“I didn’t say anything,” he whispers preemptively as Anderson rips the thin blanket from around his shoulders.
“I should hope not,” Anderson says. “Seriously, get up. Placide wants us downstairs.”
All Jack can think is that Ritchie has returned, with the rest of the committee, to make his arrests. “Did Placide say what this is about?” he asks as he rises from his makeshift pallet.
“I have my suspicions,” says Anderson, but he is apparently unwilling to share them with Jack. “Come on.”
In the tavern’s back room, Jack can hear Placide issuing instructions. “File in, yes, all of you. There’s plenty of room.” He sounds so collegial, downright cooperative, even.
Jack arrives at the bottom of the stairs, and to his great surprise, Placide greets him warmly, with a clap on the shoulder and aJust in time. The greeting is so atypical that Jack immediately suspects something is wrong. Could this be a trap? Maybe word got back to Placide that Jack turned on him, and his plan is to wait until they have him entirely surrounded, then pounce? Jack eyes the door that leads to the taproom. He’ll never make it out alive.
West, who is sporting a fat lip after yesterday’s fight with Anderson, is seated at a table with Twaits and Caulfield and Lydia. He pulls out a chair and motions for Jack to sit.
“Where’s Green?” Jack asks, but nobody’s seen him since his interview with Ritchie.
Soon, Perry joins them. “What’s this I’m hearing about the funeral moving locations?”
Jack looks at West, but West won’t meet his eye.
“Roy says they’re digging a big hole in the center of the pit as we speak,” says Perry.
“You didn’t sell, did you?” Twaits asks West, but he doesn’t answer.
From the next table over comes Anderson’s voice. “Maybe his dignity got the better of him.”
“What does he mean by that?” Jack asks West, but before he can answer him, Ritchie arrives, accompanied by two men, and a pit forms in the bottom of Jack’s stomach.
Jack had assumed Ritchie would bring the sheriff or some of his representatives to make the necessary arrests. But he recognizes the two men Ritchie has brought with him; they were at the capitol and are both members of the inquest committee. William Marshall and Samuel Somebody. Neither of them looks equipped to help Ritchie round up this many people. Jack cranes his neck to get a better look out the window. Perhaps there is a bevy of rougher, more able-bodied men waiting outside?
Placide claps his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Quiet, please. Mr. Ritchie has something he wants to say to you all.” He motions for Ritchie to take the floor.
Ritchie steps forward and shakes Placide’s hand. “Thank you, Mr. Placide.”
This is all so civil. Too civil. Jack has to be missing something.
“Thank you for joining us at this early hour. We are dealing with an extremely delicate situation that needs to be addressed before the funeral can get underway.”
Jack isn’t sure what the funeral should have to do with anything.
“It has become clear to us,” says Ritchie, “that the fire was not started as the result of a slave revolt.”
Here it comes. Jack would give anything not to be in this room right now.
“The real culprit was a faulty pulley and the bad judgment of several otherwise intelligent and capable men.”
Ritchie pauses to let his words sink in, and the room begins to buzz. The players are clearly surprised to have had their version of events summarily dismissed, and Jack reminds himself that he, too, should act like he didn’t know this news was coming.
“We have testimony outlining exactly how the fire began, and know for a fact that at least a half dozen of you were directly involved, to say nothing of the rest of you, who have lied through your teeth these last three days.”
Jack looks at Lydia, wants to find a way to apologize to her for what is about to unfold, but her eyes are on her father.
“Who testified against us?” asks Anderson.
Jack is beginning to wish Anderson had just squeezed the life out of him, in that thicket, when he had the chance.
“It was Jack, wasn’t it?” he says.
Ritchie is serene. “Mr. Gibson is not my source.”
