Into the Bright Unknown (The Gold Seer Trilogy #3)(85)

“Is that what she told you at the party?” Becky asks.

“I asked her outright, and she admitted it. After our failed attempt to reclaim the house, Hardwick’s men kidnapped Hampton.” I nod toward my friend.

“That’s when we decided to ruin Hardwick,” Mary says smugly.

“I knew you were up to something big, something that involved Hardwick,” Melancthon says. “But . . . this is a lot for a fellow to swallow. A mind reader?”

I’m so glad we decided to trust the sailor. He ended up playing an important role. I say, “That was the hardest part—deciding how to act when Hardwick had someone who could pluck our thoughts right out of our heads. We had to divide the plan into parts, and give each person a single part to figure out on their own.”

Tom says, “I pretended to be at odds with everyone, and I went to work for Hardwick.”

“In the meantime,” I say, “we spied on the banks where he kept his money.”

“I loitered around the docks to spread word about how much money he had,” Jefferson says. He’s standing knee-deep in a hole, with his jacket off and his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows.

“I helped with that!” Henry says. “I spread the word at gambling houses throughout the city.”

“I even suggested that some people might be planning to steal it,” Jefferson adds. “The idea was to have the rumors get back to Hardwick, so we could see what protection measures he’d put in place. But that part backfired a little. When we went to the bank that night to check it out, a couple of ambitious knuckleheads got there first.”

“We did find out exactly how his money was guarded,” I say. “But I couldn’t let the robbers get away with the safe—we needed that safe intact.” The shadow of the gallows passes across my thoughts.

“In the meantime,” Tom says, “I learned everything I could about the sheriff’s auctions. Hardwick managed them, and Sheriff Purcell took a cut of the money. I soon discovered that Purcell felt he wasn’t getting his fair share.”

“So Jefferson sabotaged the auction,” I say. “All the prices were too low, only a fraction of what Hardwick wanted. And every single lot he had sold at the last auction was listed again. But, Jefferson . . .” I turn toward him. Sweat runs down his neck. “How did you do it?”

His self-satisfied grin is the best thing I’ve seen in days. “I paid a printer to run off phony auction sheets,” he says. “Billy, the pickpocket, was already working at the auctions, handing out price sheets every month. So Hardwick’s printer handed him the real price sheets, and then we replaced them with fake ones we commissioned, and Billy distributed them, just like always.”

“Custom House lot twenty-three!” Becky says.

“Huh?” I say.

“Custom House lot twenty-three, that was the other thing you changed. The original bid sheet said ‘one house, from Tennessee, complete with furnishings and ready for assembly.’ But the fake one said ‘one small load of wood, somewhat water damaged.’”

I grin. “That probably made it easier to buy.”

“We were the only bidders,” Henry says, looking up from the hole again, which is now almost waist-deep. “Imagine that!”

“My job was to create a distraction,” Jim says. “To keep the auctioneer from paying close attention to the false bid sheets, and to put the crowd on edge.” He winces. “That proved to be an even better distraction than anticipated.”

“You mean worse,” I say, glaring.

“After Jim was shot,” Becky says, “Henry and I stuck around for a while, sowing discord.”

“We put on a fine bit of theater, if you ask me,” Henry says. “We didn’t know what kind of shape Jim was in, but we soldiered on.”

“Ideally, the plan should have worked either way,” I say. “If they didn’t catch the substitution, then the sale proceeded and the sheriff would think Hardwick was trying to cheat him. If the auctioneer did notice something wrong and called off the auction, then both Hardwick and the sheriff would come up empty-handed.” I turn to Jim and say, “But neither one was worth your life. If Frank Dilley had killed you, I don’t know what I would have done.”

“I didn’t come all the way out to California just to die,” Jim says. He stretches out his crutch and taps the name on the grave marker. “But since everyone thinks I did, I might try being someone else for a while.”

“Well, you’re welcome in Glory, Mr. Boisclair,” says the Major.

“But why?” Hampton says. “Why let people go on thinking Jim was dead? I’m still so confused.”

“We’re getting to that,” Mary assures him.

Hampton’s frown deepens. I open my mouth to assure him, to explain, but he jumps into the muddy hole and takes Jefferson’s shovel. “I have no idea what’s going on here, but let me spell you a bit.”

“Thanks, Hampton.” Jeff wipes his forehead with his sleeve and climbs out.

Following Hampton’s lead, Jasper rolls up his sleeves and jumps in to spell Henry.

“The best thing about the auction,” Tom says, “is that it made Sheriff Purcell steaming mad at Hardwick, even before he got called out to the party.”