Shadowbrook Part 41

"The Hale Patent belongs to me."

"I remind you that you are not the eldest son."

"I am my father's son, sir, and a Hale. For now that's quite enough." Quent nodded toward a tall clock standing across from the governor's elegant writing table. Painted cherubs cavorted in a painted garden at the clock's base. Two more carved in bra.s.s rode the bob of the pendulum as it swung rhythmically from side to side. "You have thirty seconds, sir, to give me what I require. I shall start the count."

"Thirty seconds?" the governor repeated incredulously.

The pendulum had completed three swings. "Twenty-seven now."

"Or else what, Mr. Hale?"

"Or else a letter I wrote before coming here will be delivered to His Excellency the Secretary of State, William Pitt. It's on a Devrey s.h.i.+p that leaves with the evening tide-about half an hour from now-and will be in London in less than a month."

"I might have known Bede Devrey was party to this outrage. And exactly what does your letter say, Mr. Hale?" It was said softly, with no hint of panic. De Lancey was neither a fool nor a coward.

"It says that I have proof you conspired with John Lydius to deliver faulty muskets to the Yorkers who joined His Majesty's soldiers for Braddock's campaign in the Ohio Country, as well as those provided for conscripts sent to defend Fort William Henry. That you were thus in some measure responsible for both ma.s.sacres, and that the corruption of your stewards.h.i.+p in this province cries to heaven for vengeance. Something to that effect, at any rate. There are seven seconds remaining, Governor."

"It's not true, therefore you can have no such proof."

"It is true. But even were it not, are you aware of the mood in London after so many defeats, Governor? Have you any notion of how desperately the government needs a goat that can be made to bear its sins?"

"Why should William Pitt believe a landless second son who has chosen to live as a woodsman and-"

"The Secretary and I spent many hours together, Governor. I have his complete confidence precisely because I am not a man of politics or property. Lacking ambition in your world, and that of Pitt, that gives me all the bona fides I require. And your writ runs from London, or it runs not at all. Now, sir. Your time is up."

Quent rose and went to the window and pushed aside the damask draperies.

"What the devil are you doing?"

"Signaling to my uncle's man. So he can go down to the docks and let the Devrey captain know the letter's to be delivered."

"I don't believe you."

Quent threw open the cas.e.m.e.nt. "Pipps! Are you there? Come closer so His Excellency the Governor can get a look at you."

"Right here I be, Mr. Hale, sir."

"Excellent. Now, I wish you to-"

"Wait!" De Lancey's command came out in a harsh whisper.

Quent turned to face him. The governor stood behind his desk, leaning over and supporting himself with the knuckles of both hands. "Wait," he repeated. "What you're doing makes no sense at all."

"It makes perfect sense." Quent glanced toward the clock with its unrelenting pendulum. "You'd best go now, Pipps. Tide's getting ready to turn."

"I said wait, d.a.m.n you! There's a good fifteen minutes before the tide turns."

And you, sir, are mine. I've won, d.a.m.n your lying hide. I've won! Excitement roiled Quent's belly and made him want to roar with triumph. You have accepted my measure of the situation and it's urgency, adopted it as your own. Meaning I have you as securely as if your still warm scalp was in my hand. He had never before experienced the thrill of a serious battle fought without a gun or a tomahawk or a knife, using not even his fists, only words and ideas, fas.h.i.+oning them into clever feints and parries that his enemy could not avoid. It was intoxicating. "Pipps, you'd best leave. Be sure and tell-"

"You won't have the Patent, whatever I do." De Lancey shot the words at him from across the room. "The holding will simply revert back to your brother John."

"I'll tell you one more time, De Lancey, I, too, am my father's son. And my brother, whatever else he may be, is a Hale." John must die. For the Patent to survive, not only must I prevail here, now, in this room, John must die. "I am asking you one last time for those deeds, sir."

Pipps stood by the open window, listening to everything, grinning, his long, fanglike teeth on display. "Won't take me more'n a few minutes to run down to the docks, Mr. Hale, sir. Be a bit o' time left. Not much, mind, but a bit."

De Lancey moved out from behind his desk. A picture of his country seat on Bouwery Lane a few miles north in the rural Manhattan fastness hung above a mahogany console set against the opposite wall. The governor swung the painting aside and revealed a locked cupboard which he opened. Inside was a box, also locked. The governor carried it to his desk.

"Still time," Pipps said at the window. "But it's getting short. I'll be going in less'n a minute or so."

"Shut up, you evil-looking blackguard," De Lancey snapped. Then, to Quent: "I am not accustomed to being spied on by common riffraff peeking through my windows."

"Back off, Pipps. But wait nearby."

"Yes, sir. As you say, sir."

De Lancey had the box unlocked and open. He removed two packets of doc.u.ments and held them out. Quent took them, untying each bundle in turn and examining the papers quickly but thoroughly. The entire history of the double transaction was in his hands. If these papers were destroyed, it would be as if neither sorry bargain had been struck. "Tell me something, Governor, why did you agree to sell to Hamish Stewart? He can't have paid you half what the place is worth." Quent glanced again at the signatures on the bill of sale. A quartet of scoundrels as rotten as any he'd ever heard of. "Not an eighth of its worth," he said, noting the price. "Why?"

"Why should I tell you anything?" De Lancey was very pale. Quent could smell the fury in him, and the self-disgust because he'd been forced to surrender.

"Indulge me, Governor," he said softly. "Why the sale for too little to a man you could easily have crushed and discarded?"

De Lancey shrugged. There was no harm in telling now, and it was worth it to inflict a bit of pain on this arrogant red devil. "Stewart's the one arranged to have Shadowbrook burned out by the Canadian savages. He thought no one knew, but of course I ..." The governor made another of those dismissive gestures meant to indicate his all-seeing authority. "Granted, the rain saved the Patent from as much rain as was intended, but-"

Not just the rain, Quent thought, but the fact that Nicole and I were in Shoshanaya's glade. She couldn't have run off to a nunnery if I'd taken her in that cursed glen. Quent forced his thoughts away from Nicole. They were a distraction. Worse, they softened him.

"-the attack was the first wedge." De Lancey enjoyed the look of anguish in Quentin Hale's eyes. "Opened the wound, so to speak. Everything fell into place after that. Hamish Stewart was a useful tool. No reason not to let him think the Patent his. For a time, at least."

"A device to get John out of the picture," Quent said. "And leave you to manage things as you chose when you were ready." The governor nodded. "Stewart's untimely death must have caused you some disappointment," Quent added.

"I am not surprised that you know he's dead, Mr. Hale. Your mother came to visit her brother very recently, and your uncle can hardly have failed to inform you of all the Patent's vital business."

"I would never expect to surprise a man so well-informed, sir. At least not in such particulars." Quent spoke as he carried the second set of deeds, the one awarding the Patent to the Scot, to the governor's lively fire and tossed them into its heart. "I'm told Stewart's buried on our land. Out behind the pigsty."

"A detail I shall carry forever in my heart."

Quent watched the last traces of the deed that had made the Patent over to Hamish Stewart char, curl, blacken, and finally disappear. He looked over at the other papers that had occupied this visit, the ones from London that still lay on the governor's desk. "You understand what Pitt's plans mean, do you not?"

"Oh yes. Ma.s.sive, irresistible force. That's what you advised, isn't it?"

"Indeed. But the idea had already been in the Secretary's mind. My suggestions were warmly received."

"Then we shall get very rich here in New York. Very quickly. Properly fought wars do that for men of business, Mr. Hale. You are aware of that fact?"

"Entirely aware, Governor. Which is why I wish to make you a proposition."

De Lancey was immediately wary. "What sort of proposition?"

"Twelve percent of the Patent's profits for the next four years. You and Oliver to share equally."

"I think," the governor said slowly, "you must be mad." He indicated the set of deeds Quent still held. "You have what you came for, Mr. Hale. Why should you-"

Because your reaction tells me what I most need to know, b.l.o.o.d.y James De Lancey. There are no other copies of these d.a.m.nable papers, no further way you and your poxed brother can claim the Patent. "Because, sir"-nothing in Quent's tone gave away his triumph-"I would far rather have you as an ally than an enemy. As you've said, trade will be brisk over the next few years. There are many ways the Acting Governor of New York can a.s.sist a provincial farmer who wishes to profit from that trade."

De Lancey was silent for some time. Quent counted eight swings of the cherubs riding the pendulum. "Fourteen percent," the governor said finally.

"Done."

"I will draw up an agreement." De Lancey flipped the tails of his coat as he sat down and reached for a quill.

"No need," Quent said. "My uncle and I have done so already. Only the exact figure needs to be filled in." He turned to the still-open window. "Pipps, you still there?"

"Right here, sir."

"Please go at once to my uncle and ask that he might attend us here at His Excellency's residence. And Pipps-"

"Yes, sir?"

"Tell him the figure is fourteen."

De Lancey leaned back in his chair, the quill still in his hand. "You are a remarkable man, Mr. Hale. May I ask what was to be your final offer?"

"Sixteen percent," Quent admitted with a grin. "Now, sir, I suggest you send for your brother Oliver. I'd like his signature on our agreement as well."

"Oliver's up in the country. At his house in Bloomingdale. It will take the better part of two hours to-"

"Oliver's drinking at the Sign of the Black Horse over on William Street, sir. Not ten minutes from here."

"How do you know that?"

"I was trained by the Potawatomi. All braves are taught to scout out the battlefield before they attack."

De Lancey swallowed the bile that filled his mouth. Fourteen percent. Less than what he'd hoped for, and by Hale's own admission, less than he could have had. But it was a good deal better than nothing. He rang for a footman and sent him to summon Oliver. "All as you arranged it, Mr. Hale," the governor said softly. "But may I ask, having taken care of my brother, what you plan to do about your own?"

"Nothing. There is no need. For the time being John will run the Patent as he always has." John must die. For the Patent to be safe, John must die.

De Lancey raised his eyebrows. "He's nearly run it into the ground so far. What use to me and Oliver is fourteen percent of nothing?"

"Not even John will fail to make profit in the present circ.u.mstances, Governor."

De Lancey looked again at the papers from London. Both men heard the clatter of the front door knocker, then Bede Devrey's hearty tones saying that His Excellency had sent for him. "We shall soon find out, I expect," De Lancey said as he rose to greet his new guest.

Quent nodded. He had won-the joy of that made his pulse race and heated his blood-but a battle only, not the war. John must die.

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 27, 1759.

ALBANY.

The tobacco smoke was as thick as ever; the noise, if anything, louder. It had been two years since Quent had been in the Sign of the Nag's head, but little had changed. The chalkboard on the tavern wall still offered the day's selection of food-the oysters were a s.h.i.+lling a dozen, outrageous-and the air was heavy with the yeasty scent of ale and the honey of rum.

As for old man Groesbeck, he looked younger. Must be the amount of bra.s.s he was taking in now that Albany was full of redcoats and militia. He stood not far from the front door, tapping a new keg. The bung gave at the third whack, and the foamy brew erupted into the pail below. Good beer, the smell and the color attested to it. Those patrons near enough to observe sent up a cheer. Groesbeck plugged the hole with a pewter spigot. Landlord's duty done, he made way for one of the barmaids.

He'd spotted the Red Bear as soon as he came in. Now he made his way through the throng. "Good evening to you, Quent. It's been a long time."

"Too long, Peter. I'm parched."

The landlord turned and shouted, and one of the mugs of new beer was pa.s.sed forward. Quent offered a penny, but Groesbeck waved it aside. "No, no, not after so much time we are not seeing you. Besides," he added with a grin that showed his missing teeth, "tuppence I'm charging these days."

"Yes, and I see the oysters have doubled in price as well. Business must be very good."

Groesbeck's grin widened. "Many customers, ja. The Yorkers and the redcoats, they all come. Sometimes the officers, even."

Give it a few months, old man, and you'll have so much custom you'll surely think you've died and gone to landlord's heaven. "What about the old customers, then? Do they continue to drink here?"

"Why not? We still give them the best food, and drinks to full measure. No water in the punch, neither."

"Ah, that must be the attraction for the canny Scot, then. Have you seen him lately?"

Groesbeck c.o.c.ked his head and looked up at Quent. "The one who used to live by the Widow Krieger? With one seeing only?" He clapped a hand over his left eye.

"That's the one."

"Why you want to know about him?"

"We had some business together last time I was here. Interrupted a conversation you and I were having, as I recall."

"Ja, ja. I remember. He's dead, that one. Happened up at your place. Some kind of quarrel with your brother."

He'd found out what he wanted to know, how the death of Hamish Stewart was interpreted locally, and he need not pretend to mourn for a man he barely knew. "My brother's not hard to argue with."

Groesbeck's look darkened. "Not so bad when it's another man, a fair fight. With a woman, even a-"

"What woman?"

The landlord jerked his head to the back of the taproom. "Annie the wh.o.r.e. She was a friend of the one-eye. She's here tonight. First time in three weeks."

Quent nodded his thanks for the information and the beer and began making his way toward the rear. A path was instantly cleared for him. A few people nodded or murmured a greeting or slapped his arm in welcome, mostly locals who had known him since he was a boy. The rest kept a respectful distance.

Annie Crotchett sat in her usual place in the rear of the taproom, near the door to the yard. Her right eye was swollen shut; her left was blacked, but usable. She saw Quentin Hale making his way toward her and waved away the two Yorkers who had been keeping her company. "Go on about yer business, lads. Annie's got a special caller. Another Hale, as I live and breathe. The famous one."

Quent nodded to the Yorkers as they left, and straddled one of the stools they'd left vacant. "Good evening to you, Mistress Crotchett."