"He studied here. His father discouraged him, wanted him home, said his academics would be useless in running their estates. Once, when he was visiting, his father had him forcibly removed from one of our meetings. I think that's why he came back and joined us, an act of defiance."
"Came back when?"
"Last month Burke entertained us with that very story at our meeting. He was supposed to pick up maps in Baltimore and rendezvous with his troops at Fort Ligonier, supposed to take a boat from the James up the Chesapeake Bay to Baltimore. Instead he found a captain going up the Delaware Bay to Philadelphia, where better maps were available in any event."
"He came back to join your Leyden Society?"
Marston grinned awkwardly. "He came back to set the foundations for his new life, as he said to us. There was a party, where he drank and told us of his plans, perhaps more than he intended. His father also did not know he had a mistress here, did not know he had secretly accumulated enough money to buy a house in the city. He was a man of refined tastes, sent to boarding school in London as a boy, and after was never comfortable with the Virginia country life." He gazed down at his scar. "Joining the Society was his official welcome to Philadelphia. We have a little ceremony with a molded brass plate strapped to the arm through which we send a strong charge of electrical fluid. When we remove the plate the skin has been excited enough to produce the scar."
Duncan looked at his own bandages. "It would be painful."
"There is brandy involved."
"Where did he get such a large amount of money?"
"I don't know. It wasn't just the cost of a house. He was steadily buying shares in a merchant company, with the intention of supplying the frontier, was making regular payments to the owner."
"But you said he did not like the rough life."
"He was to stay in Philadelphia. He had some partner who was going to handle the frontier. There was final paperwork he had to sign here, based on the funds he already paid."
"But the money," Duncan pressed, "where would new payments come from if not from his family?" He considered Marston's words again. "Are you suggesting he was being paid by someone in Philadelphia?"
Marston shrugged. "A gentleman does not ask about such things."
Duncan turned and braced himself on the window again, gazing out over the busy city. "So Burke left from here to join his men," he mused out loud.
"Is that important?"
"Very." Duncan eyed Marston carefully, trying to judge just how far to trust him, then realized he had little choice. "Can you speak with the Benevolent Society again? Can you find Hadley?"
"Yes, on both counts."
Duncan began explaining what he needed.
The Benevolent Society arrived in force that afternoon, announcing a spring cleaning of the musty cells. Duncan watched as the jailer argued about the abrupt appearance of a dozen workers but saw his resistance fade before three Quakers matrons, including Mrs. Bythe, as they chided him. One went so far as to wave her Scripture at him.
He was in his cot when they came for him. Mrs. Bythe guided two large men who had fashioned a carrying stretcher out of a blanket and two long poles. Duncan feigned unconsciousness, kept his eyes closed as they carried him out and down the stairs, did not open them until he was set upon a pallet in a corner of the yard. Moments later two turnkeys appeared with a confused but compliant Skanawati. They argued only a moment before remitting custody of the Iroquois to Mrs. Bythe, who resolved their doubt with a coin pressed into each man's palm and a reassurance that they could watch their prisoner from the doorway. The Quakers, Duncan had decided, were as resourceful as they were devout.
The workers, most dressed in black or gray, many with broadrimmed hats pulled low on their heads, began hauling soiled pallets and chamber pots out of the cells to the opposite corner. Two benches were arranged at right angles to the walls by Duncan and Skanawati, forming a small square by a cart of fresh straw that obscured them from the gate. The three women sat and began stuffing new pallets with straw as they sang a hymn. Skanawati, regarding the Quakers uncomfortably, had taken a step as if to retreat when one of the men in gray touched his arm and pushed his hat back.
"We give thanks you made it through the forest." It was Conawago.
The Iroquois slowly nodded, following Conawago's example as the old Nipmuc sat cross-legged on the ground beside Duncan.
Other workers gathered nearby with tubs of water and lye soap to wash the chamber pots, and more settled on the benches as if for a prayer meeting, further assuring their little assembly would have no unwanted onlookers. Duncan suddenly realized he knew all the new arrivals as they lifted their wide hats. Hadley, Marston, even Mokie, Becca, and her infant, Penn, were there. Duncan pushed back the thought that it was probably the last time he would see any of them and focused instead on the urgent need to draw the truth out. He leaned forward, handed Conawago the slip with Mrs. Bythe's chart of the code, then began to explain what he had learned.
They listened as he recounted how the killer had left codes that the fleeing slaves would carry, how the evidence had been contrived to cast suspicion on the Iroquois, how the codes were known to a small number of intellectuals in Philadelphia, how Captain Burke had joined his men on false pretenses, after secretly attending to his new life in Philadelphia.
"But why would the killer need to record the names of his own victims?" Hadley asked. He pulled a scrap of paper and a writing lead from his pocket, taking notes on his knee. He was keeping his own chronicle of the evidence.
"Because he was being paid for each one. Piecework. Because he was moving around unpredictably and could not report back in person each time he struck. Because Burke and his secret partner were obligated to make ongoing payments for their new business. And it was too dangerous to send a written message. So the escaping slaves carried the coded messages to Shamokin, where they would be received by the merchant Waller, who corresponded with a Philadelphia bank."
He ended by explaining how the raiders had taken Burke's body.
"But that was an act of war," Mrs. Bythe observed.
"That's what we were supposed to think," Duncan agreed. "Just as the first Skanawati, the one who died last winter, was supposed to think Townsend was dealing with French Indians. But they weren't French Indians. Some may have been Hurons, may have even traveled sometimes with Huron raiders, but they were outlaws working for the killer, who could not afford to have the body returned, since the scar would prove that Burke had recently been in Philadelphia."
"Even so … " Hadley began.
"Your cousin had signed a contract to buy a house here."
"Impossible!" Hadley rejoined. "He had been promised a large tract of the western lands. He had no funds to buy a house."
"He had a mistress here. He was never going to live on that tract. In fact his actions show that he had great confidence that the Virginians would never perfect their title to that tract. He did not know the depths of the evil he swam in. The money offered to him here allowed him to make a new life. He cared little if it meant helping to prevent the Virginia land titles being perfected for he did not intend to return to Virginia. He recruited Townsend, gave him a promise that his work would be published. He helped with the runaway slaves. But he knew too much. And he drank too much. Perhaps those behind the killings had intended to eliminate him all along. After all, for the rest of his life his knowledge would be a threat to them."
"But who would ever recognize such a scar?" Mrs. Bythe said. "There's only a small number of educated men in Philadelphia who would know the significance of this lightning bolt."
"Exactly," Duncan replied. The Quakers stared at him as his meaning sank in.