered.

Was it? Or had the man had a change of heart?

Nicolas stood and drank his coffee. “I don’t much care!” he declared to no one.

Vincent pushed the apartment door open and he entered with Leif, both of their arms laden with trays of breakfast from the tavern across the street. Hickory smoke on bacon was the first aroma to reach him, and Nicolas’s stomach rumbled. Vincent’s eyes caught the open newspaper.

“
Is there any good news today?” he asked while Nicolas moved it out of the way.

“
Perhaps.”

Leif helped Vincent spread out the plates of food. “Would you care to elaborate?” the secretary prodded.

“
Our favorite character, Herbert Q. Percival.”

Vincent’s shoulders slumped. “Oh, no. What now?”

Nicolas frowned and pressed his lips to a line. He handed Vincent the paper.

“
What does it say?” Leif tried to look over Vincent’s shoulder. “Read it out loud.”

As Vincent did so, his voice transformed from grimly expectant to pleasantly confused. When he finished, he pinned Nicolas with an intent stare.

“
What did you do to him?” he demanded.

“
Nothing!” Nicolas exhaled.

Leif considered him suspiciously. “Did you discover who he is, Sir?”

Nicolas shrugged and nodded.

Vincent startled. “How?”

“
I would rather not say.”

Vincent lifted his chin and looked down the length of his nose at his employer.

“
And you swear that you did not beat him? Or blackmail him? Or bribe him?” he pressed.

Was his information about the apartment across the hall a bribe? Perhaps. Or perhaps it was merely a decoy.

“
I did nothing of the sort,” Nicolas insisted.

Leif stroked his chin, as if his adolescent beard was thick enough or long enough to require such attention. “I believe I know.”

Both men faced him, surprised and curious.

Leif tilted his head ever so slightly toward Vincent. “
Var det sodomite som angrep ham?
” Was it the sodomite who attacked him?

“
Du er en klar ung mann med en meget klar fremtid
,” Nicolas clapped Leif on the shoulder. You are a bright young man with a very bright future.

“
I beg your pardon?” Vincent interjected.

“
I said I am famished. Let’s eat before it gets cold!” Nicolas grinned at his secretary.

May 14, 1822

St. Louis

Nicolas sat at the small desk in his apartment. An oil lamp lit the room; the clock chimed once. Discarded papers littered the floor along with a few broken quills. He thought he knew what he wanted to say, but the words were not coming out right. This was to be his biggest speech. The one that convinced St. Louis County that he was their man.

Was he their man?

Destiny
. Sydney’s word rattled around his skull. It was his destiny to lead men and it always had been, she said. He was born to it. He had no choice.

“
If that’s so, why is this so hard?” he muttered.

“
What?”

Vincent’s voice startled him and he twisted in the chair. “I was merely speaking my thoughts aloud. Did I wake you?”

“
No, I only wanted a bit of something to drink.” Vincent padded into the kitchen area, stepping around the scattered debris of inadequate words. He lifted one brow. “How is your speech coming?”

“
As well as you might guess,” Nicolas answered waving one hand at the floor.

Vincent poured two glasses of wine and handed one to Nicolas. “What in particular has you so stymied?”

“
I don’t know that I am able to answer that.” Nicolas heaved a frustrated sigh and drank deeply. The bouquet of the red wine filled his sinuses with a peppery essence.

“
Might I help?”

Nicolas considered the young man thoughtfully. “Why should they vote for me?”

Vincent smiled. “Is that all?”

Nicolas snorted. “That seems to be the issue.”

“
Let’s see.” Vincent began to tick points off on his fingers. “You know the area, you grew up here. You are well-educated and well-traveled. You have some experience in government. You own land and have a stake in what laws are made to protect rights.” He looked expectantly at Nicolas.

“
It’s missing something.” Nicolas drained his wineglass and pointed at the floor. “I have written all of that, but it’s not right, somehow.”

“
At least you are honest,” Vincent shrugged.

“
What?” Nicolas stared at his secretary. “Say that again.”

“
At least you are honest?” The young man yawned and rubbed his eyes.

Nicolas nodded slowly and chewed his lower lip. “That’s it.”

“
What’s it?”

“
Honest. I haven’t been honest.”

Fists hovered in front of Vincent’s eyes. “How have you not been honest?” he asked, suddenly alarmed.

Nicolas waved dismissively. “No, nothing like what you’re thinking! I have not been honest about me, my thoughts, my struggles. I tell the people what I want to do, but I have not told them who I am.”

“
Oh.” He clearly did not understand.

“
Go back to bed, Vincent.” Nicolas turned back to the desk. “I have a speech to write.”

“
Do you need anything first?”

Nicolas shook his head.

He was already writing.

May 16, 1822

St. Louis

Nicolas ran his hand through his hair. It was shorter than he was used to; Sydney encouraged him to crop it. It made him look more urban and less like a farmer, she said. Considering the speech he was about to give, he was not sure if that was the right choice.

No point in concerning himself over that now.

The sun’s heat radiated through the canvas awning overhead, washing him and Winston Beckermann in soft yellow light. A breeze wafted through now and again, flicking Nicolas’s hair back into his eyes.

The crowd that gathered fanned themselves and shaded their eyes. Several women carried parasols. Nicolas was glad his speech was short, for their sakes.

Winston sidled close. “Do you wish to begin, Hansen? Or shall I?”

Nicolas considered for a minute. He didn’t see how it mattered with what he planned. “Which would you prefer?” he finally asked.

“
Why don’t you take the podium first?” Winston offered magnanimously.

So you can counter what you expect me to say?
Nicolas smiled. At least the people would be fresh on their feet. “Thank you, Beckermann. I shall do so.”

“
Excellent!” Winston retrieved a pocket watch, tethered to his belly with gold links, and flipped it open. “The appointed hour approaches!”

Nicolas nodded and scanned the crowd. There were, at the least, five hundred men and women in the square. If they were as warm as he, in his waistcoat and frockcoat, Beckermann would have a hard time holding their attention for long.

Vincent bounded up the steps at the side of the raised platform. “Are you ready?”

“
We are,” Nicolas answered.

“
Who is speaking first?” Vincent turned to Winston Beckermann.

“
I am,” Nicolas stated. “I offered to.”

Vincent looked at him, brows raised in surprise. “Did you?” They had not discussed it for today, but both were aware of the advantage to speaking last.

Nicolas clamped his hand on Vincent’s shoulder. “Trust me. It’s for the best.”

His eyes widened. “What are you planning to do?”

“
Speak the truth.”

“
Oh, God. Nicolas? What truth?”

Nicolas grinned and shook his head. He leaned down and fixed Vincent with an intent gaze. “Trust me.”

Vincent paled. He swallowed audibly. “Yes. Sir.”

Nicolas waggled the young man’s shoulder, and then let go. He turned to Winston. “Shall I?”

Winston consulted his watch again. “My wife has not yet arrived. Is yours com—oh!” He looked at Nicolas with exaggerated sympathy. “Forgive me, Hansen. Your peculiar position slipped my mind.”

Of course it did, you sly old fox
. Nicolas dipped his chin and forced his expression to remain bland in spite of his clenched gut.

“
Apology accepted.”

“
Splendid.” Winston stepped back. “Best of luck to you!”

Nicolas moved to the podium and pulled his speech from his pocket. He unfolded it and smoothed it out on a wooden plank that was the height of his waist. The din of the crowd faded as people noticed him. Those with their backs to him turned around. He drew a deep breath through his nose, held it, and blew it out his lips. He watched them watching him.

Nicolas unbuttoned his blue velvet frock coat. He slipped it off his shoulders and folded it. He was about to lay it on the platform when Vincent stepped up and took it. Nicolas chuckled. The poor man seemed about to suffer an extremely young version of apoplexy.

Nicolas faced the crowd again. He smiled and began to unbutton his waistcoat.

Curiosity killed the catcalls. The crowd fell silent, wondering what Nicolas was doing. He shrugged out of the brocade garment and handed it to Vincent as well. Then he loosened his stock.

Nicolas folded his arms across his chest and gazed at the crowd. He stroked his chin, as though deep in thought. Then he ran his hands through his shortened hair and rested them on the podium. He gripped the beveled edges. His deep voice washed over the crowd, reaching even those farthest in the rear.

“
Dear people of St. Louis, I stand before you today to give the sort of speech that politicians never give. An honest one.

“
Through the past months I have given you my qualifications for holding office. I have told you of my education, my experiences and my entire life spent in this very county. Now, I will tell you about the man that I am. It is my character that has suffered the severest onslaught throughout this campaign and I have spent many hours defending and explaining my actions. Ladies and gentlemen, I am done with that.”