Kissing Comfort Page 32

  “No.”

  “Will you tell me about your dream this time?” he asked.

  She had become accustomed to saying no to that question, and the word hovered on the tip of her tongue. She withheld it just long enough to change her mind. Bode was her husband; he should know.

  Comfort sat up and edged backward until she could rest against the headboard. “It was different. I can’t explain it, but the glove was part of it this time.”

  “You mean the glove that you thought you saw?”

  “Yes.” She smiled crookedly. “I know. It’s confusing. The same men find me hiding in the rocks, and they’re joined by a third. The third man is the one who tells them to let me be. His voice . . .” She shivered involuntarily and dragged the quilt up to the level of her breasts. “His voice is rough. Raspy, I suppose you’d say. I can’t see his face, but his voice is like a signature to me, and when I hear it, my skin prickles. He takes a tin out of his pocket, opens it, and drops something into his mouth. That didn’t happen this time. The other men told him they’d found a kid glove, not a kid, and he took it from me and then tossed it back. Usually it’s the tin he tosses. That’s how I came to be clutching Dr. Eli Kennedy’s Comfort Lozenges when Newt and Tuck found me.”

  Bode was quiet, taking it in. He wanted to ask her to repeat it, and this time tell him everything she remembered, but that could wait until later. He could hear the strain that speaking put on her voice. “Why do you scream?” he asked.

  “They put the rocks back. Close me in. I’m afraid of the dark. They leave me, and I know they can hear me screaming.”

  Bode had learned about the saloon cellar from some of the men. Small. Dark. Virtually airless. It was her nightmare all over again.

  Comfort saw a muscle jump in Bode’s jaw. His expression was grim. “What is it?” she asked.

  He started to shrug and thought better of it. “The cellar,” he said. He heard the harsh rasp in his voice and wondered if she could distinguish it from the one she heard in her dream. “I was thinking about you in that cellar.”

  “Mm.” He looked as if he was also thinking about revenge. She didn’t know what to say to him. She wasn’t capable of talking him out of it. Not yet. Perhaps never.

  Bode lifted his head, straightened his back, and braced his arms momentarily as he blew out a short breath. Tapper Stewart couldn’t arrive soon enough as far as he was concerned.

  “Why do you suppose I dreamed about the glove?” Comfort asked. “I don’t understand that at all.”

  Bode didn’t either. “I wish I could explain it.”

  “I was so confused.” She suddenly recalled something she’d heard the third man say in her dream. “The third man, the one who told them to leave me?”

  “Yes?”

  “What he said was odd.” She closed her eyes, concentrating. “After he thanked the other men for finding his glove, he said, ‘I am cursed with an annoying inclination to lose one.’ ”

  Bode didn’t understand, and his expression revealed as much.

  “That gentleman at the opera house,” Comfort explained. “He said something very much like that to you. ‘I am cursed with an annoying tickle in my throat.’ Don’t you find it strange that I would more or less hear those words again in my dream?”

  Bode found everything about her vivid dreaming strange, but he refrained from saying so. “It seems as if you’re melding the experience at the opera house with what happened after the attack.”

  “I wonder if I’ve done it before, perhaps without knowing. What if my dream has changed in small ways over the years and no longer bears any resemblance to the truth of that day?”

  “Is that important?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not as if I’ve ever seen the faces of the men who were talking over me, but now that you ask, I think that I really have allowed myself to believe that I would know them again in any circumstance.” She shook her head. “I am self-deluding.”

  “That’s hardly true.”

  She snorted. “That’s not the view from my porch.”

  Chuckling, Bode rose from the chair to answer Tapper’s knock. He accepted the wooden tray while Comfort called to Tapper from the bed and apologized for worrying him. They had a brief exchange, and Bode waited until Tapper bid Comfort easy sleep before he turned away and used his heel to close the door. He set the tray on the table and poured a cup of tea for Comfort. Tapper had been thoughtful enough to add a second cup to the tray, but Bode didn’t take any. He carried the cup to her and made sure it was prepared the way she liked it before he returned to straddling his chair.

  “I was curious about the gentleman at the opera house,” Bode said. “After you and I talked about him, I spoke to your uncles. They gave me permission to make some inquiries.” Not surprisingly, he saw Comfort’s eyebrows arch. “I know. No one asked for your permission.”

  Comfort didn’t anticipate there would be an apology. She wasn’t disappointed. “Well? Did you?”

  “Yes. And I couldn’t find anyone who knew him.”

  Comfort blew softly on her hot tea. The surface rippled. “Perhaps he was only visiting the city.”

  “That’s what I thought, but I’ve since learned he’s renting rooms at the Carter House near Union Square.”

  “But you said you couldn’t find anyone who knew him.”

  “That’s true. I never did. Mr. James R. Crocker found me.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Naturally, I’ve heard of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency,” Alexandra said, once her guest was seated. “This is my first occasion to have need of their services.”

  The detective inclined his head to indicate that he understood. “Then I imagine you are experiencing a trying time, and I’m very sorry for it. I find it is often best for our clients to simply state the problem and allow me to ask questions that will provide the detail I need. If that is satisfactory to you, then we should begin.”

  Alexandra nodded. She approved of this straightforward approach. Making the decision to meet with someone from the agency had been difficult in its own right. She had no liking for involving outsiders in the affairs of her family, and she required some guidance as to how to proceed.

  She purposely chose her husband’s library for the meeting. While this room was the site of countless infidelities, Alexandra still believed the spirit of Branford’s intellect and scholarship favorably influenced all business conducted here. Until he made the unfortunate, and she would add, wildly romantic, gesture to support a cause as ill conceived as the secession of the Southern states, she had trusted his judgment as it related to Black Crowne.

  The Pinkerton man sat opposite her in a Queen Anne chair that was easily the least comfortable chair in the room. It seemed to her that he had chosen it purposefully, underscoring that this was a business meeting, not a social call. She appreciated that he was direct and self-assured, yet also respectful. Had he demonstrated the least inclination for toadying up to her, she would have had Hitchens escort him out.

  The fact that he was of an age with her supported her confidence that he was experienced. He did not smile continuously as men sometimes did when they were trying to please her. His expression was more carefully guarded than that, but when he tilted his head and offered a slim, encouraging smile from behind his neatly trimmed mustache, she noticed there was a small gap between his front teeth. For reasons she couldn’t begin to understand, that put her at her ease.

  “All right,” Alexandra said. “I shall start by telling you that there is little distinction in my mind between matters of business and matters of family. They are inexorably linked. Whether your view is the same, I don’t know, but I require strict confidentiality regardless.”

  “Of course.”

  “My immediate concern is for my older son, Beauregard. He is the head of Black Crowne and has been since my husband’s death. While he often consults me and values my opinion, I have entrusted him with the day-to-day management of the
operations. Until recently, I have not been displeased.”

  “I hope you will forgive me, Mrs. DeLong, but perhaps engaging your lawyer would better suit than hiring a detective agency.” He cleared his throat. “Pinkerton men don’t settle disputes; we often enforce the settlement.”

  Alexandra found the slight rasp in his voice pleasant, but she noticed that he raised one hand to his collar as if his throat were bothering him. She offered him refreshment earlier and he refused. She offered again.

  His hand dropped back to his lap. “No, thank you. Go on.”

  “I haven’t asked for your help with a dispute. Rather, I want your help finding my son.” She folded her hands together. Her knuckles whitened. “For all intents and purposes, he’s disappeared.”

  “Disappeared,” he repeated calmly. “Has he done this before?”

  Alexandra supposed that from his vantage point it was a reasonable question, but she could barely contain her annoyance. “He has not,” she said firmly. “This is out of character.”

  “When did you last speak to him or have some sort of correspondence?”

  “He was here eight days ago. I spoke to him briefly, and he spent some time with his younger brother.” She explained Bram’s bedridden condition. “I did not see him leave.”

  “I hope you will allow me to speak to . . . Bram, is it?”

  “Abraham. Yes, of course you may. He says Bode gave him no indication that he meant to travel or would be unreachable, but Bram might reveal something different to you. It is entirely possible that he is lying, although whether his intent is to protect me, his brother, or himself, I cannot possibly know.”

  “What inquiries have you already made?” the detective asked. “Friends? Relatives? Business associates?”

  Alexandra told him about her encounter with John Farwell. “When I didn’t hear from Bode the following day, I sent a second message. Several days later, I sent a third. Mr. Farwell insists that my son has received the notes. He will not say more than that. He is not at all helpful. Bram seems to think that Mr. Farwell’s behavior can be laid at Bode’s door, but I am not happy with that explanation. Mr. Farwell must be made to give over information about my son or be held accountable for his disappearance.”

  “Do you suspect this Farwell of foul play?”

  “Until my son is standing unharmed in front of me, I am not ruling it out. I am hiring you, of course, to do exactly that. Find my son. I will give you a list of business associates. Bode rarely speaks of friends, so neither can I. Bram might have information. We have no relatives here in California. My late husband and I have family in Boston. Bode and his cousins occasionally correspond.”

  “Your son is unmarried?”

  “Yes. This is not about a woman.” The detective did not given any indication that he was skeptical, but Alexandra felt compelled to explain, “If we were discussing my younger son, I would tell you that it is certainly a possibility you should consider. I have complete confidence in my answer as it pertains to Bode. He is ruthlessly devoted to Black Crowne. That is something all his competitors will tell you.”

  “Very well.” He asked one question after another regarding Bode’s living arrangements, his activities outside of work, and the management of Black Crowne in his absence—if indeed he was truly absent. “I must tell you, Mrs. DeLong, that I haven’t heard anything that convinces me your son has disappeared, and I say that to ease your mind, not to distress you further. I will pursue every one of the leads you have given me, but you must prepare yourself for the possibility that Mr. Beauregard DeLong’s absence is because he’s deliberately ignoring you.”

  Although Alexandra’s nostrils tightened with her sharply indrawn breath, she maintained her composure. “Do not concern yourself that I will kill the messenger. If it turns out that all my fears can be explained because Bode has suddenly decided he must have secrets from me, I will deal with him. And no, it will not be pleasant for either of us.”

  Alexandra raised an inquiring eyebrow. “Is there anything else?”

  “No. Not right now.” He cleared his throat again. “I would like speak to Mr. Abraham DeLong if that’s convenient.”

  “It’s convenient for me. I cannot say that Bram will find it so. He is unapologetically disagreeable. Bed confinement does not suit his temperament in the least.”

  “I understand.” He stood as Alexandra came to her feet.

  “I’ll have Hitchens escort you.” She tapped her temple suddenly. “Ask my son about Samuel Travers. He was Bode’s valet before he was Bram’s man.”

  “Perhaps I should talk to Mr. Travers.”

  “I’d like nothing better, but none of us know what’s become of him either.”

  Making the transfer to the Artemis Queen did not involve crossing a gangplank set between the two ships. Instead, Comfort, Bode, and their belongings were lowered in a boat over the side of the Demeter and rowed sixty yards to the sister ship. Bode insisted the other crew was going to use a cargo net to hoist her aboard, but when they got alongside the Artemis, it was the boat that was raised, and Comfort’s arrival was uneventful, not the tangle of skirts, netting, and immodestly displayed limbs that she had been imagining.

  When Bode stepped on deck beside her, she pressed her elbow into his side and kept it there while he introduced her to Mr. Benjamin Kerr, the master of the Artemis.

  They were welcomed aboard as if there were nothing at all unusual about their arrival. Mr. Kerr did not ask for any explanation beyond what had been communicated to him by the Demeter’s semaphore flags, but Bode offered a brief one before they were shown to their quarters. Because the stateroom was occupied by a passenger who had paid very well for that accommodation, Bode and Comfort accepted quarters that were considerably less spacious than what they’d enjoyed on the Demeter.

  Comfort looked around the room in a single glance. The bed fixed to the wall was narrow. There was no separate room for bathing, only a commode that held a basin on top and a chamber pot below. There was no wardrobe or table. No window bench because there was no window. The sailor who escorted them to their cabin lighted the lantern that hung by the door before he helped the two men that followed carry in Comfort’s trunk and Bode’s large valises.

  Comfort thanked them. She thought they did a remarkably good job of avoiding looking Bode in the eye on their way out. “It will be like living in a teacup,” she told Bode. “Really, I don’t mind.”

  He raised an eyebrow at her. “I mind for you.” He took in their new quarters much as she had, in a single glance. Her teacup analogy was accurate.

  Comfort faced him and took his hands in hers. She gave them a small shake. “Consider this, Bode. If this cabin is the best Mr. Kerr can show us, it means that all of the adequately appointed rooms are occupied by people who paid. Put another way, we are victims of your successful commerce.” She saw that he was unconvinced and was likely regretting that he had turned down the master’s offer to vacate his own quarters in favor of them. “It isn’t forever,” she reminded him. “We’ll be home within the week. I’ve lived in a tent before. This is much better.” Standing on tiptoe, she kissed him on the cheek before she let him go. “You know it, too. You must. You marched with Sherman.”

  “You’re right.” It was only on Comfort’s behalf that he took issue with their quarters, but she managed to make him believe she found them tolerable. “There is a lounge for the passengers, and you are welcome to use it as freely as you like. I’ll take you there now, if you wish. I need to speak to Mr. Kerr.”

  Comfort knew Bode was less interested in a conversation with the shipmaster than he was in inspecting the damage to the Artemis Queen. It had taken them longer to cross paths with the Artemis than either Bode or Mr. Douglas had anticipated, and Bode wanted to know the reason why.

  “I’d like to visit the lounge,” she said. “You’ll come for me when you’re done, won’t you?”

  “Certainly.” He gave her his arm. “We’ll spend time on deck a
fterward. There’s no reason for us to hurry back here.” Her arch look momentarily arrested him. “On the other hand,” he said, returning her look, “perhaps there is.”

  The moment Bram heard footsteps approaching his room, he corked the bottle of laudanum in his hand and slipped it into his hiding place between the splints. Occasionally the precaution was unnecessary, but he’d noticed that in the past week he was being visited more frequently by either his mother or a steady parade of servants sent by his mother. He realized Alexandra remained suspicious of his laudanum use and was trying to catch him out. Thus far, he’d been alert enough to keep anyone from seeing him with a bottle, and the servant who purchased the drug for him in Chinatown had not yet betrayed his trust.

  He settled back against the headboard, picked up the folded copy of the San Francisco Call from the bedside table, and dropped it in his lap. He was not surprised to see that it was Hitchens at the door; however, the man standing just to one side of the butler surprised the hell out of him.

  Hitchens announced the visitor, asked Bram if there was anything he needed, and then took his leave.

  Bram flung the newspaper onto the floor. “What are you doing here?”

  James R. Crocker smiled thinly. He approached the bed and looked over the weights and pulleys attached to Bram’s splinted leg. “What happens if I knock this out of the way?”

  “I can’t stop you, so if you came here with that in mind, then have at it.”

  Crocker eyed Bram’s raised leg for a long, contemplative moment before he turned his attention to Bram. “It’s tempting,” he said, pulling the nearby chair even closer to the bed. He sat. His knees bumped the mattress. “I’m still not convinced it’s broken. Regardless, it’s been a good strategy. Whether by intention or happenstance, you’ve made yourself difficult to reach.”