McClellan looked uncomfortable.
Pinkerton left to go back to Chicago, and I remained in Springfield. I wondered what pressing business was taking him home and had a few theories. First, that he was testing me to see how I did without his direct supervision. Second, that he was testing something about the railroad men instead. Third, that he really did have more pressing business besides a highly confidential investigation on behalf of our biggest, most important client. That seemed the least likely explanation.
Lincoln had a list of options for me to delve into, and I annoyed him by dismissing most of them right off.
“He’s not going to buy land,” I said, pointing at the list. “Too traceable. He’d have to buy it in his own name, and it’s not portable.”
“Cattle, then.”
“No. Still too much paper.”
“Gold.”
“Maybe. But you have to go to a bank to get it. And a man buying ounce after ounce of gold is going to be remembered.”
“Fine,” said Lincoln, folding his arms and exposing an extra inch of bony wrist beyond his too-short cuffs. “Tell me where you think it is.”
“Gems.”
I saw the switch flip in his head. He wouldn’t have thought of it himself—I could tell he was the kind of man who rarely indulged his wife in baubles—but he saw the sense in it right away.
From there, we quickly discovered that there was only one jewelry store of any consequence in Springfield. I asked to take a position there as a clerk, and the lawyer quickly succeeded in arranging it, telling the proprietor that I was a country cousin, a bit of fiction that I think amused us both.
Dressed neatly in a white blouse and a sensible skirt of muted plaid, introducing myself with the name Miss Lincoln, I stood ready to assist any ladies looking to make purchases. The proprietor, Mr. Corwin, was younger than I expected, with a long nose, fine eyebrows he often raised in amusement, and thick, dark, wavy hair. He familiarized me with the stock, from the smallest silver pin to the most ornate, gem-studded necklace and everything in between.
As the days proceeded, Mr. Corwin and I spent a good deal of time in conversation, passing minutes and hours as we waited for customers. He instructed me in good principles of service, and I made him laugh, acting the part of a terrible customer, demanding all sorts of fine manners. He had a crooked, warm smile, and I enjoyed seeing it.
Lincoln and I had decided that I would report once a week. The first week, I had very little to say. Some of the wives of men on the railroad’s payroll had come in—I had a list—but their purchases had not been untoward. My confidence began to waver, though I didn’t show it, knowing he would only believe in me as long as I appeared to believe in myself.
The second week broke things wide open.
Two women made major purchases. First, a dark-haired woman in middle age whose broad, high bosom made her resemble a pigeon selected the store’s showpiece necklace, a ruby affair with branching silver leaves. It looked well enough on her, and both Mr. Corwin and I encouraged the purchase, each for our own reasons. She dithered a long time. When she finally decided to take the necklace, she laughed and clapped, and I saw a peek of the schoolgirl she had once been. When she indicated to Mr. Corwin that the purchase should be placed on the Vincent house account, I was sorely tempted to burst into applause my own self. This, then, was Mrs. Vincent, the accountant’s wife.
I asked Mr. Corwin whether this was her first extravagant piece, and he mentioned a brooch she’d purchased six months before, a large cushion-cut sapphire surrounded by diamonds. I felt I couldn’t ask for more specifics without arousing his suspicions, but I filed away the information, feeling on the cusp of discovery.
Two days later, a much younger woman with auburn hair purchased a stack of gold-plated bracelets, enough to cuff her arm nearly to the elbow. I wrapped them in pretty paper while she discussed the financial details with Mr. Corwin, so I did not hear what name she gave. After she left, I said, “My goodness! Whoever sponsors her purchases must be quite well-off. Whose account does she use?”
“Bronson,” said Mr. Corwin without elaborating.
Something about his manner struck me as odd, as he had never been terse with me, not in the least. I drew close to him and asked in a conspiratorial whisper, “Bronson? I don’t believe I’ve heard that name here before.”
He laughed then, his charming, boisterous laugh. “Oh, so be it. I was never a good liar. There is no Mr. Bronson; it is a nom de guerre of another gentleman of Springfield who doesn’t wish his…sponsorship of the young lady to be known.”
I said, closer still, “And who might that gentleman be?”
“Tsk tsk, Miss Lincoln,” he said, waving a finger. “There are some secrets I can keep.”