“Splatter. I like the sound of the word. You might prefer the German phrase of spritzing, or the Dutch variation: spatter. I refer to the process of splashing, or casting out droplets of a liquid. For the purposes of our discussion this morning the liquid I make reference to is blood. More specifically, blood from the scene of a crime.” Dr. Christian Maier ran his long fingers along the vanes of the goose quill he held in his hands, a manual prop he often used to keep his busy hands occupied when he spoke to large groups. He gently stroked the soft feathers as he looked out into his audience that gathered at Columbia College. They were a mix of well-dressed physicians, wide eyed medical students, burly constables and members of the city’s night watch. Each brought with him a different interest and reason for attending the lecture. Christian took it as a subtle compliment that all the seats in the lecture hall were filled.
“During the War for Independence I witnessed a great deal of mayhem that still causes me to shudder, nine years after walking away from my last battlefield at Yorktown. Great quantities of blood were shed by all parties; those wearing red jackets, those wearing blue and those still wearing their linsey-woolsey.” Christian chose not to offer that he served with the forces of His Royal Majesty King George III.
Tall and thin, with hair now becoming more white than flaxen, Christian stood before them as a visiting guest of the medical college. He had been invited to speak at the behest of Dr. Samuel Bard, professor and one of the college’s founding fathers. Over the years Christian had found it useful to gauge the nature and attitude of his audience so that he might tailor his presentations accordingly. The students of course were sponges, anxious to absorb any and all medical tidbits that might be useful additions to their ever-growing compendium of scientific knowledge. The physicians, like most he had encountered in his past, were conditionally willing to listen to what he had to offer. If his presentation proved to be of value or a means by which they might earn additional fees, they would accept what he said and claim it as their own. In regard to the men who policed the city of New York, both professional and citizen volunteers, Christian interpreted their smug and dour expressions as a “wait and see” demeanor; skeptical whether this medical examiner from Philadelphia might have anything useful to offer them while at the same time waiting to be impressed. Rising to the challenge, Christian decided to make today’s performance as graphic as possible. On the coach ride north to Manhattan he planned out his presentation, which in part explained why three bedsheets were draped over clotheslines behind him on the stage.
“How the blood was shed was neither uniform nor routine. Often the design of the shed blood was dependent on the type of injury inflicted. Diversities emerged as the circumstances of the assaults varied.” The faint hint of fresh paint lingered in the air. Christian sensed it when he entered the room earlier in the morning. He stifled a selfish smile, crediting his presence as the reason for the makeover; a professional courtesy for this visiting professor and surgeon from the medical school of the College of Philadelphia. Never fear Columbians; the hanging bedsheets shall protect your walls.
“During the quiet times, away from the horrors of the conflict when sentimentality threatened to overwhelm me, I began to think about each soldier’s injury as if it were a crime being committed, rather than merely a gallant sacrifice for king or country or patriotism. In part I pursued this mental exercise to maintain my sanity and escape the shroud of maudlin melancholia. Little did I know it would prove to be rudimentary training for the profession and position I would later assume.
“As I ruminated on the how’s and why’s the many soldiers met their demise it became imperative that I interpret what I observed in a different light. Once I was able to reconsider each wounded or killed soldier to be a victim, I was able to transform isolated segments of the battlefields into crime scenes. Subsequently I started to categorize what I observed. What emerged from this exercise was a process by which I learned to interpret blood stains and patterns. I launched a personal study and investigation of the evidence that was left behind at the various ersatz crime scenes.
“Let us talk now of blood that leaves the body secondary to some form of injury. Blood may trickle or blood may flow in torrents. On occasion blood may flow freely and puddle while at other times it may be dispersed drop by drop. When great forces are involved, blood may take the form of a projectile and be strewn about, or as I mentioned previously, splattered.
“When blood merely collects into one large puddle, one may presume the victim most likely exsanguinated and bled out on the spot. Blood of course may be smeared, suggesting that something or someone was dragged across and through the blood collection. Blood may be transferred, resulting in the appearance of bloody handprints on a wall or weapon, or the detection of bloody footprints across a floor. We’ll save the discussion of puddled, smeared and transferred blood from a crime scene for another time. This morning we shall focus on the patterns of the splatter from crime scenes.”
The audience remained quiet and still. No shuffling, squirming or snoring. Good, he thought. Got them hooked. Christian took a few steps to his right and said, “When a victim is struck, blood droplets may be propelled through the air. A pattern is developed when said droplets strike a surface and leave a stain. The character and nature of the stain is the result of many variables: the velocity of the impact trauma, the distance traveled by the droplets, the angle from which the droplets leave the victim, the surface on which the droplets collect. Similarly, when a victim is shot blood will emerge from the shot body. At the site of the entrance wound blood collects in small droplets. When an exit wound is present a fine mist results, frequently accompanied by body tissues. As you can well imagine, varying sizes of projectiles will result in different sized wounds and splatter patterns. For example, a cannon ball passing through a victim will cause an injury different in many ways from the injury caused by a musket ball.”
Christian looked off to the side of his stage and pointed his quill. Two attendants carried onto the stage a table and set it in front of the middle bedsheet. A third attendant carried an armful of picture frames that he leaned against the table. They left and returned with a large watermelon, a can of paint, a paint brush and a pistol. They placed the items onto the table.
“With Dr. Bard’s permission,” Christian said with a wave of his hand toward the white-haired professor who sat in the front row, “I would like to demonstrate how patterns are formed and allow you to help investigate them with me.”
Samuel Bard theatrically nodded his head in the affirmative, allowing for the demonstration to proceed. In turn Christian positioned the watermelon directly in front of the middle bedsheet. Christian next took the pistol in his right hand, cradled it with his left while keeping the muzzle pointed away from the audience. He announced, “First we’ll investigate a gunshot. The victim for our purposes today shall be this watermelon who has volunteered from the audience.” With a whimsical shake of his head he chided, “No other volunteers I presume?” which was followed by polite, albeit nervous chuckling.
“I have poured one quart of red paint into the melon to simulate blood. I have placed several large wooden planks behind the bedsheets to collect the spent ball and I have loaded this pistol with only a small charge of powder.” Christian turned away from his audience, raised the pistol, pulled back on the hammer and fired it into the watermelon. A loud crack echoed off the walls of the room, but as per Christian’s assertion the sound was not deafening. The watermelon hardly moved, the bedsheet wavered ever so lightly and a fine red spray was flung from the back of the melon, dotting the hanging bedsheet. Except for a few gasps the room became distressingly quiet.
“In a few short minutes I shall invite all of you onto the stage so you may examine the pattern I created. As you will see, the red droplets on the bedsheet are in a round, circular pattern suggesting the attack was straight on. As we know all too well, assaults may occur from various angles. The result will be a splatter pattern elliptical or ovoid in character.” Pointing to the picture frames he said, “I have made several drawings which you may examine that illustrate the point.”
Christian picked up the paint brush, dipped it into the paint can and flung red paint onto the bedsheet on the right side of the stage. He repeated the process but altered the arc of his arm motion. Two linear red streaks appeared on the white sheet, intersecting at an angle of 45 degrees. “Substitute for my paint brush a sword or a scythe or a hammer. The swinging motion that I created simulates the repeated efforts of the assailant upon his victim. Bludgeoning, slashing, thrusting. From where you sit you can easily see where and how the paint was cast onto the sheet in lines that would suggest to the examiner how the assailant wielded his weapon.
“The number and location of the stains may provide much useful information. Overlapping stain patterns at times may be confusing. Consider however our model here. The overlapping patterns allow us to state, with a certain degree of confidence and certainty, that at least two blows were made by the assailant.”
Christian motioned once again to the side of the stage and an assistant wheeled a mannequin onto the stage. The mannequin-body form was the type a seamstress would use to fashion a coat or a dress. Christian propped the mannequin in front of the third bedsheet on the left of the stage. Once again, he dipped the paint brush into the bucket and swung it at the mannequin and the bedsheet three times, creating three different streaks of red paint on the mannequin and the bedsheet.
“For demonstration purposes I have created a bloody scene.” Careful not to soil his hands with the wet paint on the mannequin, Christian wheeled it to the opposite side of the stage. “However, upon removal of something, we’ve changed the nature and character of the pattern.” The red streaks were no longer continuous.
“Something prevented our red liquid from splattering onto our make-believe wall; something that is no longer immediately visible to us. We now have a void in our pattern. Was this something another victim? A witness? A cart or carriage that allowed the assailant to flee? As you can see, evaluation of the evidence at the scene of the crime not only answers questions but directs us as we generate additional questions; questions that must be answered by those investigating the crime. Please, gentlemen, join me and scrutinize the evidence I have provided for you.”
Tentatively at first the audience left their seats to examine Christian’s handiwork. The students wasted no time and the others followed. A wide smile crossed Christian’s face as several of the men used hand held magnifying lenses for closer inspection. “A medical examiner’s most valued instrument,” he pointed and said as Dr. Bard approached him. Bard gave him an envelope that contained his honorarium and monies to cover his expenses. Lecturing was one of the few ways he earned money as a medical examiner because the work he performed in Philadelphia was gratis. The two men exchanged pleasantries and Christian was soon surrounded by his audience who peppered him with questions and speculated on criminal scenarios. He referred frequently to his framed sketches and drawings for answers, while in rapid fashion he proposed new, imaginative, crime scene alternatives. For many it was good sport.
As the crowd thinned and took leave, a man of short stature and firm build approached Christian. His shoulders were wide and seemed to stress the seams of the coat he wore. He extended his right hand, offering it to Christian. Christian took it, noting the large size of the paw and that the wrist attached to it was as thick as a tree branch. The man’s nose was flattened and several scars formed deep creases above his eyebrows. A brawler at the very least. “I visht you vas with us last veek, Doctor,” the man said. Christian noted a mild asymmetry of the man’s jaw as he spoke, suspecting that someone or something may have re-aligned it in the past. He spoke in a tone that retained a hint of a Dutch accent. “Five dead in a room. Mother and four of her babes. Loads of blood and no vitnesses. Neighbors said the husband and the vife var always fightin’ but he had an alibi vat ve couldn’t break. Luther Van Brocklin. Deputy Chief Constable for Manhattan.”
“My pleasure,” Christian replied, presuming immediately that the Deputy Chief Constable was a man who had worked and fought his way up through the ranks and not one to become squeamish in the face of a messy crime scene. “Anything stolen, Constable?” Christian asked, trying to be helpful.
“Lady vas poor as a church mouse.”
“Did the mother suffer from melancholia or bad nerves?” Christian tapped at the side of his head.
“‘Vas vat ve finally concluded,” Van Brocklin replied, “but I can’t help but to believe that if ve had looked at the evidence in a different light, like vat you discussed today, maybe…”
Christian nodded and flashed a warm smile, impressed with the man’s candor. Christian tried to reassure him by offering, “Perhaps with your next case, Constable. Unfortunately, I’m certain there will be more than a few.”
By noontime the air was hot and sticky and the summer sun shined warmly through the windows of Faunces Tavern. Three College of New Jersey classmates from 20 years long past gathered round a table in a private dining room. The talk was lively and more often than not retreated to topics of ancient interest. “Kit, when he was younger, was prone to being argumentative,” Aaron Burr explained to his wife, Theodosia, in an even tone. “In its own right being argumentative has its benefits, but Kit took arguing to new heights.”
“Says the Attorney General for the grand state of New York,” Christian replied, unsure whether Burr’s accusation was a compliment or a complaint.
“Debate is for gentlemen; unemotional and detached,” Burr retorted, raising his hands in mock self defense, “But arguing requires passion and is a skill which I have only learned in my later years, a requirement for my current position. Kit’s debating talents were adequate, certainly not of the caliber of Sam Springs who went on to become a famous minister, or of Jemmy here who so bedazzles the men in Congress.”
The slightly built James Madison, sitting beside Christian’s wife, Henrietta, shrugged his shoulders feigning modesty. “But when debate and discussions turned sour,” Burr continued, “well, Mr. Maier resorted to arguing. What a wildcat. Good Lord, Kit, you must have come out of the womb arguing with your dear mother’s midwife.”
“You’re terrible, Aaron,” Theodosia chided her husband as Henrietta brought a napkin to her mouth to stifle her laughter.
“You hurt me to the quick,” Christian answered with a pantomimed frown.
“Hah!” James Madison challenged. “You were more dangerous hurt than when at ease. Remember the time Bradford called fat ol’ King George a maladroit despot.”
Burr chuckled. “Who didn’t call him names?” Henrietta, challenged. “Once the war began, they were hanging poor King George in effigy from liberty poles on every street corner.”
“Problem was, Kit didn’t know the meaning of either maladroit or despot,” Madison, now a congressman from Virginia, explained to the group. “Bradford went on to become a publisher and knew more words than all of us put together. Kit didn’t know how to respond so he said nothing.”
“Kit with nothing to say?” Henrietta repeated with arched eyebrows.
“Bradford turned him quiet he did,” Burr added.
“I’m guessing dear Christian did not take this rebuke very well,” Henrietta opined.
“Right you are, Heddy,” Madison said with a sly smile. “Ever the calculating wit, the future Dr. Maier gathered a shovel full of horse droppings into a sack, stuffed it with paper and delivered it to Bradford’s doorway.”
Burr continued. “With a kindling stick he set the bundle aflame and shouted ‘Fire! Fire!’ Bradford throws open the door of his room to see the small little campfire at his feet. From across the hall Kit shouts ‘Stamp it out! Stamp it out!”
“And Bradford does,” Henrietta cried out.
“Oh my,” Theodosia said as she brought her hand to her mouth.
“Bradford found himself up to his ankles in horse manure,” Burr recounted.
“Aye, but he did a fine job of putting out the fire,” Christian offered by way of compliment.
Talk continued until a figure appeared at the door. He excused himself but added, “Dr. Maier, the people at your hotel said I could find you here.”
Christian turned his head and saw the man he had met for the first time earlier in the day. “Constable Van Brocklin.”
“Sir,” Van Brocklin said, eying the company at the table. “There’s something I vould like to ask of you.”
Christian introduced Van Brocklin and said, “Go on man. We are among friends.”
“Sir, a crime has been committed. A violent crime I dare say,” was Van Brocklin’s response.
“And…”
“A person had been assaulted,” Van Brocklin explained, “vith a certain amount of injury.”
“Murdered?”
“We don’t know.”
“Badly injured?” Christian continued. Van Brocklin shrugged his large shoulders.
Christian’s jaws tightened and his eyes narrowed. “Has he not been taken to a physician?”
“No sir.”
Christian stared hard at the man as phrases like barbarians and fools and buffoons circled in his mind. To temper the seething physician from Philadelphia Van Brocklin gamely offered, “Ve haven’t found the victim yet.” All remained silent as they looked to an astonished Christian Maier for his response.
“You do not have a victim but you report that a person has been assaulted. You report of a crime being committed but have no proof a law has been violated,” Christian icily tried to summarize. Solemnly Van Brocklin nodded in the affirmative. With conviction he added, “What you have, Constable, is a puzzle in a distressed state of confusion.
“Vat I have, Doctor, is a crime scene with copious quantities of blood in patterns I am not expert enough to decipher.”
Christian thinned his lips and softened his tone. “Much blood you say.”
“Scattered amounts of blood vould be more accurate,” Van Brocklin clarified.
“Perhaps your riddle has become my riddle.”
“I also have a note,” Van Brocklin added.
“A note?” Burr said as he stood.
“Yes sir,” Van Brocklin replied. “A letter was delivered to the office of Mr. Jefferson this morning.”
“The Secretary of Foreign Affairs, Thomas Jefferson?” Henrietta asked and Van Brocklin confirmed.
“What did the note say?” Burr asked. Van Brocklin reached into his pocket and produced a folded piece of paper which he gave to Burr.
Burr unfolded the letter and read aloud.
“We have Charles Robinson.
The National Bank must be approved.
Will return Robinson only when Bank approved.
Robinson will die if this demand is made public.”
“Charles Robinson?” Madison asked in disbelief. Van Brocklin nodded once again. “Robinson is clerk to Tom Jefferson at the State Department.”
“After the letter arrived at Mr. Jefferson’s office this morning ve vas sent for,” Van Brocklin explained. “The people at the State Department told us Mr. Robinson did not arrive for verk so ve vent to his residence. He was novair to be seen but ve did find the bloody mess.”
As the group looked to one another, pondering their next thought or action, a constabulary officer in uniform appeared and addressed Van Brocklin. “Sir. Another letter. Arrived at Mr. Madison’s office in the past hour. The people there sent it to us straight on.”
Van Brocklin unfolded the letter and gave it to Christian to read aloud.
“We have George Moore.
The National Bank must be approved.
Will return Moore only when Bank approved.
Moore will die if this demand is made public.”
“George Moore is a clerk in my office,” Madison explained.
Van Brocklin asked his officer, “Did you send someone round to Moore’s residence?”
“We did, sir. Door was unlocked and no one was present.”
Christian asked what all now feared. “Was there any sign of violence?”
The officer replied, “None. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
Christian looked to Henrietta and said, “It would appear as though our dinner has ended.” The friends said their goodbyes. Aaron Burr volunteered to escort Henrietta back to their hotel room. “Jamie, I know you’ll want to return to your office but you must explain this bank business to me. Constable, would you allow Mr. Madison to ride with us to the crime scene so that he might educate me; and then perhaps your carriage could return him to his office.”
A two-horse closed carriage transported the men uptown to a boarding house on Broome Street. “The ‘Bank’ mentioned in the kidnap letters refers to Alexander Hamilton’s wild plan to form a national bank,” Madison explained. “His plan, which he believes will make the nation stronger and earn the respect of European countries, is a two-step process. The first step is to assume the debt of all the states. The nation that is, will assume the debt.”
“All their debt?” Christian asked. “On a national basis?”
“Yes. Old debt and the debt the states amassed during the war. Uniforms, salaries, enlistment bonuses. The debt for most of the states was, and still is, significant; fifty some million dollars of old debt and 25 million for war debt. Alexander refers to our national debt as our national blessing.”
“And the second step?” Christian asked.
“A bank will be formed so it may loan money to the United States.”
“So, the nation goes into debt to retire the states’ war loans and goes into debt to pay off the debt. And people think surgery is complicated. Why is it necessary for our country to go into debt?” Christian asked.
“It isn’t,” Madison replied. “Hamilton will be converting our public debt into our public curse.”
Christian grimaced and rephrased. “As per Hamilton, why is it necessary for the United States to go into debt?”
“Alexander argues that America can more quickly and readily improve our credit and global standing by demonstrating to the European countries that we, as a nation, are able to pay our bills. If they have confidence in us and how we function as a sovereign state, they will be more likely to deal with us.”
“By ‘deal with us’ you mean trade with us?” Christian asked.
“That is one issue. Trade treaties yes, but also treaties pledging military support and opportunities for joint business ventures. Clearly such treaties and business opportunities disproportionally favor merchants in New England and New York and Pennsylvania.”
“And favor less the plantation owners in Virginia and the Carolinas and Georgia,” Christian countered.
“A different version of the manufacturing versus farming interests my dear friend,” Madison offered, “but it is more than that. Currently Virginia has paid off nearly all of the debt she accumulated to prosecute the war. A national bank will not benefit Virginia. Virginia in effect would be assuming the debt of other states.”
“How did Virginia reduce her debt?”
“Tariffs and excise taxes,” Madison replied. “Goods that arrive from Europe are taxed. Like the cost of shipping, the cost of the tariffs is added incrementally onto the price of the goods that arrive from foreign countries. Tariffs and taxes are how all states generate revenue. I spent the better part of last year debating the tariff issue before the House of Representatives and met privately with dozens of senators to confirm passage of our tariff bills.”
“By assuming the states’ debts,” Christian proffered, “I suspect Hamilton proposes diverting the revenue generated by the tariffs from the states to the federal government.”
“Exactly. Taxes will be an either-or proposition. Like the excise taxes on spirits; either the states or the federal government will impose a tax. Not both. Similarly, for revenue generated from the postal services. Both revenue streams in the future will be diverted solely to the federal government. We’re talking about large sums of money. Ergo,” Madison said with a smile, “a word you so loved to use. Ergo, Hamilton and his bank will make the federal government that much stronger than the individual states.”
“So, Virginia not only underwrites some portion of the war debt, a debt she previously had paid off on her own, but she will lose revenue with transfer of some of her tariffs and taxes,” Christian summarized.
“Now you are looking at the matter from our point of view,” Madison said with a smile.
“So, you and Hamilton no longer see eye-to-eye on how strong the federal government should be,” Christian offered.
“We as a nation require a properly regulated government,” Madison answered, “but not an over bearing nor heavy-handed government, which is what Hamilton proposes. Presently we do not see eye-to-eye on the need for a national bank.”
“When you say we, I suspect you refer to Mr. Jefferson and the other representatives of the southern states,” Christian said.
“In addition to the landowners and farmers and merchants. In many respects, yes; the debate is lining up as a Virginia versus the northern states.”
Christian paused before he said, “We have one assault and two kidnappings with one commonality; a demand or desire for the national bank to become a reality. Who wants to see the formation of the national bank? Supporters of manufacturing? Supporters of Hamilton? Supporters of a large central government?”
“A yes to all three I’m afraid,” Madison replied.
“Vitch represent a gigantic number of suspects, Doctor,” Constable Van Brocklin offered. Both Christian and Madison nodded, agreeing with the folly of considering such a vast ocean of possible perpetrators.
“Who then, individually, benefits from the formation of the bank?” Christian asked.
“Men who have been buying up debt certificates at pennies on the dollar,” Madison replied.
“How’s that?” Christian asked.
“During the war and shortly thereafter, the states issued certificates of debt in exchange for goods and services provided,” Madison explained. “Food, clothing, weapons. A loan, if you will. In return for using the money provided by the citizenry, the states promised to repay the money with modest interest added. Near the end of the war the continental dollar became worthless and many soldiers also chose to accept certificates for future payment in lieu of worthless money.”
“Yes, I remember. My father’s farm provided ample wheat and corn for Washington’s army. He once told me he had been given quite a few certificates by the Pennsylvania government.”
“Does he still have them?” Madison asked.
“Yes. He did anyway. Held on account by his solicitor,” Christian replied.
“Fortunate for him,” Madison said. “Many chose not to wait for payment, which in many instances would run twenty years, with no guarantee the debt would ever be paid. Those who chose not to wait sold their certificates at a discount to men who offered hard cash. Often the discounts were very deep; pennies on the dollar. Interest in the national bank has now risen. No doubt there has been an increase in the number of brokers and speculators who have feasted upon the unsuspecting holders of certificates of questionable value.”
“The speculators who buy up large volumes of debt certificates now have a vested interest in the establishment of the national bank,” Van Brocklin surmised.
“Who are these speculators and how many are there?” Christian asked.
“No doubt there are thousands, but only a few individuals or groups have large proportions of the certificates,” Madison replied.
“Narrows the field of suspects a bit,” Van Brocklin said, “but how vould one recognize a speculator from anyone else?”
“Personally, I haven’t a clue,” Madison replied and waved good bye to Christian and Van Brocklin as they stepped out of the coach.
Constabulary officers stood guard at the Broome Street boarding house to prevent anyone from entering. The officers did allow entrance to their chief and the tall, thin man who followed in his wake. “Second floor,” Van Brocklin said. “I’ll follow you.” There was still sufficient sunlight in the hallway to see what may have been dark smudges at two different sites, although Christian presumed there was no way to determine whether the smudges were related to the current case.
An officer stood at the door and opened it for Christian. He stopped at the open doorway and scanned the room. Two chairs were positioned against the far-right wall and a low table rested between them. Several books rested on the table. The walls of the room were painted in a light tan color. A bed was on the far left side of the room, unmade. There was a window on the far wall opposite the door. He studied the floor beneath him to ensure he wasn’t compromising any evidence. He took two steps into the room and said, “Constable Van Brocklin, I will need a few items from you if I am to process this room.”
“Go on.”
“Writing paper, quill and ink, perhaps a piece of charcoal for sketching and a magnifying lens.”
Van Brocklin nodded and disappeared down the hallway and returned shortly. Christian closed the door behind them, hoping to seal it off as best possible. Christian approached the bed on the left. A dark red stain, nearly 6 inches in diameter, was on the pillow. Multiple drops of blood were scattered on the wall adjacent to the bed, along with three smudge marks 18 inches above the level of the mattress. The dark red color of the marks stood in bold relief to the lighter colored walls. A rug lay beneath the bed and a dark, irregular stain, 10 inches from point to point, was on the rug. The remainder of the floor was wood plank. Dark red splotches and streaks were present on the wooden floor.
“You’re confident none of your officers made the marks on the floor or rug,” Christian asked.
“First t’ing the officers said to me,” Van Brocklin replied, “vas dat they touched hardly a t’ing. Walked round the perimeter of the room, looked underneath the bed and confirmed this Robinson gent veren’t novair in the room.”
“You should commend your officers, Constable. What of witnesses who might have heard what occurred here? Whatever did occur here must have made some noise.”
“My officers have been going from flat to flat,” Van Brocklin replied. “Voman next door heard vat she described as shuffling. Man below heard vat he called thumping on his ceiling.”
“When?’
“Before dawn.”
“Did both neighbors report hearing what they heard at approximately the same time?”
“Yes.”
“But no one saw strange characters arriving or leaving?”
“Again, they heard movement in the hallways but no one saw nothing,” Van Brocklin explained.
“Ear witnesses but no eye witnesses,” Christian mumbled. He looked past the chairs at the far wall and noted the closed window. “Window’s closed now. It was warm last night but probably the window was closed at the time of the assault.”
“How so?” Van Brocklin asked.
“None of the neighbors heard anything significant. Also, no flies. This much blood would have drawn flies aplenty.”
Intuitively Christian decided the bed was where the assault began. The blood on the pillow. Drops of blood dispersed in an ovoid pattern on the wall adjacent to the bed. The smudge marks on the wall. The irregular stain on the rug.
Leading away from the rug were marks on the floor toward the chairs on the opposite side of the room. On closer inspection Christian thought he could see outlines and smears. Unconsciously he fumbled in his vest pockets. My lens, my lens. He remembered he didn’t have one. The door opened and an officer walked through the doorway with the items Christian requested. “My savior. Thank you,” Christian said as he took the lens from him. He returned to the bed and used it to examine the wall at several different sites, continually changing the distance between the lens he held in his right hand and the wall. His turned and rotated his head, contorting his thin neck to varying angles as he focused and refocused the lens. He knelt and turned his attention to the floor, inspecting the dark red splotches on the rug and the marks on the plank floor. For five minutes he worked silently and Van Brocklin had the good sense not to say anything or interrupt him.
“Constable,” Christian started, “I believe what has occurred is a kidnapping that did not go as smoothly as the villains would have wished. Botched in some way. Incompetence? Resistance from Robinson necessitating bodily injury? Inspect, would you please, the keyhole on the door. Any marks or suggestion of tampering?”
Van Brocklin turned and examined the knob and keyhole on the outside of the door. “Scratches.”
Christian nodded. “I suspect sometime around dawn men broke into this flat and surprised Mr. Robinson. Startled, he sat up in bed and was struck, most likely in the face or head. See this splatter on the wall. It is suggestive of blood that was propelled away from the victim. Scattered droplets from his nose or mouth or his scalp, resulting from a blow with either a closed fist or a weapon. These three smudges suggest that his head made contact with the wall. Either pushed against the wall violently or held to it. The blood that collected on the pillow and the floor rug suggests brisk bleeding. On the pillow where he lay down or was held; over the rug where he most likely was forced to sit up.”
Christian stepped away from the bed, moved the lens close to the rug and then away from it. He touched the dark spot and noted it to be crisp and dry. He lifted the edge of the rug, folded it toward the bed, and saw the dark splotch on the rug’s undersurface. He put his hand to it. “Still damp.” He let go of the rug and crawled on his hands and knees. With his lens he examined the markings on the floor.
He turned, sat on his rump and looked to Van Brocklin. “You were correct initially. A very bloody scene. Facial wounds readily bleed but I strongly suspect a head wound. Most likely both. A punch to the face could cause a good bit of bleeding but a punch to the scalp would result in a bruise. No, there must be a weapon in play to lacerate the scalp.” He returned to his hands and knees and inched closer to the bed, cautious to avoid the dark spot on the rug. Rooting beneath the bed he reached his long arm as deep as he could and recovered a three-legged stool. It was covered with dark red stains.
“Just as Robinson was surprised by the break in,” Christian offered, “the assailants were surprised by his resistance. They did not bring along a weapon of their own but rather had to improvise with what was at hand.”
He manipulated the magnifying lens to examine the stool. “See here, Constable; on the seat of the stool there is hair that is attached to dried blood. No reason to believe this isn’t Robinson’s hair. And here, on the leg of the stool, what appears to be a hand print.” He placed his large hand overtop the stain on the leg of the stool for comparison. “Not as large as yours or mine but large none the less. And these prints on the floor, the size of which suggests a large shoe.”
Christian stared hard at the two chairs and could find nothing amiss. He picked up the writing materials and placed them on the table adjacent to the chairs. He sat in a chair and drew on the paper what he saw. He said to Van Brocklin, “You said that your men saw no evidence of a struggle at the residence of Madison’s clerk.”
“Correct.”
“Perhaps this crew of kidnappers learned something and arrived prepared, or perhaps a different crew committed the Madison kidnapping. Although not good, it is a better scenario than what we have here. Here, at the very least, we have a kidnapping; worse possibly is a murder.”
For the next fifteen minutes Christian continued with his drawings, rising frequently to refer to blood stains on the wall and floor. “The hand print on the stool is unremarkable other than it is a left hand. See how this stain is beneath and juxtaposed to what appear to be markings of the fingers. This is the thumb print, making this a left-hand print. The prints on the floor are of a shoe with a thick, wide heel and a strange crease at mid-sole. No doubt the assailant stepped on the blood stain on the rug when it was wet and transferred blood onto the wooden floor. He made three prints, until no more blood was left on the shoe bottom.
“The kidnapper has been kind enough to leave traces of himself with us, via his handprint and his footprint. Perhaps he has left the crime scene with traces of Mr. Robinson on himself. A few drops of blood on the upper of his shoe will prove to be quite incriminating.”
“What do you make of it?” Henrietta asked as she and Christian sat finishing their glasses of port wine.
“Kidnapping gone awry,” Christian answered, “with a wholesome dose of extortion thrown in for good measure. As I was leaving Constable Van Brocklin an officer arrived to report a third kidnapping; an assistant from the office of South Carolina’s representative, Thomas Sumter. Sumter too is opposed to the formation of the national bank. Sumter, however, is a former military general. He is not taking this threat quietly and threatens to go to war. Van Brocklin certainly has his hands full. Not only has three capital crimes been committed, but the victims were staff members of three very important people.”
“Do you know for sure only three have been involved?” Henrietta asked.
“Not at all,” was his reply.
“But issues concerning the national bank are somehow involved.” Christian nodded in agreement with his wife. “Once again money is at the root cause of the problem. What of the speculators?”
Christian frowned. “The weapon of choice for speculators is money. Kidnapping with the ransom being a ‘Yes’ vote in Congress is an extraordinary proposition. What I don’t know about speculating could fill volumes.”
“I know just the someone who knows more about finances and speculating than anyone else alive.” Christian looked sideways at her. “Uncle Robert.”
On the following morning Henrietta and Christian sat in the waiting room of an office on Wall Street. An attendant approached them and said, “The senator will see you now.”
They were led into a room where a portly man with soft, snow white hair sat behind a desk. Upon seeing his guests he rose and approached them. “Henrietta, what a pleasant surprise. You should have told me you were in town.” He embraced her and kissed her on the forehead. He extended his hand to Christian and said, “I heard a rumor you were lecturing at the college and apparently said rumor is true. If I had known you were bringing your lovely wife along with you for holiday, well…”
“Senator Morris, good to see you again,” Christian replied. Inquiries mutually were made into their families’ well being.
“You visit at a very busy time,” Morris offered, “for us in congress and in the senate. Two issues consume us: the permanent site for the nation’s capital and the passage of the bills to approve the national bank.” Christian agreed with his wife that few men in America knew as much about bank issues as Morris did, including Alexander Hamilton. Morris, the man most responsible for financing the revolution, had been chosen by President-elect Washington to be the Secretary of the Treasury. Morris declined but recommended Hamilton to his good friend George Washington.
“Where does discussion now lead for the new site for the capital?” Christian asked.
“The gentlemen from the southern states would like to see it moved to a location along the Potomac River. Those of us from Pennsylvania and New Jersey and Maryland would like to see it relocated to our region, along either the Delaware or Susquehanna Rivers. New York folks would like to see the capital remain right where it presently is. Those from New England realize the capital will never relocate to New England but they will throw their support to whomever gives them the best deal. Politics as usual.”
“Why so much consternation?” Henrietta asked.
“Home state pride for one reason but money is a better answer,” Morris replied. “Business begets business. The business of running a nation will bring business to wherever the capital relocates. Jobs, need for real estate, everything associated with raising families. Over the years, as our nation grows, the need for the capital to grow along with it will be significant.”
“Which makes remaining here, in New York City, a challenge,” Christian offered.
“Yes. A more wide-open site where growth and expansion may occur might be a better option,” Morris replied.
“Which opens the door to land speculation,” Christian said. Morris, perhaps the premier land speculator and financial entrepreneur in the nation, nodded and folded his hands over his rotund abdomen.
“Speaking of speculation, Uncle Robert,” said Henrietta, “there seems to be a great deal of talk about speculation on debt certificates, government notes and issues concerning the national bank.”
Morris smiled. “Stuffy and heady topics for such a beautiful young lady.”
“There is a very specific reason why we are interested in the topic.” Christian took the senator into his confidence and explained what had transpired in the past 24 hours. He also explained how he had become involved with the investigation of the crimes and how the constabulary had been restricted to working in moderate secrecy.
Morris’ jowly jaw dropped in surprise. “Any hint of an impropriety concerning passage of the bills will erode the nation’s confidence in our system; notwithstanding any harm that may come to the victims of these crimes.”
“Exactly, Uncle Robert,” Henrietta replied. “Consider the many financial characters and personalities you have come in contact with, or have been associated with in the past twenty years. Who or what type of person, a speculator for instance, would commit a capital crime and risk his life to become rich?”
Morris pursed his thick lips and considered the question. “Men have been murdered for a great deal less money than the amount of debt the nation will assume. For most of these men, the brokers and the speculators, they use other people’s money. Seldom do they use their own money if they can avoid it. It the deal goes sour, it would be the ‘other people’ who lose the money. Although they might risk debtor’s prison, frequently they can devise another get-rich-quick scheme to make back their money. Or, with the help of a good lawyer, they might dissuade their debtors from making charges against them. Seldom do these businessmen risk a walk to the gallows over money. A duel over honor or a woman, perhaps; but not for money.”
“Seventy-five million dollars are being juggled in the air by politicians,” said Christian. “Businessmen of various stripes and colors hustle to gather and scrounge for a portion of this booty. At this very late stage in the proceedings, peoples’ lives are being put at risk to make rich men richer.”
“‘Tis Hamilton’s plan to establish national security and stability. I, among others, whole heartedly agree with him,” Morris replied. “I agree with your concern for it is battle of a different nature, a struggle that does not involve muskets and cannons but rather rhetoric and back room deal making.”
“Despite tens of thousands of people who initially were issued either state or national debt certificates,” Christian said, “Congressman Madison suggested that a vast majority of the certificates are now held by a much smaller number of men.”
“Smaller by a wide margin, Christian,” Morris reassured him. “Perhaps no more than the number of men who might fill this room control nearly half the certificates ever issued.”
“The list of suspects narrows,” Christian opined. “Back room deals?”
“‘Tis the nature of a political system that predates the emergence of democracy and our Greek forefathers,” Morris said matter-of-factly. “Open debate on the floor of Congress and the senate is followed by a closed room discussion between interested and tangentially involved parties. Wide variation in the discounts being offered for the certificates – from ten cents on the dollar to fifty cents on the dollar – have been warmly debated. That, my good doctor, is real money worth speculating for. Now the discussion focuses on how much interest to pay on the debt certificates. In a perfect world such meetings would be secretive and of a private nature, but nothing in the nation’s capital remains a secret very long.”
“There is something missing from this puzzle,” Christian said. “The politicians debate the issue and soon will vote. The debt certificate holders either buy, sell or hold their certificates but are forced to wait upon the actions of the politicians. What other players might be involved whom we have not considered?”
“Lobbyists and influencers,” Morris replied. Both Henrietta and Christian looked to him inquisitively. “In many instances manufacturing titans or civic leaders request favors or considerations from politicians. To avoid improprieties they employ others, intermediaries and go-betweeners, to make calls upon the politicians. During said meetings proposals are made, opinions are swayed and interests on various topics may be adjusted.
“And deals are ultimately consummated,” Henrietta offered. Morris smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “Are there many of these lobbyists and supposed men of influence?”
“Your choice of wording is accurate,” Morris replied. “Some lobbyists are very influential, but those most effective are few and far between. On the other hand, there are many self-important fast talkers who profess to have inside information that is priceless, when in reality they are men filled with hot air who have information that proves worthless. Powerbrokers, whether in manufacturing or in mercantile or in politics, are constantly barraged by such jokers.”
“These men,” Christian replied slowly, gathering his thoughts as he analyzed the facts presented, “the successful and those wishing to be successful. In order to cultivate their reputations and maximize their influence – they must make themselves known and remain exposed and visible. The glad-handers and back slappers.”
“Absolutely. As a means to maximize their value to their clients,” Morris concluded his thought, “they must demonstrate what they have done and how they were instrumental in causing a bill or a law to be enacted.”
“In this instant,” Christian said, “where crimes are being committed in efforts to manipulate a vote in congress, it would behoove the influencers to remain in the shadows; obscure and concealed from the investigative eyes of the constabulary and the prying eyes of the public.”
“But known to a select few who might benefit from their actions,” Henrietta added. “Their clients and potential clients.”
“Exactly,” Christian seconded. “So, we are now confronted by individuals who consider themselves to be influential but function in a criminal manner. Senator, I harken back to what Heddy said earlier. Who, in your travels and experience, might be a businessman who would be inclined to employ or be approached by one of these nefarious influencers?”
Morris folded and unfolded his hands that rested upon his belly. All remained silent as he pondered the question. He picked up a quill, dipped it into the inkbottle on his desk and scratched on a piece of paper. “Three names come to mind. There are many others one might wish to consider, but given the reprehensible nature of the crimes committed and the risks involved, smaller players should be excluded. The names I shall give you are major players who might entertain thoughts of operating on the darker side of the street.”
Christian took the paper and read it. “Which of the three might be the most open to dark thoughts?”
Morris paused before he answered, “Dillon. Nothing would surprise me about Dillon.” Both Henrietta and Christian rose and said their good-byes. “Be cautious, the two of you. The issues you have presented to me confirm that you are dealing with men who will stop at nothing, I repeat nothing, to get what they want.”
With Constable Luther Van Brocklin at his side Christian rephrased his plea. “I promise you Aaron, I will not get in the way of the constables.”
“What you are telling me,” Burr retorted, “is that you plan to insinuate yourself into the very forefront of this cockamamie plan to find and expose the greatest threat to our nation’s security since that friend of yours, Benedict Arnold, tried to give West Point to your other friend, General Clinton.”
“Rubbish,” Christian grumbled. “Your barbs find no mark. You are the one who loved and served in the army with Arnold, and Clinton was content to allow me to be banished to Canada for a very long and cold winter. I must become involved because these villains have been operating in the open, under your very noses, and are familiar with all your faces. They are familiar with the congressmen and their staffers and where everyone lives. They know Constable Van Brocklin and they know many of his officers and they certainly know you. They don’t know me from Adam.”
“I don’t like it,” Burr replied. “I shall agree to your plan only if you allow one of my men to accompany you.”
“Agreed. He should prove valuable as we pressure the three men Morris identified for us.”
James Austen explained to Christian and Deputy Attorney General Peter Goldwaithe that, “I sold all my certificates. I held state certificates from New Jersey and from Maryland. I also held a good number of federal notes.”
“To whom did you sell?” Goldwaithe asked.
“Horace Dillon and Edward Landis.”
“I presume you sold at a profit,” Christian offered.
“I am a businessman. In order to remain in business, I must make profits.”
“So, you’ll take your profit from this operation and invest your profits into a new enterprise,” Christian continued. Austen shrugged and nodded his head.
“Mr. Austen,” Goldwaithe asked, “have you recently been approached my anyone who offered to provide help for you relative to this national bank referendum? Help you by influencing any of the states’ representatives or senators?”
“I was approached by someone but I assured him I would be selling all my notes and his lobbying services would not be necessary.”
“Do you remember who he was or wat he looked like?” Goldwaithe continued.
“No, not really.”
“Would you recognize him again?”
“Possibly. Hard to say.”
“Thank you for your time.”
“My men are still canvassing the countryside buying as many debt certificates as they can carry home,” Edward Landis answered the Deputy Attorney General. “I have confidence in our country and remain confident that long term certificate holders will continue to receive payments.”
“Do such patriotic thoughts preclude you from selling any of the certificates you hold to another party if offered at an attractive price?” Christian challenged.
“Every man has his price and every option to buy has a strike point that guarantees a profit,” Landis replied. “As an example, my people have, in many instances, paid ten cents on the dollar to buy certificates. If someone were to offer me thirty or fifty cents on the dollar for the same certificates, I would be a fool to decline such an offer. Dr. Maier, you can certainly appreciate that a healthy profit is nothing to sneeze at.”
Christian smiled wanly at the simile. “The certificates you bought from Mr. Austen, I assume you expect to profit by that transaction.” Landis made no reply. “Will you be holding onto Austen’s notes to enjoy long term payment by our government or will you be selling them to someone so that you may make a quick profit?” Again, Landis made no comment.
“Sir,” Goldwaithe said, “On the surface, what you now do is not illegal. Buy, sell, ’tis no matter to us. Using your numbers, if Austen sold to you for a ten-cent profit and you sold for a twenty-cent profit, everyone walks away happy. If and when you sell, who would be the buyer?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“What if someone were trying to corner the market?” Goldwaithe suggested. “In that instance the buying partner might be privy to inside or privileged information.
“Or, perhaps,” Christian challenged, “he believes he is betting on a sure thing.” Landis remained closed mouthed and Christian suspected he knew far more than he was letting on.
Goldwaithe asked, “Have you been approached by any party that professes to have inside information for sale?”
“Happens every day. Twice on Tuesdays.”
“Sir, have you been approached by anyone offering guarantees?” Christian rephrased.
Landis may no reply.
“As per your silence I presume the answer is ‘yes,'” Goldwaithe said. He waited and ordered, “Think before you answer the next question. If you have in any way come to an agreement with said party, please advise us now.”
“Like I said,” Landis replied uncomfortably, “everyone has a hot rumor they wish to sell. Guaranteed to make me rich.”
“But you already are rich, Mr. Landis,” Christian interjected as he tired of the hemming and hawing. “You can certainly determine who is slinging horse manure and who believes he has a sure thing.”
Landis squirmed ever so slightly but remained silent. Christian pressed harder, sensing he had struck a nerve. “This party who approached you, that interested you; you sniffed at what they had to offer and you liked what you smelled. You didn’t flat out turn them away. You didn’t chase them away. Why was that? What about them made this party different?”
Landis paused before he said, “Horace Dillon made the introduction.”
As Robert Morris supposed, Christian said to himself. “Did you accept or decline?”
“Neither. I told them I needed more time to think about their offer,” Landis answered.
“What were they offering you?” Van Brocklin asked.
“Insurance,” Landis replied. “Said they could sell us an insurance policy that would guarantee the passage of the bills by the politicians.”
“Make note that I speak for the State of New York,” Goldwaithe said in his most legalistic tone of voice. “On your honor you are telling us you have no agreement with this party that has the means to guarantee that the House of Representatives and the Senate will approve a national bank.”
“Correct.”
“But you haven’t categorically turned them down either?” Christian challenged and Landis did not reply immediately. Like the dog that had the scent in his nose, Christian now pressed on with a firmness in his voice that left no room for quibbling or hesitancy. “We need you to contact these people. You will tell them you wish to purchase their insurance policy. You will tell them you need to set up a meeting. The meeting must be today.”
Landis tried to reply, stammering a “How?” and a “Why?”
“Believe me, Mr. Landis,” Christian replied with a steely edge to his voice, “at this point you do not want to know anymore than what you know now.”
Christian found himself once again in Faunces Tavern, seated in a private dining room. Beside him sat Edward Landis. A coffee urn and six cups and saucers were in the middle of the table. They drank from their own coffee cups but neither was concerned with the taste. Nervous chatter ranged from topics on New York state politics to life in a loyalist city during the war. Before long a waiter appeared at the door and introduced, “Mr. White and Mr. Brown to join you.” One was of average build dressed in a business suit and the other was a thickly built, barrel-chested man in workman’s clothing. Mr. Brown, the man in the business suit offered, “Mr. Landis, a pleasure.” Christian was introduced as Landis’ accountant and the man in the working clothes was introduced as Mr. White.
“Yes, Mr. Brown, a distinct pleasure,” Landis replied nervously in a hoarse voice as he coughed and tried to clear his throat.
Christian sensed Landis’ reticence and grew concerned he might squirrel the operation. Hurriedly he offered, “Mr. Brown, after much deliberation we have decided to accept your proposal, but we have a few questions as you might well guess.”
“Naturally,” Brown replied.
“A short answer, please,” Christian begged. “How is it you have been able to influence a sufficient number of representatives and senators, so that the assumption of debt and Hamilton’s bank will be approved?”
“We have leverage,” Mr. White smiled, exposing a mouth of darkened teeth with multiple gaps.
“Leverage?” Christian repeated. “Not like black mail or confiscated love letters or outright bribery?”
“Nothing of the kind,” Mr. Brown replied.
“More like leverage of a personal nature what allows us to offer the insurance,” Mr. White added.
“Aye,” Christian said as he poured coffee for the men. “Personal insurance,” he repeated as both Mr. White and Brown smiled again. They were sickly smiles that suggested to Christian they knew all the answers and indeed thought they had leverage.
“Anxious as we are to purchase your services,” Christian continued as innocently as possible, “like any other buyer Mr. Landis would be inclined to ask for references.” Mr. White and Mr. Brown looked warily to each other.
Christian sensed their unease and ploughed forward. “As you know Horace Dillon directed us to you. We have completed many a transaction with Mr. Dillon. Has he indeed purchased your services?”
“Why yes,” Mr. Brown offered. “Just yesterday we reached an agreement with Mr. Dillon. As a matter of fact, we presently are in negotiations with several other very, very influential members of both Congress and the president’s administration. We are laboring very hard for individuals like yourself.”
“Like money in the bank, eh?” Christian parried. Effortlessly he slid a filled cup and saucer to each of them. They took the cups and drank; Brown using his right hand and White using his gnarly left hand.
“What again will be the cost for your services?” Christian asked.
“Five thousand dollars now and five more when the bill is passed by Congress.”
Christian smiled and replied, “That all? Seems more than reasonable. Don’t you agree, Edward?” Landis played his part as well as he could and offered a wan smile. Mr. White and Mr. Brown joined in what they believed to be a gay moment.
“Excuse me for a moment,” Christian said apologetically. “I have to use the facilities in the back.” He stood and stared at the floor where he saw the very large shoe that Mr. White wore. He left the room and within the blink of an eye Van Brocklin and six of his officers took Mr. Brown and Mr. White into custody.
“Needless to say, we found blood stains on the shoes of that White character who was quite the thug. The sole of his shoe matched perfectly to the imprint found on the floor of Mr. Robinson’s flat on Broome Street. He proved to be a tough cookie,” Christian related to Henrietta and James Madison as they drank their madeira. “Brown, the dandy, cried like a little baby as he watched Van Brocklin work over the brute. To spare himself like punishment Brown told the Constable everything he wanted to know.”
“I can’t thank you enough for helping to bring poor George Moore home, safe and sound,” James Madison said. “I was told the others were released as well.”
“There were two more hostages we didn’t yet know about. Robinson was banged around but alive, which is far better than what I feared,” Christian answered. “I am in no way certain the hostages would have survived the ordeal if we had not intervened. The hostages saw the faces of their kidnappers. Van Brocklin stormed the house where the hostages were being held and six more thugs were arrested. Horace Dillon is also in custody and Aaron Burr’s men are busily peppering away at him. I’m not sure what crime he has committed but that’s his problem.”
“This bank business,” Henrietta asked, “how is Congress to clear the impasse. Debate might continue well past the summer. Nothing else is being accomplished and the nation is on tender hooks awaiting a determination.”
“Perhaps something will be resolved this evening,” Madison replied. “Tom Jefferson has invited Hamilton and me to dinner at his home. I haven’t sat down and had a friendly meal with Alexander for a long time.”
“Will you also discuss the new location for the nation’s capital?” Christian asked.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Madison replied. “Tom wants the capital badly for Virginia and Alexander wants the bank so badly he can taste it.”
“I suspect there is more room for bargaining and compromise than either party can imagine,” Henrietta said. “Just get it done Jemmy. Bring the matter to a close.”
“Senator Morris suggested there was talk that Philadelphia might serve as the temporary site for the capital,” said Christian.
“If Morris could have it his way,” Madison replied, “the capital would relocate and remain in Philadelphia permanently, or at some other site where he owns acres of land.
“Push for Philadelphia, Jamie. We love having you as a guest,” Henrietta urged. “Besides, it would be a reward for Kit, for his part in helping to catch the kidnappers.”
“Perhaps, but no promises. Congressmen may be soft headed but none has been accused as being soft hearted. In consideration of your crime detection efforts, I understand you have been invited to the residence of President Washington; perhaps to receive some form of a reward or a thank you from him and Martha,” Madison chided. “Excited?” he asked Henrietta.
“Nervous and excited,” she replied.
“You’ve met him before, haven’t you, Kit?” Madison asked.
“Aye, during the war. Something about dysentery and piles and tender hindquarters.”
Henrietta and Christian had tea with James Madison before their return trip to Philadelphia. “Dinner was fine, French cuisine as would be expected and the wine was excellent.”
“And …,” Henrietta egged him on.
“We reached an agreement. I agreed to facilitate passage of Alexander’s bill to assume all the states’ debts. Alexander agreed to facilitate the vote to place the new Federal City on the banks of the Potomac River. Both divergent parties will savor something of a victory.”
“So, a national bank is just over the horizon,” Christian opined.
“What of your meeting with the President?” Madison asked.
“All that we could have expected,” was Henrietta’s reply.
“And he suggested that we shouldn’t be surprised if the location for the capital returned to Philadelphia for a short period,” Christian added. “I’m calling it a reward for my good services.”
“Pish-posh,” Henrietta jibed. “It would seem that Senator Robert Morris and his supporters have greater sway with political debate than Dr. Maier.”
