‘Cui bono?’ James Batchelor had enjoyed a classical education of a rudimentary kind and, even though he had long since lost his grasp on declensions, his awareness of Cicero remained as sharp as ever. Matthew Grand looked at him from his position sprawled on the bed. They hadn’t taught Latin at West Point, so the raised eyebrow was as far as he intended to go in confessing ignorance. ‘Who benefits?’ Batchelor translated.
‘In the case of the late Mr Baker?’ Grand raised himself so that his head was against the board. ‘Who didn’t?’
‘We’ve got to break it down somehow, Matthew, or we’ll get nowhere. Newshound Durham thinks it was the South. Luther thinks it was Stanton. What if they’re both wrong?’
‘Say on.’
‘Who did Baker cross, apart from Stanton and the South, I mean?’
‘The President,’ Grand suggested. ‘From what we’ve learned, Baker was intercepting Johnson’s mail, tampering with telegrams.’
‘So the Congressional committee fired him, yes. What about Johnson? Is he the vengeful type?’
‘He’s a Southerner with a liking for the bottle and he didn’t behave well at the time of Lincoln’s assassination but, other than that, I don’t know. What can you tell me about Mr Disraeli?’
‘Point taken,’ Batchelor nodded.
‘If it’s Johnson,’ Grand ran with the idea, ‘we’ll have even more problems tracing it back to him than we will with Stanton. Unless, of course, Johnson is au fait with arsenic himself.’
There was a silence. Both men realized how futile this line of enquiry was.
‘What about the city’s criminal elements?’ Batchelor said, riffling through the notes he had amassed so far. ‘Didn’t Baker close down every whorehouse and gambling hell north of the Potomac when he ran the National Police?’
‘He did,’ Grand conceded, ‘but if any of that outfit got him, why wait? Why not kill the son of a bitch when he was most active, not wait until he was powerless?’
‘But that’s the point, isn’t it?’ Batchelor said. ‘While he was at the height of his powers, surrounded by men armed to the teeth led by Cousin Luther, he must have been difficult to reach. Once Stanton fired him, that was it; Lafayette Baker against the rest of the world. And, anyway, who’s to say he wasn’t a target before this?’
‘All right.’ Grand sat up, warming to the theme. ‘The criminal elements. Cousin Luther himself frequents the Wolf’s Den. So that’s the whorehouse element in the Division.’
‘We may be able to make some headway there with Julep,’ Batchelor enthused, until an old-fashioned look from Grand made him change his direction. ‘What about gambling?’
‘Hell’s Bottom,’ the local man told him. ‘That’s where you’ll find most saloons.’
‘Alcohol,’ Batchelor was leaving no stone unturned.
‘Virtually everywhere,’ Grand shrugged, ‘but again – Hell’s Bottom, the Division, Bloodfield, Swampoodle. We’d need Haynes’s boys and then some to enquire there.’
‘What was that name?’ Batchelor was turning his pages trying to find it. ‘The name Tom Durham gave us? Ah, here it is. Wesley Jericho. Think he may be able to help?’
‘Wesley who?’ The fat man with the glittering vest peered at them over the rims of his pince-nez.
‘The man you work for, croupier,’ Grand said, staying the man’s blubbery hand on his pack of cards. ‘The one who’s going to fire you for dealing from the bottom.’
‘Are you saying I’m crooked?’ The fat man was outraged.
‘No, I’m saying you’re sloppy.’ Grand took the cards from him and shuffled them neatly. ‘I’m sure Mr Jericho won’t approve of a man with careless card skills. Tell him we want to see him.’
The fat man hesitated and licked his lips. Then he beckoned over a large black bouncer whose fists were heavy with rings. The bouncer nodded and disappeared. The Golden Bowl was alive tonight, well-dressed gentlemen in their top hats rubbing shoulders with the riffraff whose home Hell’s Bottom was. Painted girls swished past in short skirts, their buttoned boots clattering on the sawdust-strewn floor. Lamps glowed seductively in corners and the wine and whiskey flowed. Over it all, through the cackling laughter and the bad French of the croupiers, rang the rattle of coin and the whisper of notes.
The bouncer was back in an instant, inviting the guests who had asked to see the manager to follow him upstairs. The hall was dark and dingy and Matthew Grand kept his hand on the butt of his pistol as they reached a glass-fronted door on the third storey. As far as Batchelor was concerned, this was the second floor, but he recognized the type who sat on what could only be called a throne beyond the frosted glass of the door.
‘Mr Jericho?’ Grand asked.
‘I’m Wes Jericho,’ the man agreed. He wore a centre parting and a moustache, immaculately waxed and curled. His elegant frock coat was velvet and gold chains criss-crossed his embroidered vest. ‘I understand you caught one of my people cheating.’
‘That’s not why we’re here,’ Batchelor said.
‘Even so.’ Jericho glanced at the bouncer. ‘Iago,’ he said quietly, ‘tell Mr Henshaw his services are no longer required.’
‘Week’s wages, boss?’ the bouncer asked.
Jericho screwed up his face, thinking. ‘No. This is a serious offence. No, wait – he’s got a widowed mamma, though. Make it a day. Now, gentlemen, how can I make your day?’
‘You can tell us who killed Lafayette Baker.’ Batchelor looked at the man, whose features remained as impassive as the portrait of George Washington on the wall behind him.
‘Well,’ Jericho smiled at last, ‘you just come right out with it, don’t you? Is that how you folks do it in England?’
‘Needs must,’ Batchelor told him, quietly impressed that Jericho recognized the accent.
‘Gentlemen,’ Jericho got up. ‘Let me show you something.’ He crossed to a heavy velvet curtain that shrouded one wall and pulled it aside. Beyond it lay a room twice the size of the one they stood in, with a pair of balcony windows at the far end. ‘I’d open the windows,’ Jericho said, ‘but the damned mosquitoes would suck the lifeblood out of you. Even so – you see what I see?’
‘The Capitol,’ Grand said. He was right. The great black dome jutted into the night sky that lay pocked with stars over the seat of government.
‘Oh, there’s malaria in these here marshes,’ Jericho said, ‘and you can’t spit for vagrants, contraband, scarlet sisters and pimps, but this is the city of tomorrow, gentlemen. Trust me, one day the United States of America will rule the world.’
‘It will?’ Batchelor raised a doubting eyebrow.
‘It will, brother,’ Jericho promised. ‘But for now, I’m content to rule Washington. I have an amusing little claret here. Won’t you join me?’
They took the proffered chairs and accepted the man’s wine. Batchelor was impressed anew, but a man who had lived on a journalist’s wages and then on the occasional commission of a private enquiry agent wasn’t much of a connoisseur.
‘Who sent you to me?’ Jericho wanted to know.
‘A man who rules Washington hardly needs an introduction,’ Grand said, sipping the claret.
‘Touché,’ Jericho chuckled, ‘but I’m not easy to find. Let’s see. You’ve visited … eight … saloons tonight, looking for me?’
‘Nine,’ Batchelor corrected him. ‘Nobody seemed to know who you were. Until now.’
‘Now, I wanted to be found,’ Jericho said.
‘Why?’ Batchelor asked.
‘Call it natural curiosity,’ Jericho said. ‘I know it’s killed more cats than the Washington canal, but it’s never done me no harm. I wanted to know why you fellas were so keen to meet me.’
‘Now you know,’ Grand said.
‘You seriously think I killed Laff Baker?’
‘You had a motive,’ Batchelor said.
‘I did?’
‘Certainly.’ Grand took up the challenge. ‘I assume all nine of the gambling hells we visited tonight belong to you.’
‘They do,’ Jericho assured him.
‘And I guess that’s how it was until Baker closed you down?’
Jericho laughed. ‘That’s about the size of it. Laff and I had an arrangement, though. He closed down every whorehouse and gambling den and liquor establishment north of the Potomac, except mine.’
‘He was on the take from you?’ Grand was not surprised.
‘It’s the way the world turns, mister,’ Jericho said. ‘By the way, you haven’t introduced yourselves.’
‘Grand and Batchelor,’ Grand said. ‘Enquiry agents.’ He pointed with his thumb to the appropriate chests as he spoke.
‘And who are you working for, exactly?’
‘Luther Baker,’ Batchelor said.
‘Hah,’ Jericho scoffed. ‘That dumb son of a bitch. I had him in my sights once. Should’ve pulled the trigger.’
‘Like you did for his cousin?’ Grand asked.
‘Laff?’ Jericho was suddenly serious. ‘No. Like I told you, we had an arrangement. I actually quite liked the slippery bastard. My money’s on Stanton.’
‘So is Luther’s,’ Batchelor said. ‘So,’ he looked into the cold eyes of the entrepreneur, ‘we have your word that you didn’t shoot Lafayette Baker?’
James Batchelor had never seen a man move so quickly. Before he knew it, Jericho had hauled him upright, the glass and its contents flying over the plush carpet. The Englishman felt his shoulder click and he was on his knees, facing Grand and with Jericho’s knife blade glinting at his throat. Grand was on his feet, pistol in hand, hammer back.
‘Let him go,’ he said between gritted teeth.
‘I’m just making a point here,’ Jericho said, pressing the blade infinitesimally closer to Batchelor’s jugular. ‘If I’d wanted Lafayette Baker dead, I’d have done it years ago. And with my Arkansas toothpick here. I don’t hold with firearms, Mr Grand; they’re so messy.’ He sheathed the knife in a swift movement and pushed Batchelor forward with his knees. Grand’s pistol muzzle hadn’t moved.
‘You can cross me off your list,’ Jericho said, adjusting the sit of the sheath at his waist, tucking it behind the swing of his coat. ‘Now, get the hell out of my place and go talk to Stanton.’
Batchelor got to his feet and made for the door, rubbing the prickly area just above his collar where Jericho’s blade-tip had broken the skin. Grand walked backwards, gun still in hand, until they’d reached the head of the stairs.
‘You all right, James?’ he murmured.
‘Tolerably.’ Batchelor was still waiting for his heart to descend from his mouth. ‘At least we know one thing – Wesley Jericho doesn’t have a clue as to how Lafayette Baker actually died.’
‘Either that,’ Grand said, ‘or he’s altogether a cleverer son of a bitch than either of us took him for.’
The Washington Memorial was still unfinished, its granite half walls gleaming in the sun. Ladies in parasols strolled beside it, arm in arm with straw-hatted gentlemen taking the air. The park vendors cried their wares – lemonade and chilled tea with twisted candy canes for the children.
Luther Baker rarely ventured out into the sunshine. His cousin was dead – murdered, he was sure, by persons unknown, all of whom worked for Edwin McMasters Stanton. The name of Baker was hated throughout the South, and who knew who was lurking in the bushes in the park, a rifle trained on the man who had been Lafayette’s second in command? As soon as the moment permitted, he ducked under an overhanging cedar branch and waited for the men he had arranged to meet.
Grand and Batchelor made their way from the weeds along the river and sat themselves down with their backs to the cedar trunk, as instructed.
‘You boys making progress?’ they heard Baker ask through gritted teeth. ‘Don’t turn around. It’s best that no one knows I’m here.’
‘We found Wesley Jericho,’ Batchelor said.
‘That asshole? Where does he figure in this?’
‘Probably nowhere,’ Batchelor went on. ‘We gave him the false impression that Lafayette was shot and he seemed to go along with that.’
‘And we’ve talked to the ladies,’ Grand told him, looking steadily ahead to the cattle slaughterhouses that still dotted the park from the dark days of the war. ‘The nurse, Bridget McBane, and the maid, Kathleen Hawks.’
‘And?’
‘Hawks left Lafayette’s employ over a month before he died.’
‘No help, then?’
Grand was inclined to turn but thought better of it. He was becoming as edgy as Luther, imagining every little flicker of a leaf to be an assassin’s movement, every noise the click of a gun. ‘I’d say Kathleen Hawks is a few cents short of a dollar.’
‘So would I,’ Luther grunted, scanning the crowds walking in the sunshine, ‘but no stone unturned, huh? That’s something you fellas should have printed on your calling cards. What about McBane?’
Batchelor took up the tale. ‘Mrs McBane is a Fenian,’ he said solemnly, as though that explained it all.
‘I don’t care if she’s a goddamned blockade runner; what did she tell you?’
‘She said,’ Batchelor murmured, ‘and I quote, “I think he was daft as a brush”. Then she changed the subject and started singing about Ireland being a nation once again.’
‘“They’re hanging men and women there for wearing of the green”,’ Grand carolled.
‘Close,’ Batchelor said, ‘and may I say, you sing rather more tunefully than Nurse McBane. But, to sum up the ladies’ views for a moment, it seems to me that although they have different opinions about it, the common denominator is that there were threats against Lafayette, real or imagined.’
‘Which is exactly where you boys were when you first got off the ship,’ Baker felt obliged to point out.
‘Not exactly,’ Batchelor said. ‘We … or rather I … have met Major Tice since then.’
There was a silence. The cedar wasn’t talking.
‘Tice?’ Baker said eventually.
‘Caleb Tice,’ Batchelor went on, ‘claims he was there when you and Lafayette caught John Wilkes Booth.’
Baker spat. ‘Yeah, and it was because of Tice that we nearly lost him. But you’re confused, Batchelor. Caleb Tice is dead.’
‘That’s what Inspector Haynes said,’ Batchelor agreed. He took a cigar out of its case and passed one to Grand. The little boy rolling his hoop through the scythed grass thought it odd that that man with a funny accent was offering another cigar to a tree, but that was probably because he wasn’t from these parts.
‘I’ll stick to the Scotch snuff,’ Baker muttered. ‘Who’s Haynes?’
‘Inspector of the Metropolitan Police,’ Batchelor told him.
‘Oh, that misfit. I remember that son of a bitch looking for a job not so long ago. Laff sent him to the Pinkertons. How does he know about Tice?’
Grand smiled. Since there was no explanation forthcoming from his colleague, he did the honours. ‘Young James here was caught talking to Major Tice at Madam Wilton’s. James is a trustworthy cuss, though. I can vouch for his intentions.’
‘What you fellas do in your spare time is up to you.’ Baker took a snort of his snuff and shook his head. ‘Just don’t charge it to expenses, that’s all I ask. This Tice – what did he look like?’
‘Er … forties, I suppose,’ Batchelor said. ‘Long hair. Goatee. Not very trusting. Pulled a pistol on me.’
‘Politeness isn’t what it once was in DC,’ Baker said. ‘How did you find him?’
‘He sent word he wanted to talk,’ Batchelor explained. ‘Better ask Julep about that.’
‘Julep?’ Baker frowned. ‘My Julep?’
‘How many are there?’ Batchelor felt that question should be delivered face to face, and turned to the tree before Baker’s boot prompted him to face forward again. ‘She turned up at the Willard and took me to Tice at Madam Wilton’s.’
‘What did he tell you?’ Baker wanted to know.
‘Nothing.’ Batchelor blew smoke rings to the cloudless blue. ‘There was a police raid.’
‘Why should you and Haynes think that Tice is dead?’ Grand asked.
‘Don’t rightly know,’ Baker murmured, ‘unless it’s something to do with the fact that I put a bullet in the bastard and he fell in the river.’
Both men turned at that, cedar subterfuge or not.
‘Affair of honour,’ Baker said. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Talk about something else, then.’ Grand was happy to change the subject. ‘What does the name Munson mean to you?’
‘Munson?’ Baker was dredging his memory. ‘It was an alias Laff used during the war. When he was caught by Beauregard’s cavalry, he was interrogated by the general and then by Jeff Davis himself. He invented the name.’
‘And the place,’ Grand added.
‘What place?’
‘I’ve read your cousin’s book, Mr Baker,’ Batchelor said. ‘“Samuel Munson” hailed from Knoxville in Tennessee.’
Luther Baker laughed, softly so that no one beyond the cedar’s boughs heard. ‘Well, that’s as maybe,’ he said, ‘I had my hands kind of full back in the day. Cousin Laff, he got around more than I did.’
‘So that’s our next port of call,’ Grand said. ‘We’ve just about run out of options in Washington. We’re going south, to Knoxville.’
‘Well, good luck with that,’ Baker said. ‘And when you get back, I expect a full report. Maybe then, you’ll get some dirt on Stanton. Contact me at the Wolf’s Den.’
‘Via Julep?’ Batchelor asked.
‘Via con Dios,’ Baker replied.
The paddle wheels of the riverboat City of Knoxville churned the brown waters of the French Broad into a foaming mass. Black smoke was belching from her twin stacks and the captain was shouting incomprehensible commands to his crew.
Grand and Batchelor had travelled via the East Tennessee Railroad until they reached the river, then whiled away a few hours playing poker in the Knoxville’s saloon. Batchelor was not exactly adept at the game, but was keen to try. Grand had tried and failed many times to introduce him to pinochle; this looked much simpler and the company was friendly, so what could possibly go wrong?
Their travelling companions were drummers in ladies’ undergarments – always a job strictly reserved for married men in order to spare everybody’s blushes – and they both knew the river well.
‘Yessir,’ one of them said, peering through a pair of bottle-bottom pince-nez, ‘battle of Fort Sanders. I was there. Must’ve been end of November, Sixty-Three. Snow. Fog. We had it all. Rebs tried a frontal assault – you can’t tell me Jim Longstreet didn’t have guts; blood was ankle deep. Lee called him his old warhorse and I can see why.’
‘I met Ambrose Burnside once,’ his companion said. ‘You know, the Union general. He was a good man. Bald as an eagle. Had more hair on his cheeks than on his head. Talk to Schleier, the photographer in Gay Street – he took his likeness several times. I’ll raise you, Mr Batchelor.’
There was something about the flow of speech, the slap of the paddles and the gentle rock of the river that served to hypnotize the two enquiry agents. That, anyway, was the excuse they gave for being completely cleaned out by two men in ladies’ undergarments. Grand, patting his empty wallet tucked inside his coat, hoped that there was a sizeable bank in Knoxville so that he could wire Boston to top up his spending money. He could hardly put in a chit for gambling losses to Luther Baker.
The posters on board claimed that Knoxville lay in the Switzerland of America and, once he had come to grips with that rather odd concept, Batchelor could see why. At all points of the compass, majestic mountains stood snow-capped, even in a late summer as hot as this. At Deery and Co.’s wharf, the Knoxville dropped her anchor chains and her passengers waited until the gangplank was secured. Deery’s catered for the world, it seemed, selling everything from Baltimore Rio coffee to chocolate, blasting powder and La India cigars. In fact, Grand was just refilling his case with six of the last when he grabbed Batchelor and pushed him round a corner, out of sight of the street.
‘Good God, Matthew!’ Batchelor shouted. ‘What the—’
‘Sshh!’ the American quieted him. ‘There, on the sidewalk. In green.’
Batchelor followed the man’s pointing finger. An attractive lady with a parasol was chatting to two others. A black woman stood at her elbow, holding the hand of a little girl, who was the image of the lady in green. ‘Enchanting,’ Batchelor agreed.
‘And that’s not all it is,’ Grand muttered.
‘I don’t understand,’ Batchelor admitted. It was a phrase he had used rather a lot in recent weeks.
‘The lady with the parasol,’ Grand said. ‘It’s my guess she’s carrying a Derringer in that purse. You are looking, James, my boy, at the Cleopatra of Secession, the Siren of the Shenandoah. That’s Belle Boyd, confederate spy. And killer.’
The Lamar House was the best hotel in town and, once Grand had sorted his business at the bank (Batchelor, unknown to Belle Boyd, was keeping watch for her outside), the pair checked in. It wasn’t exactly the Willard, but it was comfortable enough. Their room overlooked the broad expanse of Gay Street and bunting of red, white and blue flapped in the warm breeze from the river.
‘But she did tell you she planned to return,’ Batchelor reminded Grand. He was hanging his spare shirts in the wardrobe.
‘To the States, yes, but – as I am sure you have noticed, James – this is a big country. What are the odds of Belle Boyd being here?’
‘You didn’t spot her in Washington? Or Philadelphia? She’s very striking,’ Batchelor mused. ‘She would be quite hard to miss. And she has her little girl with her; perhaps she’s just on holiday.’
Grand looked at him quizzically. ‘That soft heart of yours will get you into serious trouble one of these days, James,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen her until today, but I get the impression that Miss Boyd is only seen when she wants to be seen.’
‘Why don’t we find out?’ Batchelor suggested.
‘How?’ Grand really didn’t like the look in his colleague’s eye.
‘Trust me, Matthew,’ Batchelor slapped his friend’s shoulder, ‘I’m an enquiry agent.’ And he was gone, thundering down the Lamar’s stairs, two at a time.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ The desk clerk didn’t like rowdy elements at the Lamar; it lowered the tone.
‘Yes,’ Batchelor beamed. ‘I’m a journalist, from London … England. I’m doing a story on Miss Belle Boyd.’
‘Who?’
‘Stonewall’s ADC,’ Batchelor said, bubbling with mock enthusiasm. ‘My readers are huge fans of the late General Jackson. As am I. I understand Miss Boyd lives hereabouts.’
The clerk almost shuddered. ‘During the recent unpleasantness,’ he said, closing his eyes, ‘I supported the North.’
‘Ah.’
‘However …’ Batchelor knew the portent of that pregnant pause and fished his last few dollars out of his wallet. When he glanced back inside it, it was completely empty. The clerk took the notes and they disappeared with a speed Batchelor had never seen before.
‘Hm?’
‘Dr John Mason Boyd is Miss Belle’s uncle. He’s a fine man, even though he was surgeon to the CSA at Bull Run. He may know something.’
‘And where can I find him?’
‘Well …’
Batchelor was down to coins now and he passed them over.
‘The Blount Mansion. You can’t miss it.’
‘Many thanks,’ Batchelor called, and made for the stairs, before he was expected to spend any more.
‘I could tell you about the Mabrys,’ the clerk called, ‘or the McClungs? And don’t even get me started on Parson Brownlow, the mad cuss.’
‘How about Samuel Munson?’ Batchelor had paused on the bottom stair.
The clerk stared at him, then became unaccountably deaf and bent his head, intent, it appeared, on other duties.
It may be that the Tennessee sunshine blinded him; it may be that he was too busy wiping the sweat from his forehead – for whatever reason, James Batchelor didn’t see her until it was too late. She, however, saw Matthew Grand.
‘Why, Captain Grand, now just Mister, are you following me?’ Belle Boyd looked alluring that morning in a gingham day dress, her wide bonnet shading her eyes. The black servant and little Grace had gone.
‘Mrs Hardinge.’ Grand tipped his wideawake, as annoyed with himself as with Batchelor for allowing this meeting to happen. On the other hand, Knoxville was a small town; it was unlikely they could have avoided each other for long.
‘Who is this?’ Belle asked, smiling at Batchelor, who fell in love on the spot.
‘My associate,’ Grand said, ‘James Batchelor. Allow me to introduce Isabella Hardinge – Belle Boyd.’
‘Mrs Hardinge,’ Batchelor tipped his hat too, trying to look sophisticated and soigné. ‘What a pleasure. I’ve read your book. Fascinating.’
‘Mr Batchelor was a journalist by trade,’ Grand explained.
‘Then I consider that praise indeed, Mr Batchelor, thank you. So, if you’re not following me, Mr Grand,’ she turned her warmest smile on the man who was once her enemy, ‘why are you in Knoxville?’
‘Chasing shadows,’ Grand said.
‘One shadow in particular,’ Batchelor said. ‘Samuel Munson.’
For the briefest of moments, Belle Boyd’s concentration slipped. When she had talked to Grand back in London, the name Munson had not cropped up. Goddamn! This man and his sidekick were better at the investigation game than she’d expected. Then, she was herself again, composed, relaxed. ‘Do you have time to eat in this shadow chase?’ she asked.
Grand and Batchelor looked at each other.
‘You must come to dinner,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow night. Six sharp at Blount Mansion. On the way out of town. You can’t miss it. Uncle John and Aunt Sue will be delighted to meet you.’ She took a step closer to Grand and placed a soft hand on his lapel. ‘And, please don’t worry, Mr Grand; you won’t need your pocket Colt. And Mr Batchelor,’ she turned her head to him, but kept her hand lightly on Grand, flashing the ex-journalist her most dazzling smile, ‘I look forward to hearing all about your exploits with the Telegraph. Until tomorrow night, then.’
There were smiles and hat-tipping all round and Grand and Batchelor wandered away.
‘Telegraph?’ Batchelor muttered out of the corner of his mouth. ‘I didn’t mention the Telegraph. You didn’t mention the Telegraph. What’s going on, Matthew?’
Grand sighed. ‘Believe me, James,’ he muttered back, ‘when I figure it out, you’re the first person I shall tell.’