Hattie said, “I’m grateful to you, Miss Harrington.”
And then we were parted, the heavy bars sliding back into place, with one of us on either side.
? ? ?
Half of me swore to remain in Richmond until I found the person responsible for Tim’s death, no matter what; half of me wanted to flee that cursed city immediately. It was a danger to be there, every moment. My cover identity was a tissue; I had no safety net. If I were captured, no one would come to my aid, not even Hattie. Pinkerton would swear ignorance were I fool enough to implicate him, which I was not. Knowing how desperate my situation was made me feel strangely confident. If I was dead already, I risked nothing; there was no life left to lose.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Hattie’s certainty that only Rose Greenhow could have been responsible for Tim’s betrayal. Nor could I get it out of my head that Pinkerton had contributed to his death by sending him here, and I still did not know whether he’d done so to get him away from me. I couldn’t risk another interview with Hattie, not so soon. And speaking with Pinkerton was out of the question.
The only way to find out whether Mrs. Greenhow was responsible, I told myself, was to get back to Mrs. Greenhow. I’d been gone only a few days, and I hadn’t used my Washington identity in Richmond. I might be able to slip back into Annie Armstrong’s life, just for a little while.
I didn’t know what they’d done with Tim’s body. His family would have liked to have it back, I was sure. Perhaps that would happen. But I was out of designs, out of ideas, out of the kind of energy that drives a person forward. I could not wrestle it back, not that day. It was all I could do not to let myself fall from the banks of the river into the swift current. Indeed, I even stood at the river and looked down for a long time. The day was cloudy, and the river reflected the clouds, all churning white water. The rapids looked strangely soft, like soap bubbles or cotton. Perhaps it wouldn’t even hurt.
The only thing that kept me on the bank was the idea that Tim’s killer needed to be caught and punished, and I wanted be the one to make that happen. I might be the only one who could. And if Mrs. Greenhow were the one responsible, I saw no reason not to kill her with my own two hands.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Actor
Riding back into Washington alone made my whole body ache. It was not the same city it had been when I left. It was the city where I had fallen in love with Tim. To be there without him would be torture. Yet it was also the same pulsing, lively city, the same beating heart of the nation. The same subtle battleground, the same chessboard, where spies like me and spies like Rose Greenhow met and curtsied and lied to each other’s faces while we dug furiously for secrets.
The city had not changed. I had. I was in mourning now.
I needed to remember my mission, which, like me, had changed. My mission had been to find the secrets that would help the Union. Now my mission was to find and punish those responsible for Tim’s death. Inasmuch as those missions overlapped, I could do both. But if I had a choice to make, I knew which I would choose.
Climbing the steps into the hotel was so terrible, I almost turned and ran. I put one foot in front of the other, and then another, and by the time I crossed in front of the desk, I was fully upright. I wasn’t able to pretend that everything was as it should be, but at least I looked normal enough not to set off alarms in every person I saw.
“So good to see you’re well!” said the clerk.
“Oh? I just had some urgent business to settle. I’m sorry I didn’t let you know.”
“There’ve been messages for you.”
He handed me a stack of papers, and I swept them into my other hand without looking. I resisted the urge to pitch them out the nearest window. No doubt Pinkerton was furious with my desertion and commanding me to appear for his pleasure somewhere. I was falling apart, and all he would think about was duty. I had a different duty now. My duty was to Tim.
Upstairs, I set the pile of telegrams on the side table and turned my back on them. I bathed myself and set aside the dress I’d worn in Richmond. I wanted to burn it in the fireplace, but the smoke would have drawn too much attention. I tucked it into an unused suitcase. I was fresh as a daisy on the outside, though a crumbling wreck on the inside, when the clerk called up to announce my visitor.
It was Rose Greenhow.
I had wanted to take my time and think how best to approach her. I needed to carefully plan out what I’d say and how I could bring matters to a head without exposing myself. This was not to be. It would have looked too odd to refuse her, so I accepted, and she swept into the room with a gay, bright voice.
“Mrs. Armstrong! We were so worried about you!”
“Yes, I’m sorry. Unavoidable. My father’s health…”
“Where does he live, did you say?”
“I don’t think I did say. Western Pennsylvania.”
“And you went all the way there and back alone? Is he all right?”
“He’s not well,” I said, “but he’s out of immediate danger. Thank you so much for your concern. But is there anything I’ve missed in my absence? Did the Tarletons finish those improvements on their house? Is Mrs. Stone feeling better after her flu?”
She did not accommodate my wish for light news but instead steered the conversation in the one direction I was not sure I could comfortably handle. “Did you hear they finally hanged a Yankee spy?”
“No,” I said, “I haven’t seen the papers. Who was it?”
“It wasn’t in the papers. They don’t want the Yankees to find out.”
“But people talk.”
“Officially, there was no such hanging. Because if we hang one of theirs, they’ll hang one of ours.”