The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution (59 page)

No way in hell was he was sticking
his arm down there. He rocked back on his heels, stood, and gave the candle
back to the soldier. "Ferguson, fetch the broom from the kitchen."

"Sir." He sprinted out
and returned with the broom in less than a minute.

Michael inverted the broom, handle
first, straight into the hole. As soon as the end of the broom made contact
below, he heard a loud clap. The broom vibrated, gained weight. His arm jerked,
and he tightened his grip. Men in the room recoiled.

He brought the broom up. Metal
clinked, a chain rattled. Affixed to the handle, approximately where a man's
wrist would have been, was a metal leg trap used by hunters to snag wolves and
bobcats. Its teeth, smeared with dried dung, had almost bisected the broom
handle.

A murmur of shock frosted the air.
"Damnation," someone whispered.

Revulsion transfixed Michael. His
stomach burned when he thought of anyone catching his wrist in the trap. Almost
certainly, the victim's hand would need amputation, and the filth on the
metallic jaws would encourage the spread of general infection, resulting in
slow, agonizing death.

The locksmith coughed. "Mr.
Stoddard, sir, I've a question of you."

Michael blinked, broom and trap
still in his grasp, and pivoted to the locksmith. The wiry man held a metal
chunk that he must have pried off the floor while inspecting the rear door.
Hair jumped along Michael's neck when he recognized the metal as a bayonet, its
tip broken off.

A muscle leaped beneath the
locksmith's eye. "Who designed that trap at the back door?"

"The owner, Mr. Bowater, I
presume."

"Sir, with all the valuable
property in this building, there's no reason Mr. Bowater shouldn't have secured
the rear as well as he did the front, except that he..." The locksmith
trailed off. His lips pinched, as if to seal in disgust.

Michael leaned into his hesitation.
"Except that he what?"

"Inferior workmanship, warped
wood on the door. I believe Mr. Bowater intended to lure someone in with the
promise of an easy entrance, then kill him horribly in a rain of debris. You've
a madman on your hands." The artisan glanced over the redcoats. His empty
palm circled air twice, fingers open. "Battle places its own gruesome
demands on you fellows. But outside of battle, have you tried to lure a man
into a trap and kill him?" He caught Michael's eye.

Michael's expression and body
stilled. He held the man's gaze. Winter crawled over his scalp and down his
neck. The artisan didn't know, Michael told himself. How could he know?

"You see my meaning." The
locksmith raised the bayonet for emphasis. "A decent man like yourself
would never set up such a snare."

End of Chapter One

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Regulated for Murder
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Biographical
Information About Suzanne Adair

Award-winning novelist Suzanne
Adair is a Florida native who lives in a two hundred-year-old city at the edge
of the North Carolina Piedmont, named for an English explorer who was beheaded.
Her suspense and thrillers transport readers to the Southern theater of the
Revolutionary War, where she brings historic towns, battles, and people to
life. She fuels her creativity with Revolutionary War reenacting and visits to
historic sites. When she’s not writing, she enjoys cooking, dancing, hiking,
and spending time with her family.

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