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  Vance shook his head. "You'd think that there would be sparklers in high-fluting jewels like these, but nary a one. Not a ring or a necklace or a brooch. Few garnets and emeralds, but not a diamond in the lot."

  Grant looked at the man again. Could Vance be lying? Adelaide had specifically mentioned a diamond ring. What had happened to it? It wasn’t here and wasn’t on the body. Hart raised an eyebrow and motioned the general to the corner.

  "Does the name Thomas Mathers ring a bell to you?"

  Grant shook his head. "Nope, never heard of the man if that's really his name." Grant recollected the Smith fiasco yesterday. He wouldn’t be taken in again.

  Hart made a few more notes on the page. "Then of course, there's the matter of the time lag. How could Mrs. Todd not have noticed the theft until today if they were pawned yesterday afternoon?"

  Grant tugged at his beard. "Well, you saw the mess in her room. She could be days before she found a mule in that sty."

  "I think we might want to talk to the woman about this situation. Those jewels are excellent clarity. I'm sure she would take better care of them than a chamber pot."

  The room darkened around the men as if the sun had retreated behind a cloud and Grant turned around. A tall man with dark curly hair commanded the doorway. His lanky frame was covered by a dusty white shirt and wrinkled trousers. A pencil thin mustache covered his upper lip and his aquiline features held a foreign haughtiness to them. His gray eyes looked as if he’d seen a thousand years.

  The stranger definitely did not hail from Brown County. He had a grin around his mouth, a secret joke. Vance shut the ledger and held it to his chest.

  The man's voice demanded attention, a rich baritone that seemed to fill the room. "It wouldn't take a bushel of detective ability to presume that you are General Grant."

  Chapter 8

  The stranger loped into the pawnshop, approaching the two men. "Surely, you can't be surprised to see me, General Grant. Washington wired to tell you I was coming."

  Grant sputtered and looked to Hart for assistance, but the reporter shrugged with assumed innocence. "I'm not sure what you mean. I haven't received any telegram since I arrived."

  The man squinted and stared at the wall of sabers and rifles. Slow methodical breathing puffed his cheeks. "I instructed my associates to have the telegram delivered first thing when you got to the hotel."

  Grant tugged at his collar and wondered how much to tell this stranger. His Georgetown instincts had kicked in, making him distrust anyone from beyond its borders. The murdered man had been a stranger too. A bead of sweat wound down his temple to the security of his beard. He didn't need interference from Washington to ruin his return to his hometown, a joyous scenario played repeatedly only in his mind.

  They had planned for a quiet trip to plan the future and relax. Julia had fretted for his safety through four years of bloodshed and muzzle shot. Except for the men in Washington, generals were not exempt from death. She deserved a rest. Especially if the rumors about his presidential bid in 1868 held fast. The presidency had lost some of its sheen to him in the past few months, but Julia yearned for the limelight’s glare. "Well, we were detained at the hotel. There was a —"

  "Robbery. Mrs. Todd seems to have lost almost all of her jewels and we've been searching for them." Hart shot Grant a glance telling the general he'd had the same questions about the stranger. Hart, no doubt, wanted the story for himself. He wouldn’t graciously share it with others.

  The man pulled on the left side of his razor-thin mustache. "I see. Something right up my alley and I just got here. Funny, but I had this town pegged as backwater, nothing going on. But it appears that Georgetown is a snapper up of unconsidered trifles."

  Hart pulled out his pad again. "What alley would that be, Mr. —?"

  The man threw up his arms in a dramatic fashion. "Where are my manners? Mother would be appalled. My name is Charles Tyson. I'm a Pinkerton agent on special assignment to Secretary of State Seward to guard the general on his Midwest tour.” He bowed at the waist to the two men. “Mr. Seward has been very concerned about security ever since that — unfortunate attack on his person in April."

  Grant's face reddened. Seward sent a chaperone to protect him like a maiden aunt or virgin daughter? How dare he presume Grant would need some trained lap dog shadowing him? He pinched his lips into a fine line and didn't dare speak for a minute. It wouldn't do to spit out inopportune words. Grant wasn't quite sure where he fit into Johnson's administration. He didn't want to jeopardize a Cabinet level position with tantrums about another member of that rabble. Even if it meant enduring a nanny. "How very thoughtful of Seward. Always thinking of others," Grant offered between clenched teeth.

  "Most assuredly, sir. You're staying where?"

  Grant walked out of the store and into the baked clay street. Even the packed dirt of Third Street seemed cleaner than Vance's pawnshop, though the air smelled of hogs and burning leaves. He longed to be out of the town where the air crackled with the aroma of frost on the dying harvest and ripened apples.

  The noontime sun of October shone bright, but didn't parch Grant. The humidity dampened the back of his navy colored army uniform. During the years of the Southern Campaigns, the cooler days of fall had been lost. Grant tried to forget his companions and enjoy autumn of his hometown. "You're the special agent; you tell me."

  Tyson burst into hearty laughter. He seemed to have anticipated Grant's resistance. "I'm not that good. I'd have to follow you and then return for my luggage. That would be a waste of time and energy, don't you agree?"

  "Very well. We're staying at the National Union down the street." Grant strode down the street at a pace that made Hart trot to keep up with him. Despite a nonchalant gait, the long legs of the special agent had no trouble. Grant had acquired this practice at West Point where a particular major had sprinted to insure that his students paid attention.

  They clacked up the stairs of the hotel before the agent spoke again. "Thank you for your cooperation in this matter, sir. Mr. Seward wasn't sure how you'd take to a bodyguard. I'll wire him the good news."

  "Well, you can tell Seward this is totally unnecessary. The people who killed Lincoln and attacked the secretary have been apprehended and summarily dealt with." Grant didn't turn back to face the men. He didn't want to see looks of reproach. He was used to fending for himself. Hadn't he done that as Commander of the Union Army? No time to rely on some fancy-pants Pinkertons to watch him like a suckling. Didn't they realize that thousands of men had shot at him for the past four years and he survived without their help?

  "Sir, I meant nothing by it. I'm simply trying to do the job I was commissioned to do. John Wilkes Booth did not act alone, as I'm sure you're aware." Tyson opened the door to the hotel and peered over the threshold. "No one in the lobby."

  "Eight other people were tried for the assassination as well as Booth." Hart spoke in a hushed voice as if he was trying to regain his breath. In the brilliant sunlight, the man appeared blanched under his dark mane. Even if he was a reporter, Grant expected Hart to be in better shape than an old woman.

  "Mr. Journalist, to be precise, there were eight people on trial for these heinous crimes. Booth was killed in a barn in Virginia." Tyson's head almost brushed the top of the doorframe as he entered the hotel.

  Grant looked at both of them, trying to mask the petulance building inside of him. "To be exactly correct, the fools thought they killed Booth despite a direct order to take him alive. The fire charred the body beyond recognition, even with an autopsy." He entered the hotel and a soft breeze murmured through the open windows of the lobby. Tatted lace curtains fluttered against the solid upholstered furniture. Wood highback chairs formed a square near the window and overstuffed chairs spread out into the room from the fireplace. Two rag rugs lounged across the polished wood floor.

  Grant paused to enjoy the moment; this was why he had traveled to his hometown, not to deal with robberies, murders, and fools. The Oh
io Valley in autumn had no competition, glazed leaves turning over the rambling hills. Days that made folks forget. Nature didn't heed the remnants of war. In thirty years, the hillsides of Antietam would hide the blood and fallen soldiers with brush and grass again.

  Tyson cleared his throat. "You're correct about that one too. But honestly, I feel positive that the body was that of the assassin. Who else could it have been?"

  Grant looked around for the hostler Massie. The sooner Tyson was in a room, the sooner he'd be out of Grant's hair. "Must we discuss this morbid subject?"

  Tyson pulled at his collar. "Well, sir, I'm afraid we must. You'd want to discuss battle campaigns with your captains and I need to mull over what needs to be done to insure your safety on this trip."

  "I'm perfectly safe in Georgetown, Ohio. This isn't a battle; it's my childhood home." Grant raised his voice, hoping the hotel manager would emerge to see what the ruckus was. If he was like most folks around here, he’d be listening at the keyhole.

  "General, Washington uncovered a conspiracy to kill all the heads of the Union government. You should at least hear Mr. Tyson out." Hart sat down in one of the overstuffed chairs that formed a diamond on a braided rug by the fireplace. He snuggled into the chair's deep cushions as he faced the two men.

  Tyson followed suit, sitting opposite Hart. "Please."

  Grant perched on the arm of a chair. One piece of nonsense and he would be gone faster than a fly to pie. "Go on. Tell me this fantasy of yours."

  Tyson looked momentarily uncertain which pleased Grant. Ops were too cocksure for his taste. They needed to learn the realities of politics. "Well, sir, as I mentioned before there was a conspiracy to do away with the Union government. As the commander of the army, you've heard of Colonel John Singleton Mosby and Thomas Harney."

  Grant took the opportunity to stand up. "I've heard enough of them to know that I don't want to listen to another word of tomfoolery. Mosby didn't plan to blow up the White House. That's all there is to it."

  Tyson rested a light hand on the general's sleeve. "Please, sir. You must admit the President was murdered, Seward was attacked, and neighbors claim that Michael O'Laughlin visited Stanton's house the same night. Those facts are indisputable. The implication is clear —"

  Grant sighed and sat back down. "The implication is clear that there will always be people willing to believe that half the world was involved in a spy mission or an assassination conspiracy. I'm not one of those people. Fifty years from now, no one will care about the people who tried to kill Lincoln's Cabinet."

  Hart had taken out his notepad and scribbled away as Grant spoke. "But other people were indicted in those crimes." His earlier whiteness had disappeared. He leaned forward now to apprehend every word said.

  Grant eyed the reporter. "You can't print this. Even if I don't agree with Tyson, and I do not, this is a secret mission. Seward would not appreciated being made to look like a fool and I would not want to anger a potential ally. Battles are not won in that manner."

  Hart smiled. "You mean the next presidential election."

  "Johnson was stuck with a Cabinet of vipers and look where it's got him. The president needs trusted friends around him."

  Hart's eyes widened. "I could go with you to Washington to cover stories in the Capitol."

  "You seem to know a lot about the assassination of the president. How is it that a small-town reporter is so well-informed?" An offensive tack was necessary with these men. The pair was as relentless as Pickett in their desire to get him to consent to a nanny. What would Rankin's congregation think of a hero who couldn't protect himself?

  "I covered the story for the News. How else would I know? The people of the county care very much about what happened to their president." The remarks had heightened the color in the young reporter's face.

  "Even though the town is full of Peace Democrats who probably voted against him. I'm merely inquiring. Don't reporters like to answer questions as much as they like to ask them?" Grant smiled into his beard. Maybe he could be offensive enough to make the two of them leave the county.

  Tyson cleared his throat again. "The threat is real and Seward has legitimate reason to fear. He was knifed repeatedly. There's no getting around the facts."

  Grant rolled his eyes and put a hand to his head. He couldn't succumb to one of his headaches now; he needed his wits about him. "So when Mosby couldn't get through to the capitol, then Booth and his rag-tag band of hoodlums decided to kill the president, his Cabinet, and the leader of the Union Army. Is that today's conspiracy?"

  Tyson put out his hands as if to plead with him. "Look at it from their viewpoint. These people had nothing to lose by killing. With the Union government in sufficient disarray, the Confederacy could re-emerge and prove victorious this time. Need I remind you that you were supposed to be at Ford's Theater that night?"

  Grant remembered again the shock he'd felt when he'd heard about the President's shooting. He’d had to remind himself to breathe as his whole body felt like it belonged to someone else. He'd prayed for Lincoln to recover: to lead the country, and to assuage his own guilty conscious. His mind swept back over the banner-covered box where they had planned to attend Our American Cousin. Light comedy had begot tragedy. The thin wood steps leading the box and the quaint stage below.

  Julia had persuaded him to stay home out of her antagonism to Mrs. Lincoln. Mrs. Stanton had declined as well, tired of Mary Lincoln's rants about the president's time at the Army camps. Julia had been accustomed to the well-to-do society of Missouri and had been shocked at Mrs. Lincoln's high-handed mannerisms and rumored mental instability. The snubs and social indignities between Julia and the president's wife had become a minor scandal in Washington. He looked up to see the two men watching him. "No, you don't need to remind me."

  "If you had attended, do you honestly think Booth would have allowed the man responsible for humiliating Robert E. Lee to live?"

  Grant sat up, startled. "I prefer to think that I might have saved Lincoln's life."

  Tyson snorted. "Now who's engaging in a fantasy? Booth crept into the box and shot Lincoln from behind without anyone noticing him. By the time anyone heard a sound, the man had committed the deed and leapt on to the stage."

  Grant saw Hart shudder. Obviously, covering the story didn't include recollecting the graphic details of the killing. He wondered how the boy would have fared as a war correspondent. "So you and Seward are convinced that some Southern sympathizers are out to kill me? Hell man, they tried for four years."

  "Yes, sir." Tyson's expression was unreadable and his eyes looked as hard as the rocks along White Oak Creek.

  "There's still no proof that that man's murder has anything to do with me."

  Tyson’s eyes widened. “Lincoln?”

  Hart shook his head. “The stranger we found in General Grant’s room yesterday. He’d been shot, and left on the bed.” Hart explained the situation in a few sentences, covering the highlights of the crime without mentioning Adelaide or the missing jewels.

  Grant shrugged. “And I never laid eyes on him before, despite what Verity and Wade think.”

  Tyson stretched his lanky frame out of the chair. "He was locked in your room. How very puzzling. Just like one of Poe’s stories."

  "All the more reason I couldn’t have been involved. I didn't have a key. Why don't you protect the Massies or Henry or the maid? I couldn't have been involved."

  Tyson nodded. "They do seem to be implicated in the crime. No one else could have entered the rooms without their permission. So they might have put the body in your room."

  Hart looked from one man to the other. "But that doesn't mean they killed him. The two acts might not be connected."

  Grant moaned. "Let's not make this more complicated than it is. I can’t believe that all these things are unrelated. That would be entirely too coincidental. Two people out of a thousand pick the same day to commit crimes? Unlikely." He looked to Tyson again. "It has nothing to do with t
he fact this is a gravy assignment in a small town?"

  Tyson pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket. "Actually, we received a copy of a telegram detailing a plot against your life while you're visiting Georgetown."

  Chapter 9

  Grant tried to mask his shock, though he did fall back against the chair cushions. A beard always helped in that regard; the reddish-brown tendrils camouflaged his open-mouthed surprise. "How do you know this? I've been here a day and no one bothered to mention telegrams or conspiracies to me."

  Tyson held out a crumpled sheet of yellow paper. Grant took the note and ironed it across his lap. How many times had he received these during the war and how many of these had gone out to the families of men who'd died for the Union? What bad news did this one carry?

  The typewritten note was brief. TWO REBS HEADING TOWARDS OHIO. STOP. POSSIBLE BOOTH ASSOCIATES. STOP. PINKERTON HELP ON THE WAY. STOP. PLEASE HELP

  Grant looked at the note and flipped it. The back was blank. "Where's the rest of the message?"

  Tyson's eyes widened as he gave an exaggerated shrug. "Well, sir. I'll tell you. The telegraph line experienced problems during that message. The operator wasn't sure when the line might be working again. You know how these new-fangled machines are."

  Hart scoffed at the statement and stood up. "Even Adam Shane wouldn't forget to deliver an important message like this to General Grant. It's unforgivable. Let's just go find out."

  At the mention of Shane's name, Grant tugged at his collar, letting the blood drain more freely away from his face. Of all the people he had hoped might have left for parts unknown, Shane topped the list. He'd been two years older than Grant, just enough age and size to bully young Ulysses at every opportunity. Their rivalry had become worse after Grant was old enough to ride at the county fair and whooped Shane in every horse event on the calendar. Shane had never forgiven him for that offense.