Kathleen Y'Barbo (2 page)

December 24, 1888

Chicago, Illinois

I
’m a Pinkerton agent, not a treasure hunter.”

Agent Kyle Russell knew he had raised his voice far louder than was proper when speaking to a superior officer, but he didn’t care. In previous cases, pleading his passion for the topic might have been a sufficient excuse, but this time he offered no apology. He was a man accustomed to working cases that mattered, not a flunky being used to further another man’s political career.

Henry Smith ignored the breach of conduct to point in Kyle’s direction. “The president has requested I put my best man on this case, and, unfortunately, you are he.”

If this was Henry’s way of praising him, the compliment fell short. Nor did it matter that it was Christmas Eve, and he had agreed to a meeting in Chicago when his mother wished him home in New Orleans to celebrate the holidays with his family.

“March fourth.” Henry shrugged. “Your time on this case lasts only until inauguration day. When the president leaves office, you can leave this case behind.” He removed his spectacles and pinched the spot where they rested on his nose. “What if I allow you to return to the Will Tucker case after this is all over? Would that sweeten the pot for working this one until the first week of March?”

Will Tucker.

The name held memories of a case that had become personal. Of a man whose exploits had wounded hearts and caused losses beyond the jewels he stole from his victims. That he had escaped from Angola Prison in Louisiana had been a thorn in Kyle’s side for more than a year.

“Before I answer you, can I ask why a president who was voted out of office is suddenly interested in Confederate treasure that may or may not have existed?”

With a lift of one shoulder, Henry put on his spectacles once more. “I would only be guessing, but I think he is looking to add some money to the government’s coffers. To leave on a high note, as it were.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he is promising to be back in four years. To be responsible for adding a substantial deposit of gold to the Treasury without taxing the people might help him get there.”

“Confederate gold for reelection?” Kyle shook his head. “Not seeing the point in it.”

“We do not have to see the point. And who knows? Maybe it is not Cleveland himself who’s asking. It could be anyone who runs in his circles. A cabinet member, one of his political backers, anyone.”

Henry walked to the door and closed it. “The assignment comes from William Pinkerton himself, son, so I suggest you take it seriously and respond accordingly.”

Kyle accepted the folder his boss offered and then opened it to give the pages a cursory glance. Though William Pinkerton ran the Chicago office with an iron hand, he rarely intervened in individual cases to make specific requests. Despite his misgivings, Kyle nodded. “All right.”

“That’s it? Just ‘all right’? Nothing else?”

Kyle tucked the folder under his arm. “What else is there to say, sir?” He paused to offer the beginnings of a smile to the man he had worked under for the better part of ten years. “Unless Mr. Pinkerton would be willing to write a note to my mother explaining my absence during her holiday celebrations. Not that it would do much good.”

Henry chuckled. “No, if she is anything like my wife, I would imagine
not.” His expression sobered. “The agency appreciates you, Kyle. You are the best we’ve got. Mr. Pinkerton said so, and I will echo the sentiment.”

A compliment neither man bestowed lightly. “Thank you, sir.”

“Look on the bright side,” he said. “Maybe you will come up with some sort of invention that will uncover buried treasure.” At Kyle’s grin, he continued. “You already have one?”

“Borrowing on the theory of induction balance put forth by Bell, I...” Kyle shook his head. “The short answer is yes, though it’s not yet ready to patent until we have done more research in the field. At least, that is the opinion of Mr. Toulmin.”

“Toulmin?”

“Our patent attorney.”

“I see. Well, perhaps you will get your field research out of this assignment. See, a positive aspect to hunting treasure and calling it Pinkerton business.”

Henry returned to his chair. “Any chance you will ever leave us to work on those inventions of yours full time? I admit I am intrigued with the idea of the personal flying machine.”

“Ah, the flying machine,” Kyle echoed. Until recently, no one at the agency knew of his inventions beyond the rare mention of one in the reports he turned in after completion of his duties on any particular case.

Then came this particular project, and his cover as an inventor had been blown. One of the investors, an Ohio lawyer by the name of Taft, was a close acquaintance of Henry’s and had shared his excitement in the invention without realizing he had breached propriety in the process. Henry had since been brought into the fold and was following each step with enthusiasm.

Kyle gave the question of his retirement only the briefest amount of thought. “As to when I will leave the agency? Not until the time is right.”

“And when will that be?”

“When the Lord says so, I suppose.”

“Fair enough.” Henry reached out to shake Kyle’s hand. “Just know I am going to be praying He remains silent on the job change for many years.”

They shared a laugh and then parted ways. A few hours later, Kyle was on a train heading south.

Unfortunately for Henry Smith and the Pinkerton agency, the Lord had already been making it quite plain to Kyle that his exit from the agency would come sooner rather than later. At least he hoped it was the Lord and not his own wishes that gave him hope he would soon spend all of his days and most of his nights working on the inventions that he and his best friend, Lucas McMinn, wished to patent.

Kyle wondered if he might pay a quick visit to Brimmfield Plantation, where Lucas, a retired Pinkerton agent, had settled with his wife, the former Flora Brimm. Perhaps Kyle could dig up a reason for the detour in the documents Henry had given him. After all, Natchez, Mississippi, was as likely a prime spot for hidden contraband gold as any other place in the Southern states.

Two months would not allow him time to delve into all the possibilities, nor could he visit all the locations where treasure had been claimed to exist. Somehow he must decide which were the stronger leads and follow them.

He dove into the file. Clipped to the second page was an envelope with his name written in Henry’s scrawling handwriting. Inside Kyle found a letter, a match, and a key.

Kyle scanned the letter once more before folding the document in quarters and setting it alight. A quick toss out the open window and the flaming remainder of Henry’s correspondence was gone on the afternoon breeze.

Kyle leaned back against the seat in the sleeper car and grinned. So he would have time to make a stop at Brimmfield after all. And he would bring the flying machine to Memphis for its first official test of the steering mechanism they had been working on. In all, a good trade for taking on the ridiculous assignment of digging up Confederate gold more than two decades after the war had ended.

He arrived at Brimmfield Plantation in the dead of night to find the McMinn and Brimm families away for the week. That was a disappointment because he had hoped to convince Lucas to accompany him for the test flight.

Letting himself into the cottage Lucas had claimed as his workshop, Kyle packed a bag with the items he would need for the tests and then left a note before departing.

Come January 2 he might be chasing treasure, but he would be chasing the wind on New Year’s Eve.

December 24, 1888

Memphis, Tennessee

Cook was right. The best thing about marrying Sir William Trueck and beginning a new life in London was that Millie Cope would leave Memphis and everything she knew and once loved behind. And this was no small thing.

In fact, taking this step to marry and leave Memphis entirely was a thing so large in scope that Millie could scarcely take it in on those occasions when she made the attempt. And thus she had settled into a habit of not making the attempt.

For she knew she could not stay, not when her life in this house was merely the wisp of a shadow slipping into darkness. As Sir William Trueck’s American bride, she could step out of that shadow. She tried to recall that when fear rose to make its attempt at choking out good sense. And Millie Cope was nothing if not sensible.

After the death of her mother and two elder sisters, Julia and Sarah, to a yellow fever epidemic a decade ago, the distance that yawned between her and her father had become unbearable.

In England, Millie could be odd. She could be thought a bluestocking or some other antiquated term used to define a woman bent on pursuit of intelligence and scientific thought rather than the gentler things in life. Even better, she could finally put the rumors of family treasure to rest by actually finding it. For a married woman with a secure trust fund and a husband who was busying himself elsewhere could travel at will and without explanation.

If only she could bring Cook with her. But as much as Cook loved the Cope girls, as she called Millie, her sisters, and Mama, Cook was dug deep in Memphis soil and would never be uprooted.

At least that is what she told Millie every time she broached the subject. In fact, the only time the woman was absent from the Cope home was the week she took off each year in mid-February.

To go home,
was the cryptic response to anyone who asked where Cook went. Beyond that, she refused to say.

Cook was wise beyond her substantial years, a woman whose words were sprinkled with references to people long dead and places shielded by Spanish moss and reached only by pirogue through the narrow expanses of the bayou.

Father liked to claim she dallied with voodoo, but Millie knew the
truth. The woman whose kitchen brought forth unmatched delicacies three times each day had taken up the task of teaching her about the Lord Almighty through the ancient Bible she kept behind the breadbox just as soon as Millie could read.

So when Father brought his new business partner, Sir William Trueck, home for dinner, it was Cook’s idea for Millie to smile sweetly in his direction. To allow him to court her when he asked. And, finally, to accept his proposal of marriage, but only if it came with the assurance that she would be allowed to live in England and have complete freedom to do as she pleased.

Millie slid Sir William a sideways glance. Of course, he was deep in conversation with Father. The topic, as always, was business.

And though she ought to pay at least some modicum of attention to the things that interested her future husband, Millie just could not manage the feat. Perhaps it was Father’s fervor for the topic that put her off.

Instead, she allowed her covert gaze to wash over the Englishman’s handsome features. He was tall and fair, with eyes of stormy gray that sometimes turned green when the light was right. While he spoke of business deals and building empires, his voice bore an authoritative quality that women who liked that sort of fellow might adore.

In truth, Millie could easily imagine falling in love with Sir William. He was kind, and when occupied with a topic other than business, interesting and quite well spoken.

He caught her looking and smiled. She returned the gesture easily. Though she had to admit hers would be an arranged marriage and not a love match, the thought of life with Sir William was not altogether unpleasant.

“Mildred,” Silas Cope said, cutting into her thoughts. “I trust you have chosen your gown for the announcement. You have just a week, you know.” He looked away as if no response was required.

Which, of course, it was not. Millie could count on one hand the number of times since the funerals that he had actually wished for her opinion on any matter.