Fiddlehead

But when she dipped her head to remove her scarf entirely, Gideon saw a large black comb. A mourning piece. Oh, yes, he thought. That’s right. Divorced, then later widowed. By a Navy boy, wasn’t that the story? But that had been years ago now. Considering that she’d offered them no married name, maybe she wore it out of habit, or for lack of other baubles.

Henry Epperson gave her a little bow and began to babble. “Miss Boyd, yes, Miss Boyd. I suppose that’ll keep things simple, won’t it? And I am sorry, ma’am—I don’t mean to be rude or strange, it’s just that I’m very surprised, you understand. I didn’t realize you were the agent they’d sent, that’s all. I just didn’t know.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being surprised,” she assured him. She held her scarf in her hands like Henry would’ve held a hat, if he’d still been wearing one. She held it between herself and everyone else in the room. “I was more than a little surprised when I was given this case, I don’t mind telling you.”

The marshal held out his hand as if to take her elbow and guide her into the room, but she was out of reach. She followed the gesture anyway, when he said, “Please, won’t you pull up a chair and join us?”

“Thank you, I believe I will. I’ve read the files and I think my information is up to date, but I expect there’s quite a lot we can learn from one another, mister…?” she prompted him.

“Epperson. Henry Epperson. Just Henry, really, if you don’t mind. Over there is Dr. Wellers—I mean, Nelson Wellers,” he said.

She nodded. “Another agent, Mr. Pinkerton told me.”

He nodded back and slowly reclaimed his seat. “That’s correct. It’s … a pleasure to meet you. I’d heard you joined the company a few months ago. Excellent work on that Clementine case, or so they tell me.”

“You’re too kind.” She accepted the chair Henry brought her and drew herself forward into the circle. Once settled there, with her scarf now draped over the armrest, she addressed Gideon directly. “And I suppose that makes you Dr. Bardsley, the inventor. I’ve read quite a lot about you. They say you’re a genius.”

Gideon rubbed his thumb against the rim of his coffee cup. “Of course they do.” Then he said to the former president, “Mr. Lincoln, I don’t care what kind of badge this woman carries these days; she was a Confederate agent—I mean really, for God’s sake, it’s the only thing anyone knows her for. That and a mediocre production of Macbeth.”

Henry Epperson squeezed his coffee cup a little too tightly. “There’s no need to be rude, Dr. Bardsley.”

Lincoln said to the room at large, and to Maria in particular, “He’s often direct like that. It’s best not to take it personally.”

“She’s more than welcome to take it personally,” Gideon countered. “I intend it personally. She campaigned for my people’s enslavement—she was even a hero of the cause. I don’t want her help or need it. I’d never be able to trust it, if I took it.”

“Hero of the cause?” she repeated. “Dr. Bardsley, I was evicted from the cause because I loved the wrong man. So I lost my country and then I lost the man, too—on a Union submarine, might I point out.”

“All the more reason to doubt your sentiments,” he said flatly. “You have something to prove. Everything to prove, if you want your country back.”

“And what makes you think I do want my country back?” she snapped. “I left that whole ‘my country right or wrong’ business back in my first marriage, right along with ‘my husband right or wrong,’ and you can rest assured that the CSA wants no further dealings with me. Let me help you, Dr. Bardsley—let me help solve this problem your machine is so worried about.”

Nelson Wellers set his cup on the table beside the chair and put up his hands in a call for peace. “Please, Gideon … the woman is here at Mr. Lincoln’s request, sent by Mr. Pinkerton himself. If they can trust her expertise, you may as well trust it, too.”

Henry pleaded, “Really, Doc. Give her a chance.”

“Dr. Wellers. Mr. Epperson,” Maria said firmly. “I am grateful for your confidence, but I understand Dr. Bardsley’s reluctance to have me here.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

She jabbed back, “Do I understand it firsthand? No, obviously I don’t. And no one says you have to cooperate. You aren’t the first man to play rough because you can’t stand the sight of me, and you won’t be the last. But this is my job, and I’ll do it—with or without you. If you want to stand in the way of your own advocates, I suppose that’s your prerogative. If you’d like to find out what’s really going on here, then get on board and play nice.”

“Miss Boyd, I don’t take orders from Mr. Lincoln. You can safely bet I won’t take them from you.”

Maria Boyd appeared on the verge of losing her temper, but manners prevailed and she forced her composure to override her aggravation. “Again, doctor, that’s your decision. I don’t work for you, and I don’t have to make you happy. I work for Mr. Pinkerton, as do you—Dr. Wellers? And Mr. Epperson, you’re with the Marshals Service, is that correct?” It sounded like a too-desperate attempt to steer the conversation elsewhere, and to Gideon’s intense irritation, it worked.

The marshal relaxed, happy to have a more neutral topic in play. “Henry—just call me Henry, please. And, yes, that’s right. I suppose it was in your dossier from the agency?”

“Yes, because my employer knew you’d be present. Not much love lost between the Pinks and the service, is there?”

“No, ma’am, but this is a special case, and I trust we can all work together like civilized professionals,” he said, casting a quick look at Gideon, who neither melted nor argued. “The U.S. Marshals Service is prepared to cooperate with the Pinkertons, or any other organization which Mr. Lincoln sees fit to involve.”

Something about the strict formality nagged at Gideon’s attention, undermining his words. “I don’t believe you,” he blurted, before he’d really had time to work out why. “I think you’re here on your own time, or at least on your own recognizance.”

Nelson Wellers said, “Now, Gideon, that’s not called for…”

But Henry fidgeted in his seat, flicking glances between Lincoln and Maria Boyd, so Gideon pushed. “Marshals don’t play nice with Pinks. The Pinks only care about Mr. Lincoln here because he pays them—and maybe because the man on top still feels a little guilty about his son’s failings as a security agent; I don’t know. You’re not here on behalf of the service, and I want to hear you admit it.”

“All right, then: No, I’m not. Not exactly,” Henry admitted. “But I believe in ending the war, and Mr. Lincoln has become the foremost face of that effort. If anyone can do it, he can. And I want to help.”

Maria Boyd frowned. “And the Marshal Service doesn’t?”

It was Henry’s turn to shrug. “Yes, of course the service wants to help. As a point of particular interest, the marshals are increasingly interested in the disease threat out on the fronts. Evidence is mounting that we’re looking at something that could cost the Union its impending victory, something worse than illness.”

“Much worse,” Gideon interjected.

“Yes, thank you—and Mr. Lincoln tells me that your research and my suspicions dovetail nicely. The thing is, I’m confident there’s a money connection between the walking plague and certain warhawks in positions of power on both sides of the Mason-Dixon, and the service is not ready to commit to an investigation of people who are allegedly fighting on our side … people who would resent the implications of our interest, and are powerful enough to cause us problems.”

Maria’s frown became more thoughtful. “Warhawks sowing a plague.… That’s a dark theory, Mr. Epperson.”

“But you don’t doubt it, do you? That there are men—and women—capable of manipulating tragedy to their own benefit?”

“I’m too good a gambler to bet against the bottomless depths of human depravity,” she replied. For once, Gideon agreed with her.

Henry continued. “So it’s true that I’m here on my personal time. But even so, I’m here with my badge and my authority, and I mean to make myself useful.”

Abraham Lincoln made use of the opening. “And you’re here with information, too. Possibly something of tremendous importance. Go on, tell them who you saw in Danville last week.”

“You were in Danville?” Gideon interrupted. Not alarmed, but intrigued, and tired of other people steering the discussion. Here was something that interested him, so he seized on it. “At last week’s Congress?”

Henry nodded. “Yes, I was there—again, on my own time, and at my own risk—and I saw two people of note. To be more precise, two Southern women of infamy and repute: Sally Tompkins and Katharine Haymes.”

Nelson Wellers let out a low whistle and sat back in his chair, folding his arms across his belly. “Katharine Haymes. God Almighty.”

“Haymes…” Gideon repeated. “I know the surname. Does she have any connection to Haymes and Sons Industries?”

Abraham Lincoln said, “Oh, yes. She is the ‘sons’ in Haymes and Sons. Whether it’s a joke or a matter of practicality in a world of businessmen, I have no idea; but it was her father’s company, and when he passed away, when there were no actual sons to take the reins, she assumed control. Under her command, it’s become a million-dollar weapons factory.”

The pieces clicked together in Gideon’s head, tap-tap-tap, like the printing device’s keys pounding ink onto paper. “She financed a good portion of the research back at Fort Chattanooga. Her money was generally welcome there, but not entirely. There were stories.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">