If those bees attack my uncle one more time, the old keeper will be dragged away in chains for treason, my cousin whispered as we stood on the portico of Elmwood Manor.
The provost guards finished their cursory search, grumbling about the storm, and left the library, locking the conservatory doors behind them. I remained hidden, shivering in my damp clothes, but a triumphant surge coursed through me.
I had the receipt book. This was irrefutable evidence.
I waited a few minutes, ensuring the manor was quiet, before slipping out through the broken washroom window again. The rain had softened to a drizzle, and the first hints of pre-dawn light painted the eastern sky.
My objective was the telegraph office in Fairfax. It was a long, muddy walk through the estate woods and along the main road, but I didn’t care. I had to deliver this information.
I arrived in Fairfax, covered in mud and utterly exhausted, just as the telegraph office was opening its doors. A young clerk, startled by my appearance, looked at me with wide eyes.
“I need to send an urgent telegram,” I panted, placing Pryce’s receipt book and Dr. Finch’s ledger on the counter. “To the *Washington Daily Chronicle*.”
A man in a rumpled suit, already waiting at the counter, turned at my words. He had a keen, intelligent face and a pencil tucked behind his ear.
“The *Chronicle*, you say?” he asked, his voice crisp. “Well, that’s a coincidence. Marcus Crane, at your service. War correspondent.”
My luck had turned. A reporter.
“Clara Albright,” I introduced myself, pushing the documents towards him. “I have a story that will blow the roof off the War Department, Mr. Crane.”
He picked up Dr. Finch’s ledger first, his eyes scanning the precise entries. His brows furrowed as he read about Colonel Vance, Captain Thorne, and the “cardiac dropsy.”
Then he looked at Pryce’s receipt book, flipping through the pages. His fingers paused on a specific entry, his eyes widening.
“Four thousand dollars,” he murmured, “paid to Major Pryce, Quartermaster’s Office. For ‘expedited supply requisitions.’ Dated yesterday.”
He looked up at me, his gaze intense. “Nurse Albright, this isn’t just a story. This is a massive military land-grab conspiracy. It reaches right into the War Department logistics bureau.”
He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. “Poisoning wealthy officers for their land, using corrupt Quartermasters to push through fake paperwork. And framing an old beekeeper for treason?”
“It’s all connected,” I confirmed, my voice hoarse. “Julian Montgomery is poisoning General Silas to inherit Elmwood and a lucrative timber grant. Pryce is his accomplice.”
Marcus Crane didn’t hesitate. He grabbed a fresh sheet of paper and began scribbling notes furiously.
“This is sensational,” he breathed. “The public needs to know this. We’ll publish these toxicology logs and forged deeds simultaneously in Washington and Baltimore papers. It’ll be front-page news, nationwide.”
He stood, his energy infectious. “I’ll wire my editor immediately. Tell him to hold the front page for the morning edition. This isn’t just a scoop, Nurse Albright. This is justice.”
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