Must the Maiden Die (40 page)

Glynis had stopped midway across the bridge
to look at her niece. "I didn't know you had any feelings at all
about slavery."

"I didn't used to," Bronwen agreed. "Seeing
it firsthand changed my mind. I heard plenty of Southerners say
this war is about everything
but
slavery. Now who could
believe that? If there were no slaves, there would be no war!"

It was somewhat refreshing, thought Glynis,
that Bronwen had not lost her intolerance of ambiguity.

They reached the south side of the bridge
and turned onto the towpath along the canal, then passed under the
wooden sign of Serenity's Tavern. It swung from a shiny black beam
that jutted out over the path and creaked softly in the warm
breeze. Ahead of the tavern stood a gray stone warehouse.

"I wonder," Glynis said, "if anyone in the
tavern has noticed activity at that warehouse?"

"Do you want to stop in and ask?"

"Certainly not." Glynis saw Bronwen's grin
and sideways glance, but continued, "On a Sunday morning, that
would really raise some dust. Or on any other morning for that
matter."

"Cullen would do it."

"We are not Cullen. We are to all
appearances respectable women. Women who want to appear respectable
do not go into taverns. One has to draw the line on public conduct
somewhere, Bronwen, and that would be well over mine."

She knew her niece was regarding her with
amused skepticism, but chose to ignore it.

As they approached the warehouse, they could
see the door fronting the canal. Nailed to it was the sheriff's
notice of attachment.

Bronwen went forward to try the door handle.
"It's locked, which is no surprise. But if there's no one around
to—"

"No! We are not breaking in."

"How else do you propose to get inside?"

Glynis sighed. "I expected there would be a
guard here."

"On Sunday morning?"

"Why not? I doubt thieves take Sunday off to
attend church," Glynis answered. "It never occurred to me the
sheriff wouldn't have someone posted here. Now I really am
concerned."

"I'll walk around it, see if there are any broken
windows."

Glynis started to protest, but then decided
it would not necessarily be an unconscionable way to enter. Broken
windows should be repaired, after all, lest they tempt those
without scruples.

This sophistry aside, Glynis needed to know,
and quickly, if her speculation was correct. She had worried all
day yesterday, but could hardly leave her niece's wedding party to
traipse down here. And now, while Bronwen was exploring ways to
break the law, she should probably study the trees along the canal
and hope that, in the event anyone was watching, she would be taken
for a Thoreau enthusiast.

"Well, well!" came a throaty voice from the
direction of Serenity's.

Glynis whirled round to see the tavern's statuesque
proprietor coming down the steps of her establishment, gowned in a
striped rose-and-green taffeta that was unmistakably one of Emma's
creations. Spills of frothy white lace at neck, sleeves, and hem
gave the wearer a virginal appearance. Knowing this woman, the
irony could well be intentional.

"When you passed my window, I couldn't
believe my eyes," said Serenity, her smile laden with mischief.
"Out for an early morning stroll, Miss Glynis Tryon?"

"Would you believe me if I said yes, Miss
Serenity Hathaway?"

"No." Serenity's smile broadened.

"I thought not. Although it isn't
particularly early."

"It is for me!" Serenity grinned, and tossed
her thick, coal-colored hair. "Now you and I have known each other
too long, darlin', to dance around a subject. I smell a rat.
Question is, why are you sniffing around for it down here in my
neck of the woods?"

Bronwen came around the building, saying,
"No luck, Aunt Glyn, the windows are—"

"And who's this?" Serenity broke in.

"My niece, Bronwen Llyr. Bronwen, this is
Serenity Hathaway. She owns the tavern," Glynis added
gratuitously.

"Your niece?" Serenity's eyes flashed
between Glynis and Bronwen in sharp-eyed appraisal as if looking
for firm evidence of kinship. "Well," she finally conceded, "you
both have red hair. Is it God-given or hennaed?" she asked
Bronwen, who for once seemed to be struck dumb.

But then, nearly everyone was at their first
glimpse of this woman. Whatever the expectations, Serenity didn't
meet them. She might be one of the most beautiful women ever beheld
by human eyes. That she was also the owner of a tavern-cum-brothel
did nothing to diminish the impact.

Bronwen recovered enough to say, "Yes, I'm
her niece. Yes, the red is God-given. Good morning, Miss
Hathaway."

"Come to think of it, I've heard about you,"
Serenity said with a knowing smile. "You're cousin to Miss Emma,
right? The one who's always raising hell. Detective for some outfit
down in Washington. In town for the wedding."

Bronwen blinked several times before saying,
"That about sums it up."

"Ah, Serenity," Glynis ventured, trying to
keep the reason for being here central before they traveled too far
afield. "Since you asked, I need to know something about this
warehouse."

"Why, what are you on to now?" Serenity
said, a small frown line appearing in the smooth ivory forehead.
She looked at Bronwen again. "You're a detective, huh? The acorn
doesn't fall far from the tree, right?" She jerked her thumb at
Glynis.

Bronwen grinned. "Right. Detecting's passed
on along with red hair—but only to female acorns."

As Bronwen and Serenity chortled, Glynis felt a
growing frustration. She had to get into that warehouse. She would
have thought her niece wanted that also, but Bronwen was clearly
enjoying herself too much.

"Excuse me, Serenity," tried Glynis again.
"About this building here? Do you ever see people going in and out
of it?"

"Not often, now you mention it. Why?"

"Is it vacant or being used, do you
know?"

Serenity studied Glynis, seeming to
deliberate, and then answered, "The only activity I've seen there
has been after dark. Kind of like my line of business. So what's
your angle?"

"I'd like to get inside there," Glynis said.
"Until I do, there is no angle."

"Well, you should have said so! If you don't
mind a little dirt, I can get you in easy enough."

"You can?" said Bronwen, obviously
surprised.

Glynis was not surprised. Over the course of
the past few minutes, she had remembered the tunnels that ran under
the tavern like spokes from a wheel. They had originally been
used—and some still were—by those involved in the Underground
Railroad. Some years ago, she had been in one of the tunnels
herself. The warehouse must be connected to the tavern by a
subterranean passageway.

"How do we get in?" Bronwen asked Serenity,
as Glynis debated whether to go through with this.

The prudent thing would be to fetch
Cullen—if she could even locate him. But Bronwen was now walking
off with Serenity, and Glynis very much doubted that her niece
would wait, not with the opportunity that possibly lay ahead. And
the warehouse must be searched by someone, because Gerard Gagnon
remained in jail, and a shadow still hovered over Tamar. If what
Glynis guessed was true, this warehouse might help to free them
both. And expose a murderer.

A minor consideration was that after all
she'd had to say about respectable women, she would now be forced
to eat her words. Served her right. She cast a careful glance about
before following the other two, but she probably needn't worry
about anyone seeing her. All respectable women were, or should be,
in church.

***

The warehouse's grimy windows gave them
barely more light than the tunnel had provided. Glynis held up
Serenity's lantern as she and Bronwen stood there, baffled, in the
middle of the vast floor.

"I was convinced this must be the place,"
Glynis said, their present lack of success gnawing at her. There
was the added worry of being caught at this, although she hoped
Serenity would warn them if wagons appeared. She brushed cobwebs
from her hair and skirt, while Bronwen again began using the
crowbar to pry open more lids; so far they'd found only rows of
empty crates.

Why would
empty
crates be stored in a
warehouse? It made no sense. Unless they were there to thwart
suspicion and conceal the real purpose of the building. Meaning
there was something to hide. So where was it hidden? In another
warehouse entirely? She had quietly checked around, even asking
Sheriff Fowler, who should know, but had heard of no other building
in Roland Brant's name that was large enough.

"Aunt Glyn, we're not getting anywhere,"
Bronwen groaned, casting aside the top of another empty crate.

"I know."

"If we're going to find something, we'd
better do it fast. Before we get some so-called help. We didn't
tell Serenity what we're after, so she imagines there's something
really valuable in this place. Which there might be, but it won't
be the jewels or gold that she likely expects. And she said if we
didn't reappear in half an hour, she was going to send in
her...her...what is he?"

"Brendan O'Reilly? I'd rather not say what
he is."

"Well, I don't want
him
to get credit
for this!"

"Credit for what? We've been in here at
least fifteen minutes and haven't seen anything that looks
remotely like rifles or bayonets. I must have been wrong—"

Glynis broke off as she noticed something
odd. A pale sliver of light coming from under the windowless, far
wall. From
under
the wall? She walked to it and bent over,
holding the lantern close to the floor. When she straightened,
still mystified, she then balled her hand into a fist and rapped
the wall hard. It sounded hollow. So it was wood! Painted gray, she
now saw, to look from a distance like the other stone walls.

"Bronwen! Come here with the crowbar!"

"Did you find something?"

Glynis nodded. "I think so. There must be
some means of access, though we've already checked all four corners
of this place—oh, wait! I recall something members of the
Underground Railroad devised: a wide slat of wood that's painted to
blend with a wall, but can be lifted out to conceal runaways."

They held up the two lanterns as they
examined the wall, sliding their hands sliding slowly over its
surface.

"Here it is!" Bronwen said, setting down her
lantern. She inserted the crowbar into what Glynis now saw was one
of two long, vertical hairline cracks, some fifteen to twenty feet
apart.

"Watch out!" yelped Bronwen, as the large
section of false wall fell toward them.

The sheet of wood was thin; they both jumped
aside before it hit the floor with a noisy clatter, but couldn't
avoid the billowing cloud of dust. By the time Glynis had wiped her
eyes enough to see, Bronwen was already scrambling into the
previously concealed room

"These blasted skirts!" she complained.

Glynis heard a loud thud and a metallic
rattle as something struck the floor. Hauling up her skirts, she
stepped into the room with her lantern, although several windows
had been exposed. It was a larger area than she would have
guessed.

Bronwen was on her knees feverishly prying
open a crate, one of many that were stacked one on top of another.
There must be several hundred, Glynis thought, moving closer to
read what was stenciled in large black letters on the crates. Her
hopes plunged.

"Never mind, Bronwen, they're nothing but
tools. The crates are labeled shovels and pickaxes and—"

She was stopped by Bronwen's yell. Having
pried off the top of the crate, she had tossed it aside, and was
beaming down at its contents.

***

Try as she would, Glynis could not shake off the
bereft feeling she'd had at the train station after watching her
family ride off down the rails. She hated good-byes. And the bleak
question continued to haunt her: would all of them ever be together
again?

Bronwen had wired Rhys Bevan, and a short
time ago the crates containing guns and bayonets were loaded onto a
special freight car. Then Cullen and Bronwen, along with Zeph and
men from the county sheriff's office, boarded an eastbound train,
which would take them to the state capital. Treasury agents would
meet them there in Albany.

Cullen had been so occupied with the
contraband that Glynis had been unable to tell him of her
conclusions. And now he might be gone for several days. In the
meantime, Liam Cleary was holding down the fort, with the newly
hired Danny Ross backing him up. But Glynis strongly doubted either
of those youngsters could deal with the Brant household. Thus at
this point she much regretted having sent yesterday's letter. She
had believed Cullen would be there to deal with its
consequences.

It was now late afternoon. Without being
fully aware of it, she found herself walking from the rail station
toward the refuge. Neva had earlier told her that Tamar's physical
wounds were healing rapidly, but the girl seemed despondent. This
hardly seemed surprising, given what she had endured. And with the
only person she trusted confined to a jail cell. Glynis felt a
spurt of anger toward Cullen and his stubborn attitude. He still
thought Gerard might have killed Brant. Which to Glynis seemed
preposterous, although she was disgusted with herself for having
lacked the wherewithal to drag Cullen away from loading those
rifles. Roland Brant's rifles. There seemed no end to the man's
treachery.

She heard someone call her. When she turned
around, Danny Ross was running down the middle of the road.

"Miss Tryon," he panted, "this came for
you." He held out a cream-colored envelope with her name written
across it.