No nod this time.
Gilbert remembers what Kemp was saying to Cecil before he hauled him in. “Hey, Mo, was your papa out looking for someone last night?”
It’s like his nephew’s afraid of saying the wrong thing. Finally, he whispers, “Cecily.”
Gilbert’s confused. “What was he doing looking for her?”
The boy’s voice shakes. “She was with Maria Price. At the theater.”
All of a sudden, Gilbert feels unsteady on his feet. “She make it out?”
Moses looks at the floor. “No, sir,” he says. “She did not.”
JACK
When Jack and Anderson returnto the Washington Tavern from theEnquirer’s offices, they find Placide has stretched out in front of the hearth and fallen asleep. Anderson pokes him gently in the shoulder. “Do you want to hear how it went?”
His eyes pop open, and he scrambles to sit up and rub the sleep from them. “Yes, yes,” he says. “Tell me everything.”
Anderson pulls up a chair. “I think he’s buying it. Don’t you, Jack?”
Jack nods, then offers, “He wants to interview Caulfield.”
“Is that good?” Placide asks Anderson.
“I think so,” says Anderson. “We told him Caulfield saw a band of Negroes light a hay bale on fire. Near the stage door.”
“A hay bale?”
“It was Jack’s idea.”
Placide seems impressed, which makes Jack feel a little squeamish.
“Where’s Caulfield?” asks Anderson.
“I think he just hauled himself off to bed,” Placide says.
“How did everything go with the slave patrol?”
Placide combs his fingers through his hair. “Twaits and Young met with some success. So did some of the others. The patrol’s going to step things up, keep an eye out for any Negroes who look suspicious.”
Jack wonders if there has ever been a Negro the slave patrol did not deem suspicious.
Anderson snaps his fingers at Jack. “Will you go wake Caulfield? Tell him we need him down here now.”
Jack makes for the back stairs, but Placide instructs him to wait. “Are we sure it’s a good idea to put Caulfield in front of Ritchie?”
Thomas Caulfield is known for his looks, not his intellect, and Jack can only assume Placide is nervous that he won’t hold up under Ritchie’s scrutiny.
“It’s too late to worry about that now,” says Anderson. “I was desperate, trying to think of someone who wasn’t onstage when the fire broke out, and—unfortunately—his name’s the first one that came to mind.”
Placide doesn’t say anything, just gets up, stretches, and shovels more coal into the grate. There’s something about his silence that feels like an indictment. Anderson must pick up on this, too, because he’s quick to offer reassurances. “We’ll go over everything with Caulfield. We can prepare him for what Ritchie’s likely to ask.”
“He’ll get it,” Jack agrees. “I can help.” Sometimes, in the afternoons, the actors ask Jack to run lines with them, and he’s good at it because he’s patient and interested and because he rarely, if ever, has anything better to do.
Placide doesn’t seem convinced, but he changes the subject. “I just saw William Wirt down at the Market Hall,” he says.
Anderson rolls his eyes.
