The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution (9 page)

"Lieutenant Fairfax ordered me
to show the contents of this box to Captain Sheffield before I left town."

The Irishman's concern descended
into distaste.
 
"Fairfax,
hrumph.
 
Come inside, then, while I
fetch the captain."

Prompted by Finnegan's knock on the
study door and murmured message, Sheffield opened the door, eyebrow cocked with
piqued interest, and invited Betsy in.
 
What if the captain found something in the package that made her suspect
of colluding with the rebels?
 
Throat burning
with anxiety, she entered, her posture demure.
 
Near the study's side window, Stoddard set aside a glass one quarter
full of amber brandy and bowed.
 
With
both officers present, perhaps one was guaranteed to find
something
amiss in the box.
 
Fairfax had seemed
certain of it.
 
Finnegan lit more
candles, conferring a warm glow upon the room with its plain, sturdy furniture,
but Betsy fidgeted.

Without preamble, she explained how
she'd come by the veil and parasol.
 
The
officers examined everything and within two minutes decided that the box and
its contents weren't hiding any secret messages.
 
Holding to her story about leaving the letter in Augusta, Betsy
recounted Arriaga's message.
 
Her
instincts, or perhaps Laughing Eyes's warning about the safety of her parents,
told her not to repair the misunderstanding just yet that Jacques le Coeuvre,
not Mathias Hale, was her father.
 
Fortunately the letter was vague on the point of her paternity.

Sheffield handed her back the box
with the veil and parasol.
 
"The
letter sounds innocuous enough, and we've no intelligence that Miguel de Arriaga
is an agent for the rebels.
 
However,
the rebels have been known to intercept the missives of neutral parties and
implant seditious messages within.
 
Therefore, I think it prudent that, upon your return to Augusta, you
surrender the letter to Colonel Thomas Brown for his expert examination."

Colonel Thomas Brown: Adam
Neville's superior officer, His Majesty's Ranger.
 
Could Lieutenant Fairfax be right about the letter containing a
cipher from the rebels?
 
Not liking the
thought of it, Betsy moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue.
 
"Sir, if Colonel Brown finds a hidden
message, whom do you suppose was the intended recipient?"

Sheffield and Stoddard regarded
her, their expressions revealing nothing, and didn't answer.
 
The clock in the study ticked.
 
She swallowed, and sweat trickled between her
breasts.
 
"Oh, see here, you must
know by now that
I
am not an agent of the rebels."

"Madam, if you've been
forthright with us, you've nothing to fear."

If Sheffield meant his smile to
reassure her, he failed.
 
They did
indeed suspect a rebel cipher in Arriaga's letter, but they weren't certain it
had been intended for
her
.

Cordovan leather.
 
Sooty Johns and two Spaniards in the middle
of the night.
 
Dear heavens.
 
Clark
.

"I shall direct Mr. Fairfax to
confiscate the letter immediately upon your return to Augusta and present it to
Colonel Brown.
 
Mr. Stoddard, please
escort Mrs. Sheridan back to the house for the night.
 
Thank you for your diligence, madam."

Fairfax.
 
Oh, gods.
 
"Captain."
 
Stoddard at
her elbow, Betsy turned back to Sheffield in the doorway.
 
"Sir, it would put me at great ease if
Mr. Stoddard accompanied us back to Augusta on the morrow, rather than Mr.
Fairfax."

"Ah."
 
The diplomatic neutrality slid over
Sheffield's face again.
 
"I'm
honored by the confidence you've gained in my officer.
 
Alas, I need him here in Alton.
 
Believe me when I say that if I didn't trust
Mr. Fairfax to see you safely back to Augusta, I'd most certainly send Mr.
Stoddard in his stead.
 
Again, I thank
you for your assistance and cooperation.
 
Give my regards to your husband, and may you both rest well
tonight."

Chapter Seven

BETSY WAITED IN the saddle for a
laconic Stoddard to mount his horse before nudging her mare north behind
him.
 
Her thoughts reeled about, and her
pulse quivered like a caged songbird stalked by a housecat.
 
What a predicament she'd woven.
 
The redcoats expected her to surrender
Arriaga's letter the next day, but she couldn't risk their uncovering a cipher
that might incriminate Clark.
 
She saw
no option but to forge a copy of the letter for them while everyone slept.
 
Why, oh why, had she ignored David's warning
to stay away from Alton?

Five lots north, they passed tanner
Givens's shop and home, where Clark had visited that afternoon.
 
A crash from within prompted Stoddard to
halt their horses.
 
"Did you hear
that?"

A man on horseback galloped from
behind the house out onto the street and flew north past them, his expression
shadow-gouged and contorted with malice.
 
Enough light existed for Betsy to recognize the sensual lips and dark
eyes and hair of a Spaniard.
 
Not one of
the men who'd visited Clark in the middle of the night, but a Spaniard
nonetheless.

"Bloody hell!"
 
Stoddard groped for a pistol at his saddle.

No other soldiers were within hail.
 
Alton's civilians were all snoring
abed, imbibing at the Red Rock, or losing money over the cockfight.
 
Betsy steadied her spooked mare.
 
"Lieutenant, you mustn't give
chase!
 
The Givenses!
 
I fear for the family!"

He stared from the gloom of night,
where the Spaniard had vanished, to the house, to Betsy before he expelled a
breath with decision, recognizing his priorities.
 
"Wait here.
 
I shall
check on the family."
 
He
dismounted and handed her the reins and one pistol.
 
"I presume you know how to fire this."
 
He removed the other pistol and cocked it
halfway.
 
"If the Spaniard returns,
shoot him."

Night at the rear of the Givens's
house swallowed him.
 
Anxiety slicked
Betsy's palms.
 
The distant hoot of an
owl startled her.
 
Edgy, she darted a
glance about the deserted street, startled by leaves clattering on the humid
breeze, and jumping at a raucous eruption of laughter from the nearby
tavern.
 
Her relief at seeing Stoddard
emerge a minute later dwindled at his expression.

He released his pistol from half-cock.
 
"Madam, your concern is
well-placed.
 
Mr. Givens and his wife
lay murdered most foully in their shop."

***

Two soldiers combed the yard for
clues by lantern light, footprints mingling with those of Stoddard, the
Spaniard, and his horse.
 
The lieutenant,
who'd been conversing with a stout sergeant, noticed Betsy's yawn, paused, and
faced her.
 
"My apologies.
 
I should have escorted you back after you
completed your statement.
 
You've been
most cooperative."

She favored him with a weary
smile.
 
"My mother's house isn't
but a couple minutes away.
 
I can ride
by myself."

"With that murderous Spaniard
on the loose?
 
I wouldn't dream of
letting you do that.
 
I shan't be but a
moment longer completing my instructions to Sykes here."

The lieutenant turned back to
Sykes, missing her subsequent yawn of resignation.
 
Her gaze caught on a lone rider on horseback trotting toward them
from the direction of the Red Rock.
 
He
absorbed night, shadow his ally, stealthy in the dark like a creature of primal
myth born to prey in the folds of a foggy, ferny forest.
 
Although the air was warm, she shuddered and
moved closer to Lady May, hoping he'd ride on past, the ground would cave in,
or she'd become invisible.
 
No such
luck.

Metal clinked against leather as
Fairfax dismounted.
 
"Why wasn't I
contacted earlier?"
 
He drew up
almost nose-to-nose with Stoddard.
 
Sergeant Sykes's attempt at a salute went ignored.
 
He slipped away to join the investigation in
the yard, obviously used to such treatment by Fairfax.

Stoddard glanced at the time on a
watch from his waistcoat pocket, replaced the watch, and swelled out his
chest.
 
"You weren't contacted
because you're due to leave Alton in eight hours, fifty-two minutes.
 
Sir."
 
His smirk was audible.

"Indeed, but I still have eight
hours, fifty-two minutes in Alton.
 
Sir."
 
The same height as
Stoddard, Fairfax outweighed him by at least twenty-five pounds, all of it
muscle, making Stoddard look spindly in comparison.
 
Betsy shuddered again.
 
Stoddard would be most fortunate if the two men never traded more than
verbal blows.

Fairfax's attention snagged on the
men in the yard, and dismay bit at the chill in his voice.
 
"What the devil are they doing?"

"Searching for evidence."

"They're
destroying
evidence, fool.
 
Footprints, hoof
—"

"I remind you that you're
speaking to a fellow officer."

Betsy squirmed.
 
This rivalry went beyond epaulet crowding.

"Cause of death?"

"As you'll soon be gone, it's
immaterial to you."
 
Stoddard
hummed a few seconds.
 
"Oh, very
well, blood loss."

"They were stabbed?"

"Their throats were slit from
ear to ear."

"By a Spaniard."
 
Fairfax sounded certain.
 
"Any witnesses?"

"Beside myself?
 
Yes.
 
You now have eight hours, fifty-one minutes."

"All who visited the tanner
recently are potentially accomplices to murder.
 
You will question them."

Clark had visited the tanner that
afternoon.
 
He had friends who were
Spaniards.
 
The breath Betsy sucked in
chilled her teeth.
 
Had he really gone
to the Red Rock Tavern that night?

"Perhaps you've
misunderstood.
 
His Majesty doesn't
require your investigative skills here.
 
He requires that you pursue your next assignment on the morrow:
escorting Mrs. Sheridan and her husband to Augusta."

Just when Betsy had begun to hope
she'd escape Fairfax's scrutiny, his frozen stare rotated to her.
 
"
You
are a witness?"
 
She fought the urge to shrink when he
advanced on her, his expression mobile and victorious as he no doubt considered
angles through which she might be involved in rebel schemes.
 
He lowered his voice.
 
"Stoddard, if by some chance your
investigation
reveals that Givens was a member of the Ambrose ring, this woman is an
unsuitable witness."

Ambrose ring?
 
What the blazes was that?

Stoddard snorted.
 
"We've examined what you call
'evidence.'
 
A parasol and veil.
 
Bah.
 
No secret rebel messages hidden in those.
 
The lady is willing to surrender the letter to Colonel Brown on
the morrow in Augusta."

He caught her eye above Fairfax's
shoulder.
 
"I shall escort you back
now, madam."
 
He strolled around to
face Fairfax and granted the Givens property a magnanimous wave.
 
"Have at it if you like, sir.
 
You've still eight hours, fifty
minutes.
 
And were I you, I wouldn't
harass Mrs. Sheridan.
 
She's performed
admirably as the King's witness, and Captain Sheffield thinks well of her."

***

No breeze cooled the stuffy
bedroom, even though it was near eleven o'clock.
 
The servant, Mary, was asleep in the tiny room across from
Betsy's room, and Susana had gone home to her family, but Clark hadn't yet returned.
 
Fretting, Betsy shoved the window open
further, undressed to her shift, and hung her clothing on pegs.
 
Then she set her pockets and the lantern on
her mother's desk and withdrew Arriaga's letter and Clark's cipher.
 
Blue letters and numbers reappeared on the
message from the boot when she passed it near the heat of the lantern.
 
While its cipher faded to invisibility, she
pushed the boot message aside and opened Arriaga's letter.