Free Camp Follower: A Mystery of the American Revolution by Suzanne Adair Page B

clenched teeth.   "Heigh, where's my pitchfork?"
    Helen gripped
the housekeeper's upper arm to restrain her from storming out to the shed and
making good on her threat.   "Meet
me in the parlor straight away, Mr. Fairfax.   You've five minutes for your audience.   After that, Mrs. Jones and I shall leave on errands, at which time we
expect you to depart the property."
    "Thank
you, dear sister."   He bowed again
and headed around front.
    "'Dear
sister'?"   Enid looked to be
tonguing rancid pork.
    "Admit him
to the parlor — quickly, so we're rid of him."
    Enid curtsied and
bustled out.   Helen allowed herself
several deep breaths to order her thoughts, straighten the desk, and cover
Jonathan's letter.   From the foyer
window, she saw men standing on her front walkway.   Enid had made herself invisible.
    In the parlor,
Fairfax examined her latest watercolor, hat beneath his arm.   "Midsummer dawn.   I can almost feel dew evaporate and hear
sparrows sing."   He indicated her
other paintings.   "You've an
excellent hand at landscapes.   A baronet
over in Avebury would pay well for your work."   Filing away the potential business lead in silence, Helen strode
forward and seized the canvas from him.   He watched her stash it in a corner facing the wall.   An unsettling radiance glittered in his
eyes.   "I've never met an Anglican
gentlewoman who painted sites of the old gods."
    She grew uneasy
with the conversation thread.   Fairfax
fished for something from her past.   With her station in Wilmington society as a middle-class, virtuous
widow, she'd plenty of past to be uneasy about.   "My husband was a deacon in the Anglican
Church."
    "Of course
he was.   Remember the old days, in the
sixties, before the druids barged in and tried to regulate our
celebrations?   I wonder how many
colonists would chuck the Christian gods and frolic with the rest of us if they
could sample a truly invigorating Beltane."
    She gaped.   Fairfax was no Anglican.
    The glitter in
his eyes became incandescent, imbuing him with angelic beauty.   "Ah ha.   You remember Beltane."
    No one forgot
Beltane.   She swallowed.   The weird familiarity in his features struck
her anew.   She must know him from her
childhood, although, dismayed, she couldn't yet place him in her memories.   Perhaps if she hadn't tried so hard to
forget what came before Silas Chiswell —"Mr. Fairfax, you're here to discuss
my broken window."
    "Quite.   I questioned the men under my command and am
satisfied that none is responsible for your broken window latch."
    She
scowled.   "I catch you snooping
around my house, and that's all you have to say?   Do you expect me to believe you or your men?   I think you've used the incident and this
jabber about my watercolors as a flimsy excuse to gain access to the interior
of my house during the day so you can search again for your alleged rebel spy.
    "Perhaps I
hid him in a wall compartment or beneath floorboards, eh?"   She swept her arm outward.   "Do search the house again and satisfy
yourself that I'm not entertaining men here.   Then leave my property."
    He studied her,
the unearthly glow in his eyes unabated.   "What time did you and Mrs. Jones repair to bed two nights
ago?"
    "Nine
o'clock, if it's any business of yours."
    "Helpful
information.   The drizzle two days ago
moistened the turf enough outside your study window to capture boot prints of
your intruder.   He was approximately
five feet four inches in height, slightly overweight, favoring his left leg,
and wearing a dark blue wool coat."   He shook his head.   "Doesn't
match the description of any of my men.
    From the way
the wood is splintered on the outside, the intruder used a metal bar to force
the window."   Fairfax retrieved a
kerchief from his waistcoat pocket and unfolded it.   "He crawled inside your study some time between nine o'clock
and midnight and snagged fibers of his coat on the wood.   See here."   He extended the opened