Fiddlehead (The Clockwork Century #5)

Fiddlehead (The Clockwork Century #5) Page 16

“Red Cross? Do you have the papers to prove it? Miss Barton and Captain Sally are friendly, you know. They have more in common than in difference, never mind the lines. I didn’t hear word that she’d sent anyone … and I wonder why she didn’t come herself. The captain’s been trying to reach her for weeks.”

“Of course I have papers,” she said, and handed them over, hoping they were good.

The man at the top of the stairs perused them, his frown never melting. Finally he said, “Fine. I’ll take you to see my sister. Thanks for bringing her up, Richard.”

Richard took the hint, bowed, and left Maria there.

“Your … your sister?” she asked her new escort.

“Sister-in-law, if you like that better.” He put one arm behind her shoulders, not quite touching her, but urging her forward. “And I hope you don’t mind, but I’ll be coming with you, to have whatever word it is you want.”

“There have been threats?” Maria surmised. “Problems, in the wake of what occurred in Congress?”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. When she glanced at his chest, she saw the large six-shooter he kept tucked in a holster—it peeked out from the underside of his jacket, and she had an idea that he probably had a matching weapon under the other arm, too.

“This way,” was all he said. He knocked on a closed door. It was a calculated knock, two strikes with a pause, and then a third.

A muffled voice called from inside. “Adam?” It was a cautious voice, but not a frightened one.

“There’s a woman from the Red Cross here to see you,” he said through the door. “Her papers look good, but it’s not Miss Barton. Shall I bring her in?”

Ten seconds later, a bolt slid back and the office door opened wide to reveal a slim, smallish woman with tidy, sensible hair and a crisp brown dress. Her eyes were large and intelligent, and they scanned Maria coolly, with interest, and then … with recognition.

Maria swallowed. “Captain Sally,” she began, but the captain cut her off.

“Adam,” she said, her eyes never leaving Maria. “Thank you for bringing this woman to my office. I know you intend to stay for the sake of security … but I think we can have this particular chat without you.”

“You and I agreed,” he said firmly. “I’m not leaving you alone with anyone who’s not on the list.”

“I’m adding her to the list. I know her business here, and everything will be fine. But I thank you for your vigilance, and I would ask that you remain nearby, if that’s all right.”

He bobbed his head, still not pleased, but prepared to defer. He withdrew, and Sally stepped aside to let Maria join her. “Please, come inside,” she said … and when her brother-in-law was gone, she added, “Belle.”

Maria held her head up and did not cringe as she entered the office and the other woman closed the door.

“Won’t you have a seat?”

Maria did. She resisted the urge to pat at her tousled hair—not because she cared, but because she wasn’t sure what to do with her hands. Instead, she put them in her lap and folded them. “Thank you for taking the time to speak with me,” she tried as an opener. When in doubt, lead with manners.

Sally Louisa Tompkins shook her head. She said, “Skip the formalities, dear. I know who you are, and I want to know what you really want.”

“That’s an abrupt way to begin a conversation.”

“I could’ve begun it with a lie, as you began your visit. Richard and Adam believed you, I expect. Both of them good men, but easily distracted, in their way. They expect a different kind of treachery from women, and aren’t on guard against the worst of it.”

“Very well, but if you value a woman’s treachery so highly, then why did you let me in?”

She smiled. A proper smile, one backed up by a laugh that she wouldn’t release. “As I said, I know who you are. Or I know who you were.”

Maria wanted to ask what she meant by that, but it wasn’t necessary, much as it annoyed her. “I’m not here as a Yankee. Not as a Confederate. I’m here as a human being, in pursuit of the truth.”

“If that’s what you want to tell yourself.”

“Right now the continent has bigger problems than Northern and Southern ones, wouldn’t you say? Or, more to the point—isn’t that what you tried to say? At the congressional session. When you were so ungraciously silenced.”

Sally cocked her head to the right. “Word made it over the line? All the way to … where are the Pinkertons headquartered these days, Chicago?”

“Chicago,” Maria confirmed. “And yes—word went fast, and went far, though that’s not where I first heard of it.”

Sally leaned back in her chair and tapped her fingers on the armrests. “How embarrassing,” she mused. “Not my most dignified moment.”

“You weren’t the one doing anything undignified. Did they really drag you off the floor, rather than hear you speak?”

“Oh, yes.” She shook her head at the memory. “And afterward, everyone pretended that I didn’t exist. It was as if I’d died and had a funeral, and no one had told me. Old contacts, old friends. Old colleagues … people I’d worked with for years. They behave as if they’ve never known me, except for Clara. She responded to a telegram on Monday, saying she’d heard about the hullabaloo and wanted to talk. When they said I had a caller, I thought it might be her messenger—I know she’s as busy as I am, these days. But then I saw you.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Not sure if I’m disappointed or not, but I’m definitely intrigued. Since you didn’t correct me, shall I assume I’ve heard right? You’re working as a Pinkerton agent, these days?”

Maria smiled nervously. “I didn’t realize it was such common knowledge.”

“It’s not a secret, if that’s what you mean. It made the papers here and there, usually in the gossip lines. I’ll admit to a weakness for them, at the end of the day—sometimes I sit in bed with whatever dreadfuls or magazines I can find, so long as the stories have nothing at all to do with the war. And I’ll read them cover to cover, even if they aren’t very good or very interesting. Just … spare me from the casualty reports, troop movements, and mentions of the Mason-Dixon.” She sighed. “A few months ago I saw a paragraph or two, that’s all—no more than that, surely—saying that you’d moved up north and taken up detecting.”

“I wonder who wrote it. I wonder why anyone knew, or cared.”

Sally shrugged and said, “People are nosy; it isn’t any more complicated than that. You were a celebrity—a golden child, weren’t you? And then … you weren’t. Actually”—she smiled— “I thought it was interesting. I read about your exploits when I was younger—when we both were. You were such a character, like someone lifted from one of my dreadfuls.”

Maria eyed the diminutive officer, and estimated that she was likely in her mid-forties. A bit older than herself, but not much. “It’s been a long war,” she said.

“That is has.” The captain was eyeing Maria back. For a moment, she didn’t say anything. Then she came to some conclusion, and pulled her chair forward so they could speak more closely. “It seems unlikely, but…” she began quietly.

“But?” Maria leaned in closer.

“But you might be just what I need right now. So improbable … but sometimes that’s the way the world works. Maybe the unexpected is all we can count on, given the state of things. But tell me the truth: Why did the Pinkertons send you to me? Answer that first—and depending on your answer, perhaps I’ll give you the keys to the kingdom.” Then she cast a brief glance at the door, and added in a mumble, “I can’t keep them much longer. Not here, and not like this. I have to give them to someone.”

Almost too eagerly, Maria replied. “I’m here because a scientist in Washington, D.C., made a machine designed to think like a man, but much faster and much more efficiently. The machine can’t lie; it can only report its calculations, and it says that neither the North nor South will win the war—but both sides will lose to a coming plague.”

“The wheezers…” Sally breathed, her lips scarcely moving to form the word.

“Up North they call them stumblebums, or sometimes lepers—or some variation. I’ve heard guttersnipe lepers and goldenrod lepers; and I’ve heard them called pollen-heads too, though I don’t know where that designation comes from.”

“I do. And if you like, I’ll show you—but it isn’t pretty: Around the nostrils, ears, lips, and other orifices … the wheezers collect a yellowish, grainy substance that accumulates uncomfortably unless it’s washed away.”

“Dear God.”

“I said it wasn’t pretty. But tell me more about this machine.”

“Well, it was saying we should end the war, and turn the full attention of both governments toward addressing this mutual threat—at least, until someone tried to kill the man who made it. Someone, somewhere, does not want the Union or the CSA to hear its analysis.”

Sally nodded unhappily. “Must be someone who makes quite a lot of money off the conflict.”

“You might as well assume; no matter how hard I try, I can’t imagine any other excuse big enough. One of the first things I learned as an operative was to chase the money. See where it flows, see where it pools. See who’s pouring it out, and who’s collecting it.”

Conspiratorially, the captain asked, “And what have you learned so far? About the money behind the attempted murder, I mean.”

“Precious little,” she confessed. “I only just arrived in D.C. last night, in time for an awkward briefing and a change of clothes.”