A Touch of Camelot Read online

  Her stepfather, Silas, and her late mother, Emmaline, had preferred to call themselves "entertainers." Gwin thought this euphemism stretched it about a mile, if not two, but there was enough truth in it to hang a hat on. She tried not to brood too much over the past, and she never would have spoken of it aloud. She loved Silas. He had raised her the best way he knew how.

  Silas now addressed her, breaking into her thoughts. "Speak your name, little sister!"

  Gwin looked up to meet his ice blue gaze, the peculiar coloring she had inherited, although not exactly from him. Otherwise, no one would have guessed that they were related. The auburn shade of her hair, the pale cast of her complexion, the shape of her nose and her mouth, she had taken from her mother.

  As she'd rehearsed, Gwin spoke in a tremulous voice. "My name is Susannah! My brother and I have come all the way from Laramie."

  "You have traveled to this place to be with the Lord God Jehovah. I can see that, my sister! Do you believe?"

  "I believe, Brother Christian!"

  Silas lifted his head. His salt and pepper hair had been dyed coal-black, but it was beginning to thin on top. Indeed, these days he sported a rapidly expanding patch of scalp that not even Professor Throckmorton's Incredible Hair Tonic seemed able to cure. Silas closed his eyes and touched his forehead as if listening to the exhortations of angels. The crowd hushed.

  "But it is not you who is to be healed tonight, is it, Susannah?" Silas opened his eyes and fixed his fevered gaze on Arthur. He cupped the child's face in one hand. "It is this young man, lame and hurting, who has come to be healed by God this night! Glory hallelujah! Do you believe, little brother? Do you believe?"

  Arthur bobbed his head. "Oh yes! I sure do, Brother Christian! I really do!"

  Silas turned to Clell Martin, who stood near the rear of the stage next to a pair of ex-dance hall girls, twins named Molly and Lolly. They had joined the troupe as gospel singers only two months before. "Bring me my Bible, Brother Jonathan! Quickly! I feel the spirit of the Lord upon me!"

  When Clell had joined the group he had been an orphan picked up by Silas in the streets of Kansas City. That had been almost fifteen years ago. Since then, he had grown into a tall, handsome young man and now, as he hurried toward Silas, his golden hair gleamed in the light of the lamps that were strung around the perimeter of the stage.

  As Clell passed the dog-eared Bible into Silas's outstretched palm, Silas's commanding voice rang out, mangling yet another verse from the Book of Matthew, and Gwin rolled her eyes. Much more of that and they would be dodging tomatoes before this night was over. What was wrong with him?

  Silas raised the Bible high in one hand and touched the boy's head with the other. "Join with me now, brothers and sisters! It is only through your faith and belief in God that He will work His miracles through us here tonight!"

  Silas now reached out to Gwin. "Give me your hand, Sister Susannah!"

  Gwin raised her head and, with her fingers spread wide, lifted her hand to join with Silas's. It was only for a brief second that her own deformity flashed visible. A thin web of skin that joined the lower third of her ring and smallest finger was almost translucent when held up to the light.

  "Remember the words of the Lord! All is well! Your faith will heal you! Brothers and sisters, do you belieeeve?"

  The crowd bellowed and shrieked, cried and bounced to its feet. "We believe! We belieeeve!"

  "Believe, little brother, that God will give you the strength to walk again! I say, walk again! Walk again!"

  It was Arthur's cue. He gasped and grimaced as he cast away one crutch. The crowd oooooohed. He wobbled and cast away the second crutch. Ahhhhhhhhh! He pitched sideways, catching himself against Gwin's shoulder. A woman in the front row shrieked and fainted, overcome with either spiritual ecstasy or heatstroke, just as Arthur took one trembling step forward. He took another few steps and fell into Brother Christian's waiting arms.

  The crowd erupted.

  Gwin jumped to her feet, tears now streaking down her face. "My brother walks again!" But her well-rehearsed line was lost, drowned out by the clamor of the crowd.

  *

  Gwin stood quietly beneath the moonlit sky, her arms folded as she surveyed the twinkling hills of San Francisco. In the distance below, Molly and Lolly had brought the service to a rousing conclusion by leading the congregation through all four verses of "Stand Up, Stand Up for Jesus." Obviously, Gwin's premonition of disaster had been ill-founded. The show was over and this was their last night in town. What could go wrong now?

  After the show, Gwin, Arthur, and a man named Wilson had filed from the overheated tent right along with the rest of the animated crowd, but unlike the others, they had circled back a half mile into the outlying hills to wait until the camp was deserted.

  Arthur, who was always wound up tighter than a watch spring after a performance, was playing true to form. His child's voice rose high to spike the clear night air as he paced excitedly behind her. "Our revels now are ended! These our actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits and are melted into air, into thin air!"

  Wilson appeared by Gwin's side, taking a slow draw from his crumpled cigarette. "What is the matter with that boy?"

  Silas had discovered Wilson working in a carnival sideshow. The man with the "melting face" was horribly disfigured from burns he had suffered as a child. These days, Wilson elicited mingled gasps of horror and pity as he edged his way, with the use of a cane, through the crowd. No one ever doubted his claim to blindness.

  "He must have read it in one of our mother's books," Gwin replied to his question. "Arthur remembers everything he reads."

  "Everything? He remembers everything?"

  "Pretty near."

  Arthur stopped to squint up at them from beneath the brim of an old engineer's cap, a battered hand-me-down from Gwin's own childhood. "Shakespeare. The Tempest, Act IV."

  Gwin swatted him on the arm. "Stop showing off."

  Wilson nudged the boy. "Shakespeare, huh? You know, I seen that Macbeth once in a playhouse in New York City."

  "Really?" Now it was Arthur's turn to be impressed. "You been to New York City, Wilson? When was that?"

  As Wilson proceeded to enthrall Arthur with stories of faraway New York City, Gwin watched her little brother's wide-open face and had to ride out a sudden wave of affection that threatened to engulf her.

  While it was true that she didn't like to brood over her own past, she wished things were different for Arthur. Her little brother was bright. No, he was more than just bright. He was truly special, and he deserved better than to be raised in a family of sharpers. He deserved to be in school where his talents would be nurtured. He deserved to be raised in a proper home. Gwin knew this, but there was nothing she could do about it. She wouldn't take Arthur away from Silas.

  “Let’s start back,” she said.

  She proceeded down the hill toward the billowing circus tent while, behind her, Arthur badgered poor Wilson with more questions about New York. Gwin paid little attention. She was thinking that maybe later, when they knocked off in Kansas City for the winter, she would take some of her earnings and hop a train back to San Francisco. There was a good chance that her real father had settled in California many years ago, before she was born, and now, because of certain remarks Silas had let slip, Gwin believed her father might still be living here. If so, she was determined to find him.

  When they reached the deserted back end of the tent, they heard muffled voices and could see shadows moving inside. These were Silas, Clell, Molly, and Lolly at work packing up the props.

  The thought of Clell working side by side with Molly and Lolly brought a frown to Gwin's face. She'd seen Clell eyeing up the twin dance-hall girls. She'd also seen them eyeing him up.

  Gwin knew that, by rights, this wasn't her business. Clell had already asked her to marry him, and she had refused. She'd even let him kiss her a few times, and each time, she had felt nothing. Gwin wasn't sure what she was suppo
sed to feel when a man kissed her, but she was fairly certain she should feel something. Her own girlish dreams told her that much.

  Wilson broke into her thoughts. "Now, who the heck do you suppose that is?"

  Gwin looked up to see a man on horseback emerging into the circle of lantern light that surrounded the old circus tent. He was big, very big, that much was plain, but his broad-brimmed hat was pulled low over his forehead, discouraging any view of his face. He was well dressed, an expensive knee-length coat stretched over massive shoulders.

  Gwin looked at Wilson. "We have to stay out of sight until he leaves."

  Wilson nodded and, together, they stepped back into the shadows around the side of the tent. Gwin peeked around the corner just as the stranger dismounted. She still couldn't make out his face.

  "What's he want?" A loud whisper. This was Arthur.

  "Shhh!" Gwin pulled back around the corner and motioned for him to hush up.

  "I'm gonna see what he wants!" Before Gwin could catch Arthur's sleeve, he scurried off to the back end of the tent. She knew he would sneak a peek through one of the loose flaps.

  "Darn that kid."

  "Don't worry," Wilson said. "He handles himself better than any kid I ever saw."

  Well, that was right enough, she supposed. Gwin edged along the side of the tent, her ears pricked to catch the conversation that passed within.

  "Are you Brother Christian?"

  The man's voice was rumbling and deep, his tone flat. Gwin saw the length of Silas's shadow against the faded canvas, elongating and shortening, as he moved to face the stranger. "That I am. And you, sir, are?"

  "Who I am doesn't matter. Is this your whole group?"

  Clell spoke then, challenging. "I'm sorry, sir, but if you won't identify yourself and state your—"

  "Silas Pierce?"

  Silence. No one outside of their troupe ever used Silas's real name.

  Silas's tone was wary. "So, it's trouble you've come for."

  "I've come to deliver a message to Silas Pierce."

  "Well, deliver it and be on your— No! Wait!"

  A deafening shot rang out. Gwin jerked back as Silas, blown clean off his feet, flew back against the side of the tent not four yards from where she stood. She gaped, horrified, as his form slumped to the ground.

  "Silas!" Clell cried. The shotgun roared again.

  There were screams as Molly and Lolly tried to escape. Then three more shots, each punctuated by the metallic scratch-click of the lever-action as it ejected spent shells. The screaming stopped.

  Wilson's fingers dug into Gwin's elbow. He spun her around, whispering, "We gotta get outta here!"

  "But we can't just leave them!"

  "He's after everyone, you hear? All of us."

  Gwin’s blood went cold. "Oh, my God ... where's Arthur?"

  Inside the tent, the big man's voice boomed. "Hey, you! Kid! What are you doing there?"

  Gwin raced for the rear of the tent. She spotted her little brother, frozen and still down on his knees, just as she heard the man inside the tent reloading.

  She snagged the shoulder strap of Arthur's overalls, yanking him off balance. He reeled back, his arms flung out, his face white. He was unexpectedly heavy, and Gwin went down with him.

  The gun roared, and a jagged hole blew open the side of the tent. Gwin rolled and pulled at Arthur, screaming, "Get up! Get up!"

  Gwin felt strong hands hook under her arms, and she was suddenly on her feet, Arthur along with her. Wilson whirled them around to face the dark hills and shouted, "Run!"

  He didn't have to say it twice. Gwin moved. She ran like she'd never run before, pulling her little brother behind her. She looked back only once to see the gunman as he struggled to push through the tangled tent flap.

  Wilson gasped and wheezed as he pounded along at their heels. Gwin remembered that he had once mentioned to her that his lungs had been damaged in that fire long ago. But what could she do?

  The campsite was far behind, their only light a three-quarter moon. Arthur pulled ahead of Gwin, picking up speed. She prayed that none of them would misstep into a gully.

  Another gunshot, and Gwin's heart skittered, anticipating the horrific sensation of being hit, but it never came. The steady thud of Wilson's boots began to fade, but she could still hear him back there, wheezing as if his lungs were collapsing. It was only then she realized that very real tears were streaming down her cheeks.

  Another shot and she heard Wilson go down with a strangled cry and a thump. Gwin stumbled, nearly crashing headlong to the ground, but her legs miraculously kept moving.

  "Run, Arthur! Don't look back!"

  And so, they ran, Arthur and Guinevere, children of God, panting and terrified, into the dark California night.

  Chapter Two

  Pinkerton's National Detective Agency, Chicago, July 10, 1879

  Cole rose from his seat and started pacing, working up a healthy case of nerves as he continued to cool his heels in the outer office of the assistant superintendant.

  The secretary, Mrs. Avery, a grey-haired, slightly built widow with patient blue eyes, looked up from her desk with a sympathetic smile. "Would you like a glass of water while you're waiting, Mr. Shepherd?"

  "No, thank you. I'm fine."

  "I'm sorry he's taking so long."

  Cole forced a smile. "It's not a problem. I'm fine."

  Mrs. Avery smiled back—a sweet, understanding smile, one that nursed fevers in the night, wiped runny noses, and kissed skinned knees. It was a motherly smile that reminded young boys to wear their coats on cold autumn days, to comb their hair before leaving the house, and to carry an umbrella when it looked like rain.

  This expression was not unfamiliar to Cole. When older women looked at him in just this way, he always vowed anew to grow a beard. Cole knew his youth had something to do with it, but he was sure his clean-shaven appearance only aggravated the problem.

  He looked away from Mrs. Avery's soulful eyes and resumed pacing. His nervousness was not caused by the idea of meeting with his superior, Fritz Landis. He had known the man for over nine months, and if anyone was his mentor here at the Agency, it was Fritz. No, his nervousness was caused by what he hoped would be the subject of their meeting.

  From the very first day he had crossed the threshold of the Chicago office, passing beneath that watchful Eye and the now-famous slogan "We Never Sleep," Cole, only two years out of college, had been an eager student of the trade. After all, hadn't it always been his fondest dream to join the elite Pinkerton's National Detective Agency?

  Cole had worked doggedly this past nine months, shadowing older, more experienced operatives, learning their methods and practices. He had helped track thieves, some petty, some grand, and the week before last, he had even been in on the arrest of an international forger. And now his time had come.

  Fritz had sent for him and Cole knew that this time there would be no senior operative to supervise his performance. From now on, Cole would be on his own.

  The door to the office swung open. The Agency bookkeeper, a harried, wiry man with a balding pate, emerged, a thick sheaf of expense reports clutched to his chest.

  Fritz Landis appeared in the doorway after him. Today, as always, he was nattily dressed, his grey frock coat unbuttoned, revealing the choker-collared white shirt that he always wore beneath. He addressed Cole. "Come in."

  He held the door open as Cole passed into the utilitarian room, then closed it behind him and proceeded to his desk. "I hope you've had enough time to rest up since your last assignment."

  Cole tried to smile as he settled his rangy frame into the chair that faced Fritz's desk, but the effort came off stiff. His stomach still felt a little queasy, the result of butterflies that had no business fluttering about the digestive tract of a full-fledged Pinkerton operative. "You have something for me?"

  Fritz began rifling through a stack of paperwork. "Yes, I do. Now, where was that? Oh, yes, here it is. Take a look."
>
  Fritz handed Cole a wrinkled handbill. Now dry and brittle, it looked as if it had weathered more than a few nights of soggy weather. Cole peered at the wording, still discernible despite the fact that the colors had faded and most of the inks had run together.

  BROTHER CHRISTIAN'S SINBUSTING REVIVAL

  Two nights only! The public is invited to witness the faith-healing prophet at work! Hear the Word of the Lord! Seek Redemption and Salvation!

  Cole tapped the handbill with one finger. "Hey, I've heard of this fellow. Didn’t he claim to have healed some woman blinded in a stagecoach accident?"

  Fritz raised an eyebrow. "What do you think?"

  Cole tossed the handbill down on Fritz's desk. "I think it's all a lot of hogwash."

  "I happen to agree with you, but a lot of people believe in this stuff. Brother Christian was raking in a bundle."

  "A flimflam man?"

  "A flimflam man by the name of Silas Pierce. He's gone by a lot of other names, too." Fritz pulled a file from the desk. He flipped it open, reached into his coat pocket for his spectacles, and set them on his nose. "Ah, yes, Silas Pierce, alias Wilbur Jacks, horse trader; alias Franklin Singleton, lightning rod salesman; alias Grenville Charlesworth, English earl; alias Malcolm Throckmorton, snake oil salesman."

  Cole frowned. Throckmorton? The name sounded familiar, but nothing else jogged loose in his memory. He shrugged it off. It might come to him later.

  Fritz closed the file with a sigh. "There are probably more, of course, that's just the few we have on record."

  "The man has had a long and varied career," Cole commented.

  "A career that ended abruptly a few weeks ago outside of San Francisco."

  "Arrested?"

  "Murdered."