The room upstairs was very quiet. The drapes were drawn, and candles provided soft light. Mrs. Tully had prepared the man for his final journey, and he lay on the bed fully dressed in a suit he hadn’t worn for a long time.
Falcon Delaney stepped to the side of the bed and stared down at the man, feeling a chill of shock. He looked at the bony, gaunt face, and at the receding hairline that exposed a broad, high forehead. Disbelieving, he searched the man’s features, half hidden behind a neatly trimmed, graying beard. He looked at big, knobby hands folded in silence.
Finally he believed.
“My God,” he whispered, turning to look at the silently waiting Tyrone. “It's Lincoln.”
“He was failing when the war began,” Tyrone said, looking at the others. They were all in his study, the three newcomers still in shock. Falcon, Victoria, and Jesse sat on the long couch; Catherine was seated in the chair near the fireplace where Tyrone stood. And Tyrone spoke slowly, hoping all of them would understand how it had been then.
“His health was breaking. The war . . . perhaps that was the final blow. For many years he had suffered bouts of deep melancholy; always he’d been able to pull out of them before they got so debilitating that he couldn’t carry out his duty. But that hateful war. It triggered the deepest, most paralyzing melancholia. He wasn't an effective president, and those closest to him saw it. They tried to hide his incapacity, but it became more and more difficult.”
“You knew him then?” Falcon asked.
Tyrone smiled with a touch of bitterness. “I’d known him for years. I met him through Morgan Fontaine, when I was one of his captains. None of us expected things to turn out the way they did, with Morgan actively supporting the Confederacy and myself running supplies to the South—and Lincoln doing his best to bold the country together.”
Falcon nodded without comment, and Tyrone went on.
“There was a group of men, friends, who saw what was happening to Lincoln, and who knew what his failure could do to the Union. They had already begun running things themselves. But he was growing worse, and his doctor warned them there wouldn’t be any improvement. Even his wonderful iron will was beginning to fade. So, they managed, somehow, to find a man who was a virtual double for Lincoln, and they planned to have that man step in as president.”
“And Lincoln?” Falcon asked.
“They planned to transport him—secretly, of course —up to New England, to a private house where he’d be well taken care of, and well out of the public eye.”
“What about his wife?” Victoria asked slowly. “And his children?”
Tyrone’s voice was slow as well. “His wife was still grieving over the son they’d lost the year before. I was told she had agreed it was best for all concerned. I never spoke to her. There were two sons left; I was given to understand they weren’t to be told anything.”
After a moment Falcon said, “So the plan to secretly replace Lincoln with a double was Camelot?”
“Yes. They approached me, oddly enough, without realizing I knew Lincoln. Their aim in choosing me, I believe, was to cover themselves; if anything went wrong, my participation would neatly point a finger toward the South.” He smiled wryly. “And who in the Union would have taken the word of a blockade- running ship’s captain?”
Falcon was watching him intently. “But you were believed to have no loyalties in the war.”
“True. I was, however, very openly running guns and supplies into the South. That would have been enough.”
Nodding, Falcon asked quietly, “Why did you agree to do it?”
Tyrone was leaning back against the mantle, gazing at nothing. He looked at Falcon, shrugged slightly. But his voice went a little rough. “I saw him. I wasn’t willing to accept their verdict on his condition, so they slipped me in to see him one night. I hadn’t seen him in four or five years. It took me no more than five minutes to realize they were right. I told them I'd get him safely to New England.”
“Did they pay you?” Falcon asked.
Tyrone smiled cynically. “Of course. The second reason they’d chosen me was that I was known to take any risk if the pay was good enough.”
The answer didn’t surprise Falcon. Still, he had seen the man upstairs, and he knew very well Tyrone hadn’t done any of it for the money. “So you got him out of Washington.”
“Yes. That part was easy enough; they’d planned well. And Lincoln was dazed, meek. He went along willingly. I got him onto the ship.”
“What about your crew?”
Jesse followed Falcon’s question immediately with a bewildered one of his own. “What about me?”
Tyrone sent him a rueful smile. “You were a problem through the entire mess, Jesse. Always underfoot.”
“I resent that,” Jesse said.
“No doubt. Well, the night I took Lincoln onto the ship, I’d given the crew liberty and sent Jesse on an errand. I more or less repeated that when we reached New England, after having kept Lincoln safely in my cabin during the trip.”
“And you took him to this private house?”
“I intended to. However, we were attacked on the road before we could get there. Three men, armed with knives and cudgels. It had apparently not occurred to them that I would be armed as well—with pistols. Lincoln was sleeping in the carriage, drugged. I was having a difficult time with the horses. By mistake I killed all three of the men.” He sounded almost apologetic.
“By mistake?” Jesse wondered dryly.
Falcon looked at his brother-in-law. “He needed at least one alive. How else could he know who’d sent them?”
“Oh,” Jesse murmured.
Tyrone smiled faintly. “Exactly. Unfortunately I was left with something of a dilemma. Five men knew I’d be on that road at roughly that time; any one of them could have planned the attack.”
“You didn’t suspect more than one?” Falcon asked, and only Victoria knew that he was more than a little worried that his boss and friend, Leon Hamilton, might have been involved in the attempted assassination.
“No,” Tyrone replied with certainty. “As a group, they didn’t need my help to kill him. And they were highly organized; the attack was clumsy, but not deliberately so, and that didn’t fit. It seemed far more likely that one of them may have decided to take the opportunity on impulse, had hurriedly sent men without thinking it through.”
He sighed. “If I’d been thinking clearly, I would have suspected Sheridan. He’s always been known to be impatient and prone to act on impulse. In any case, I couldn't have been sure who it was.”
“So all you knew,” Falcon said, “was that at least one of those men wanted Lincoln dead.”
“Yes. I was angry. I decided that there was no need for whoever was responsible to know his plan had failed. I took Lincoln back to the ship and returned to Washington. I told them what had happened, everything except that Lincoln had survived. They all appeared shocked.”
“But not,” Falcon said slowly, “unduly disappointed?”
“Not unduly disappointed,” Tyrone agreed. “Their puppet was safely installed, and we were all aware of how tenuous my position was. I was no threat to them, and they knew it.”
“They didn’t demand to see the body?”
“I didn’t give them a chance. I made it plain I’d been unwilling to travel up and down the coast carrying a body killed under suspicious circumstances. Particularly the body of the president. I could see them shudder at the very thought.”
“And then?” Jesse questioned, torn between fascination and horror.
“I left. And I brought Lincoln directly here.”
“Why here?” Falcon asked.
“I’d been here before, and knew the community was small and that there was land available at this end of the island. I also knew that Dr. Charles Scott, highly respected as one of the most knowledgeable brain-disorder specialists in the world, had retired here some years before. I got in touch with Dr. Scott, and he took Lincoln secretly into h
is house until I could arrange something more permanent.”
He looked at Falcon steadily, and said, “All this transpired, by the way, in March of ’Sixty-three.”
Falcon’s eyes narrowed. “The ledger entry with the list of names was dated April.”
“Yes. It was.”
Falcon pulled out a long, thin cigar and lit it, frowning. “Dammit,” he muttered.
Jesse was bewildered, and looked from one to the other. “What?” he asked.
“Bait,” Falcon said somewhat bitterly. “And I took it.”
Jesse blinked, looked at Tyrone. “You knew he’d break into your office and find that list?”
“Let’s just say I had learned to respect his tenacity.”
“You wanted him to come after you here?”
Tyrone shrugged abruptly. “I wanted it to be over. Lincoln was dying, and I had thoughts of a future on my mind.” He sent a glance at Catherine, returning her smile. Then he looked steadily at Falcon. “I’d realized you wouldn’t give up, no matter what. However, I didn’t expect you to set Sheridan on me.”
Falcon smiled suddenly, a gleam of honest amuse
ment in his green eyes. “You think I may have questioned him so bluntly that he took fright and bolted down here?”
“It does seem unlike you,” Tyrone said. “I had the impression your methods were more subtle.”
“I like to think so. In fact, I never spoke to him at all.”
Tyrone’s gaze narrowed. After a moment he said slowly, “Some connection to one of the men on that list?”
Falcon nodded. “Leon Hamilton. He’s been my boss since the first years of the war.”
“Treasury?
“Yes.”
Shaking his head slightly, Tyrone said, “That’s what I missed. He isn’t publicly linked with Treasury. Naturally, when you found that list while looking for some trace of the missing gold, you confronted him with it.”
“Naturally.”
“And he warned you off?”
“He certainly did. He wouldn’t tell me anything at all about Camelot, said that it couldn’t possibly be connected to the gold. Coincidence, he said.”
“And you, of course, believed him.”
“Oh, of course,” Falcon said dryly.
Tyrone smiled just a little. “I imagine he went directly to the others to warn them that you were hell-bent to find me and ask some uncomfortable questions.”
“Which,” Falcon observed, “is no doubt what sent Sheridan tearing off down here. Leon must have impressed on them that I wouldn't stop until I knew the entire story.”
Remembering suddenly, Tyrone said, “Yes, he said something about that out on the cliff. And more, what probably panicked him the most, that Hamilton thought it was possible you could take the story public.”
Jesse looked at Falcon. “Will you take the story public?” he asked.
Falcon didn’t answer. Instead, gazing steadily at Tyrone, he said, “Tell me about the gold.”
Tyrone nodded. “Much of that story you already know,” he said. “I was offered a commission, in Morgan Fontaine’s name, to transport goods into Charleston.” He hesitated, then said, “At that point I was trying to earn all I could, and I wasn’t too particular about what I carried.”
Falcon nodded.
“I wasn’t a fool, however,” Tyrone went on wryly. “When one of the chests broke open at sea, and I realized I was carrying Union gold, I wasn’t very happy.”
“That's an understatement,” Jesse added.
Tyrone ignored the interpolation. “We made Charleston before dawn, and I went ashore to confront Morgan. He wasn’t, however, the man who had come to accept the delivery.”
“Read Talbot,” Falcon said.
“Yes. Whatever happened to him, by the way?”
“He’s dead,” Falcon told him.
“I see.” Tyrone frowned a little. “Jesse’s telegram to me reported that Morgan was dead. How—”
It was Victoria who answered quietly. “Read Talbot and two other men tortured Morgan to death. They were trying to find out about the gold. Where it was hidden.”
Tyrone looked at her, his face very still. “He was your husband then, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“I'm sorry.”
She looked at him curiously. “You say that as if you were somehow responsible for his death.”
“I was.”
Jesse interrupted. “But Morgan took the gold.”
Tyrone hesitated, then resumed the story. “I managed to choke the truth out of Talbot. When he told me the gold had been stolen to finance an assassination attempt on the president, I couldn't believe Morgan would have sanctioned it. And even though I knew the man in Washington wasn’t Lincoln, it was what everyone else believed that mattered.”
“So you went to Morgan?” Falcon asked.
“Yes. He was, as I’d expected, furious. He was also defeated. He knew the South was dying. He said that his last gift to the South would be to make certain those men never got their hands on the gold.”
Quietly Falcon asked, “Is that when you told him about Lincoln?”
Tyrone looked at him a moment, then nodded. “He had suggested I keep the gold; I’d told him I didn’t fancy hanging. Then I told him about Lincoln. I had realized by then how difficult—and expensive—any long-range solution would be. It would take a great deal of money to ensure total safety and secrecy, money I didn’t have at that time. Morgan immediately said it would be poetic justice to take the money meant to assassinate Lincoln and use it to make his last years safe and happy ones.”
“And you agreed.”
“At the time it seemed the only solution.”
“But Morgan got the gold,” Jesse repeated. “I delivered it to him.”
“The gold never left The Raven, Jesse,” Tyrone said quietly.
“The chests!”
“Yes, you delivered the chests. Filled with bricks. They were heavy enough so that you wouldn’t suspect anything.”
Jesse was frowning. “Wait. Morgan gave me some of the coins. He opened one of the chests—and there were gold coins.”
Tyrone looked at Falcon. “When Morgan and I talked, I told him about the three-dollar gold pieces. Of all the coins they were the only ones that could have been traced. Morgan said he’d take that chest, empty it out later, and bury the coins apart from the other chests. He probably never thought twice about giving Jesse a bag of the coins.”
“All these years,” Falcon said, “and that puzzled me most of all, that so few of those specially minted coins ever turned up. But it makes sense now. It was only the one bag that Talbot stole from Jesse.”
“I left some with Tory,” Jesse said, “before Talbot jumped me.”
Victoria nodded. “Yes, he said he’d gone back to Regret later and found the bag where I’d hidden it.”
Tyrone looked at her curiously. “You spoke to him?” She returned his look, smiled faintly. “I’m the one who killed him.”
“Revenge?” he asked after a moment.
“Justice.”
Tyrone nodded, then sighed. “Morgan and I both believed we’d covered our tracks. None of those men knew anything at all about him, where he was from. He said since I was right out in the open, the trail couldn’t lead toward me. So we faked the delivery, and Morgan vanished out west.”
Victoria looked at her husband. “Illusion. Sleight- of-hand. Being led to believe something that wasn’t so. You were very close.”
Tyrone spoke before Falcon could respond. “Was he? I rather thought he might be.”
“Is that why you left the ledger for me to find?” Falcon asked him.
“One of the reasons, I suppose. I had begun to realize you wouldn’t give up, as I said. But it was more than that.” Tyrone looked weary for the first time. He moved to Catherine’s chair and sat down on the arm, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Things were happening,” he said slowly. “People were crossing paths suddenly a
fter all these years, people who knew parts of the story. Of both stories.”
He looked at Falcon. “I saw Victoria at that ball, and thought she might have been Jesse's sister, whom he believed had been killed years before. I had no thought of the gold then, not until she introduced herself as Victoria Fontaine. Still, that was possible, given Morgan’s nature; he could have taken care of her, thinking Jesse was dead. But you were with her, and I had good reason to know the gold was rarely out of your mind.”
“It was that night,” Falcon murmured, remembering.
Tyrone smiled but went on. “You had come to my office a few days before that, and from the things you so casually let slip, I realized you were beginning to piece it together.” He shrugged. “There isn’t much more to tell. When I received Jesse’s wire, I decided to come back here. I was reasonably sure you’d find the ledger, but even if you didn’t, with Morgan dead the trail of the gold could lead only to me.” He looked at Victoria. “I am sorry he was killed.”
She shook her head. “It wasn’t your fault. I knew Morgan very well, and I know he would have preferred the trail to lead to him if it had to lead anywhere.”
Then Jesse said, “What now?” He was looking at Falcon as he spoke.
Catherine, who had sat in silence listening, spoke, her gaze also on Falcon. “Port Elizabeth is under English jurisdiction; you have no authority here.”
“He knows that,” Tyrone said quietly.
And they both knew something else. Gray eyes met green, the knowledge clear in both. They each knew that Tyrone had a fleet of ships, including the fast clipper Robyn now in the harbor. They both knew he could sail away in that ship, and that Falcon would find it very nearly impossible to catch him.
They both knew the chase could continue for years.
They both knew it wouldn’t, that it would end at that moment.
“Dammit, Falcon,” Jesse exploded, “say something!”
Slowly Falcon said, “A country should be obligated to care for its commander in chief. I'd say that gold was justly used.”
Tyrone wasn’t really surprised. He smiled faintly. “Is that what you’ll report to your superiors?”
“You forget.” Falcon smiled as well. “My superior is Leon Hamilton. I believe he’ll be quite happy to accept any report I give him.”