Of all the men she entangled herself with, there was only one who was allowed to come to her house. All the others, she met at their own residences or hotels, but for some reason, she had taken a shine to one particular gentleman. I knew this because she had told me. I knew every single thing about their relationship, including the fact that she had given him a key to her back door, which he availed himself of only when she gave him permission. He did not come and go as he pleased but as she pleased, she had informed me proudly. I had cooed at her confidence, praising her for taking the reins, and filed the information away until I needed it. I needed it now.
His name was Captain Bowditch. He had springy dark curls, an unkempt beard, and a solid belly curving out the front of his uniform. Had he not held a position as chief supply officer of the U.S. Army, I would have wondered what she saw in him, but with that, I knew. I had met him on several occasions and even engaged in some mild flirting, under Tim’s watchful eye. With my husband supposedly out of town, if I were to approach him on some adventure, I thought the chances were good that he would offer to accommodate me. I needed to be certain though, and for that reason, I concocted a more detailed plan. I would pretend I had been assaulted and seek refuge at his house, as if I were fleeing an enemy. I knew his paternal instinct would get me halfway to my goal, and his lecherous manly nature should do the rest.
It wouldn’t be pleasant, but it was necessary. And the draft that I’d been supplied with would keep me from having to fully engage him in the way my words and manner would promise.
And so the operation began.
Shortly after ten o’clock at night, a very late hour for visitors, I appeared on Bowditch’s doorstep, disheveled, with my dress torn in a precise spot that would support my story of having been attacked, as well as revealing a generous view of my undergarments and the swell of my breasts above my corset.
“Could I… Would it be all right if…” I gestured toward the open door behind him, as if I couldn’t bring myself to violate etiquette and invite myself in, even in my disastrous state.
“Oh, dear thing!” he said. “Please, come in!”
His house was modest, another factor that reminded me he must be of strategic value to Mrs. Greenhow, who was not known for valuing substance over style. Paths were worn in the carpets along the most-traveled routes, and the bricks around the fireplace were streaked with black ash from a fire that had been allowed to burn too hot, who knows how long before. All these details, I observed in a moment. I was there but not there, my mind separate from my body, despite the evening’s importance.
I sat in his parlor and unspooled my sad tale, while he plied me with wine and made supportive clucking noises. His eyes returned over and over to the rip in my dress, and I leaned far enough over to give him an eyeful. Since becoming an operative, I had always been very conscious of my position relative to that of people regarding me, finding it important to view myself through their eyes. But I had never been so precise, so aware, of how every move I made led directly to a ripple of feeling in the person I was talking with.
I rubbed my ankle as if it ached, and he wolfishly followed the motion of my hand along my leg. I held my empty glass out toward him, and he nearly tripped over his feet in his haste to pour. So much depended on having his attention. I would do anything to keep it as the night unfolded.
The hour grew late.
Finally, after making it clear that I was afraid to go out in the street again after my experience, I waited for him to make an inappropriate offer, and he did not disappoint me.
“I must insist you stay with me tonight.”
“I couldn’t.”
“You can, and you will. I have a small guest room that adjoins my own. Let me show you.” He extended his hand, and I took it. In my other hand, he placed the wineglass that I had almost left behind.
In the room, he gestured to the bed and cabinets, saying, “You’ll be comfortable here. But are you quite sure you should be alone? I would be fearful in your situation.”
“I am…fearful, sir.”
“Wait here just a moment, please,” he said. He was gone truly only a moment, as he had gone back to the parlor to fetch another bottle of wine, and he opened it quickly while I sat down on the edge of the uncomfortable bed and cast my eyes down at the carpet.
“So,” he said. “Perhaps I should remain with you for a time. To be sure that you feel more secure.”
I noticed that he did not phrase it as a question. I was unsure whether a refusal on my part would be graciously accepted. Not that it mattered, since I had no plans to refuse.
Silently, I nodded my assent.
I was in unfamiliar territory, but I could make educated guesses at what came next. I had to excuse myself for private ablutions, and he did too. While he was gone, I made sure to pour him another glass of wine and one for myself, though mine was just for appearance’s sake.
I carefully took out the precious vial of liquid. Just a few drops should render him unconscious within a few minutes. Everything depended on the quick action of the anesthetic. If it took too long to work, I might find myself compromised, and that was to be avoided. But I’d been assured it acted with exactly the right speed.
The vial was slender and clear. The liquid inside was a pale yellow just this side of iodine. It felt fragile in my nervous grasp. I was just unscrewing the lid, hunched over his glass, when I heard the door handle rattle and the captain’s voice call out, “My dear, are you quite ready?”
My hand twitched, and I fumbled the liquid, which tumbled down, down, down, and landed on the thick carpet. For a moment, I held out hope that the lid had still been sealed, but I could see at a glance through the clear glass of the vial that my hope was misplaced. Hungrily, the fibers of the carpet drank up what was spilled.
Every last drop was gone, and I was lost.
There was no time to mourn the error. I was still here, and my quarry was still just outside the door waiting for me. Something had to be done. This was my only chance to lay my hands on the key, and the key was my only chance to get into Mrs. Greenhow’s household while she was out of town to search it. There had to be clues there. The Pinkertons would find them. But first, we had to get into the house, and to do that, I needed that key.
I forged ahead, and I did what was required.