Sadie's Secret: 3 (The Secret Lives of Will Tucker) (5 page)

Henry’s expression remained unreadable. “I recall the assignment as one that was arranged at the last minute when you were already in the vicinity, am I correct?”

“Yes. I was there for my mother’s birthday. You asked me to come into the city for a few hours to provide assistance to Kyle, which I did.” She shook her head. “I told you nothing good comes of my trying to work as a Pinkerton in Louisiana. It’s just impossible.”

Henry shrugged. “You might want to read the rest of it. She has included a statement from your father.”

Sadie picked up the paper once more and scanned the remainder of the article.
“I have no knowledge of my daughter’s behavior on that evening,
but you can rest assured this is not what it appears.
” Again she set the newspaper aside. “Well, finally. The voice of reason. Of course it’s not as it appears.”

“Because it appears as though you were enjoying an evening at the Opera House with a married man, when in fact…”

“My father would have no knowledge of what I was actually doing there.” She sighed. “Unless someone told him.”

“I believe you and I have had this conversation on more than one occasion, Miss Callum. I respect your choice not to tell your family you’re a Pinkerton agent. I would not be the one to compromise you to your family or, for that matter, to anyone else.”

“Then either Uncle Penn told him…”

“Or he is defending his daughter in print when he has no idea why you would allow Kyle Russell to squire you to an evening at the Opera House.”

The obvious answer. Again, she sighed.

“You understand there are two separate matters here that must be dealt with. The issue with your father and his understandable anger notwithstanding, I’m going to stick to how this affects your ability to do your job.”

He swiveled to retrieve his pen. Sadie made use of the unguarded moment to glance back down at the article.

One must wonder what Miss Callum’s response to that same question might be. Sarah Louise, this writer welcomes an audience with you at your earliest convenience.

“Not likely,” she muttered.

“I beg your pardon?”

Sadie glanced up at him. “Nothing. Sorry, sir. Please continue.”

“I appreciate that you stated your reluctance to return to Louisiana before you knew of this situation brewing in New Orleans.” He paused. “Under the circumstances, I fail to see how you could carry out your duties to any extent without scrutiny.”

“So I’m to take on the Astor case after all?”

“No, Miss Callum,” he said firmly. “You remain lead agent on this case for now.”

“But, sir, I—”

“Hear me out,” he said with a wave of his hand. “What that man sitting in prison needs is a Pinkerton who can write eloquently in his defense. That is your current assignment. Should the judge require your presence at any further hearings on the matter, then of course you will be in attendance.”

She nodded. “But as to actually taking up the Tucker case?”

“Until the Louisiana State Penitentiary releases that William J. Tucker, we have no reason to search for the other one. I’ll speak to Mrs. Astor, but I see no problem in beginning to gather the facts of her case once you have completed the task of informing the judge of the agency’s opinion as to whom they are holding. Seeing as this falls within your area of expertise, that is.”

Sadie smiled. “Then I will leave you to begin work on this project.” At his expression, she hesitated. “Unless there is something else?”

“There is, actually.” He seemed to wrestle with his response. “Your uncle and I have been friends for many years. You know this.”

“I do.”

“And it was on his word that I took a chance on you.” He smiled. “A chance I am very glad I took.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I only wonder if the agency’s gain is your loss.”

“I don’t understand.”

Henry nodded to the paper. “A woman’s virtuous reputation is her treasure. My mother used to say that. So I wonder…”

“If I’ve been robbed of my treasure?” She shrugged. “If that is so, then I suppose I will just have to hire a Pinkerton to find it. A pity Kyle is wishing to retire.”

“I doubt your father is finding humor in the situation. So there is one more thing I require of you before you take on the Astor case.”

“What is that, sir?”

“Go home and make peace with him.”

Four

H
ome. Where was that, exactly?

Jefferson Tucker had spent so much time wishing to be released that he hadn’t given any thought as to where he would go when it happened.

His clothes hung in rags, and he hadn’t shaved in almost a year. He’d been told those who left Angola went out with a suit of clothes and a bath. No amount of scrubbing, however, would remove the stink from his memory.

The judge, apparently called in on short notice, stared down from his place on the judicial bench as if expecting Jefferson to respond. With what? Thanks?

Hardly. Not when he had been incarcerated by the man’s own hand and without hearing a single word to the contrary. The thought that false testimony was indeed the cause crossed his mind, but Jefferson resolutely pushed it away.

“Is there something else?” the judge asked.

“Yes, sir. I require my father’s watch, my folding knife, and my revolver.”

The words came out not in the meek tone of a prisoner but in the defiant voice of a man long scorned and forgotten. Still seated in the witness stand, the pretty blond Pinkerton agent’s expression showed surprise.

The judge, however, was not amused. “I fail to understand your request.”

“It is a demand, sir.” Jefferson straightened his backbone and tamped down on his anger. “Not only was I wrongly imprisoned, as has been attested to in this court, but I was also robbed of my father’s gold watch and the sidearm and folding knife I carried. I want them back.”

“Do you now?” The judge looked down at the Pinkerton agent. “Miss Callum, you’ve studied the documents in this case, have you not?”

“I have, sir.”

“And do you recall any such property list accompanying the prisoner upon his incarceration?”

“I do not. However—”

“See there, boy. No such property list exists and therefore no way to claim lost property.” His smile held neither humor nor any sort of good feelings toward Jefferson. “So unless there is any other matter before the court, I—”

“Excuse me, sir.”

All eyes went to the Pinkerton agent. What had the judge called her? Miss Collins? Carlson?

His grin faded. “Yes, Miss Callum? Have you something further to say?”

“I do, sir.” She shuffled through the stack of documents until she arrived at the one that made her nod. “Yes, here it is. While there is no such incarceration list, I believe the fact has been established that Mr. Tucker was indeed jailed under extraordinary circumstances.”

The judge cleared his throat. “Go on.”

The woman’s attention returned to the papers before her. “Before he was a prisoner, he was a visitor. And as such your deputy entered the man in question into the visitor’s log on the tenth of May last year. In that note, he says the visitor was relieved of one revolver and a folding knife. I see that Mr. Tucker initialed the entry here.”

The judge leaned over to retrieve the page from the Pinkerton agent and appeared to be studying it. Jefferson took the opportunity to study her.

Though she had obviously attempted to dress in a manner that would hide her beauty, the effort failed miserably. On any other woman the drab brown day dress that had been buttoned practically to her chin might have appeared matronly. Something a child’s governess might wear back home in London.

On Miss Callum of the Pinkerton Detective Agency, the fit of the gown and the way she wore it defied any good reason to call the garment anything but stunning. And though she had scraped her blond hair back into a tight knot that was partially hidden beneath her matching plain brown hat, Jefferson found himself wondering what those flaxen strands might look like falling free around her shoulders.

What those lips might look like if they would only smile.

“Mr. Tucker?”

He tore his attention away to focus on the judge. His rambling thoughts, however, took a little longer to follow suit.

The judge’s eyes had narrowed behind his spectacles. “It appears you have your documentation for your weapons. Should they prove impossible to find, I declare a like amount shall be paid to you. Do you understand and agree?”

Owing to the quality of both items, Jefferson doubted they remained anywhere that they might be found. “I do, sir.”

“Now, as to the other matter. Have you any proof of the watch you claim is missing?”

“Of its ownership, yes. Of the fact it was taken from me almost exactly one year ago today by a man named Butler, yes.”

“Butler, did you say?”

Jefferson nodded. “That is the name he gave me. And the proof of where the watch is now?”

The judge leaned back and offered an impassive look. “Yes?”

“Sir, I do not wish to cause any grief to this court, but I believe if you will look at the inside of the gold watch on your chain you will see an inscription that reads
To Harrison William Tucker from your Lizzie on the occasion of our wedding, 17 June 1866.

The judge’s face contorted in rage as he reached for his gavel. “Bailiff, take this man away. This hearing is at an end.”

Rough hands grabbed the back of Jefferson’s shirt and threw him toward the courtroom door he had entered what seemed like only moments ago. As the guard led him back to his cage, for to call the enclosure a jail cell would be too generous, those remaining behind bars began to shout his name and offer crude cries of welcome.

Anger propelled him, and even as the cell door clanged shut once again,
his mind fed the white-hot emotion. Were he young and stupid, he might have punched the wall or cried out in anguish.

Instead, he sat on the pitiful pile of straw and rags that served as his bed and brought his rage down to a seething fury. He would leave this place, and when that happened he would exact his revenge.

And no nonsense about the plunder of an Egyptian’s tomb or the wrath of a man whose trade in antiquities might be interrupted by the conclusion of Jefferson’s investigation would deter him. It had not before his wrongful incarceration and it would not after.

Indeed, he remained set on accomplishing two things: his release from prison and the satisfying completion of his case on behalf of the British Museum.

Jefferson let out a long breath, sucked in fetid air, and then repeated the process. No, he forced himself to recall, revenge was for the Lord.

Revenge is Thine, not mine.
The words his governess had insisted he and John repeat each time their disagreements escalated.

John.

He forced his thoughts away from his brother, the better to keep his temper manageable. Someday that wrong would be righted.

Either by him or the Lord. At this moment, Jefferson did not care which.