Free Sup with the Devil by Barbara Hamilton

Weyountah, “in my experience of the man, Diomede was not a habitual drunkard. He would go on an occasional spree for an evening if he thought Mr. Fairfield was not going to return to his rooms until late, as was the case, I believe, last night. But this is not the same thing as a man who punishes the bottle night after night.”
    “’Tis but a step, and a short one,” replied the president coldly, “from the ‘occasional spree,’ as you call it, to greater and greater frequency as the demon takes hold. Surely you of all people do not deny the pattern?”
    “No, sir.” Weyountah’s voice held level, despite the reference—which Abigail considered tactless in the extreme—to the notorious effect that white man’s liquor had on many of the Indians who used it. “I speak only of my observation as to where Diomede stood in regard to that pattern.”
    “With what was he stabbed?” Abigail wondered if Perry would let her get a look at the wounds themselves and decided that a request to do so would only exacerbate a futile situation.
    “The paper knife from Mr. Fairfield’s desk was in Diomede’s hand, m’am,” said Weyountah.
    “Would a paper knife be sharp enough to kill a man?” And do I need to worry about Johnny getting his hands on John’s from the study desk and murdering Charley while I’m away?
    The Indian edged between doctor and president—neither of whom looked as if they would have made way for him, had either been able to find a good reason for standing on his dignity to that extent—and returned from the outer study a moment later with the bloodied weapon in his hand. “The edge is no sharper than it has to be to cut paper,” he said. “But the point would surely be a deadly weapon in a strong man’s hand.”
    A bit gingerly, Abigail took the hilt and touched the point with her fingertip. Aside from the smallness of the guard and the narrow blade, it would have almost served as an actual weapon: English-made, steel, with ivory plates on the hilt and a blade about seven inches long. Long enough and strong enough to reach the heart.
    “And is there anything missing from the room? Where did Mr. Fairfield keep his money, for instance?”
    “In his pockets, if he had any,” replied Weyountah with a sigh. “Or in a desk-drawer or lying on the corner of the desk. Every excursion involved George searching for money—” A slight break flawed his voice as he remembered a hundred or a thousand tiny, trivial scenes. “And he never had a penny.”
    “I thought his father was rich!”
    “He is, m’am. And George had credit all over town. But actual money in his pockets—”
    “The boy was a gamester.” Langdon’s voice reeked with disgust. “And worse,” he added darkly, meaning, Abigail guessed from Mrs. Squills’s remarks at the Stair, given to wenching. Weyountah laid the paper knife on the corner of the desk and looked over the untidy papers there.
    More than untidy, thought Abigail. Shuffled up together into loose bundles, the way Sam’s were when he had been looking for something in his overcrowded study.
    It could just mean that George Fairfield had mislaid his money and had searched his own desk. Still . . .
    Two Spanish doubloons and a couple of Pennsylvania pound notes lay on the floor, as if they’d fallen when the desk was opened. A dozen or so books—the Iliad and the Aeneid , lexicons of Greek and Latin, Hoole’s Catonis Disticha de Moribus and Ezekiel Cheever’s A Short Introduction, to the Latin Tongue, for the use of the lower forms in the Latin School, Being the Accidence abridged and compiled in that most easy and accurate method wherein the famous Mr. Ezekiel Cheever taught , were piled on a chair higgledy-piggledy.
    She remembered the tidiness of the front chamber. Looking around her, every portion of the bedroom save the vicinity of the desk attested to Diomede’s housekeeping skills.
    The stain on the floor was exactly between the desk—which stood beneath