Clive Cussler - The Navigator

Angela couldn’t contain herself. “Actually, we’re more interested in his servant. A young man named Zeb Moses, who was with Lewis when he died.”

“Jason said you asked about Zeb when you called. It’s the reason he turned your query over to me. Zeb was an amazing man. Born into slavery. Worked at Monticello nearly his entire life. Died in his nineties, having lived long enough to read the Emancipation Proclamation.”

“You sound pretty knowledgeable about him,” Paul said.

Emerson smiled. “I should be. Zeb Moses was my ancestor.”

“That’s a wonderful coincidence,” Paul said. “It makes you the perfect person to answer a question that’s been nagging us.”

“I’ll do my best. Ask away.”

“Do you know how Zeb obtained his free slave status so soon after arriving at Monticello?”

Paul had a habit when deep in thought of inclining his head slightly and blinking his large brown eyes as if he were peering over the tops of invisible glasses. It was a deceptive idiosyncrasy that sometimes caught people off guard. Emerson was no exception.

He seemed to lose possession of his bland expression of geniality for an instant. His smile melted into a half frown, but he quickly recovered. He snapped the ends of his lips up in a broad grin.

“As I said, my ancestor was a remarkable individual. How did you learn that Zeb was a freeman?”

“We checked the Monticello database,” Paul said. The word ‘free’ is written next to Zeb’s name in Jefferson’s handwriting.”

“Well, Jefferson did free some of his slaves,” Emerson said.

“Not very many,” Angela said. “Jefferson had his reservations about slavery, but your own website says he always owned at least two hundred at a time. He sold more than a hundred, gave away eighty-five to his family. He only freed five of them in his will, and three of them, including your ancestor, while he was still alive.”

Emerson laughed. “Remind me not to cross intellectual swords with you, young lady. You’re absolutely right. But it goes to show that he did free slaves, although that was, regrettably, infrequent.”

“Which brings us back to my question,” Paul said. “Why was Zeb freed and given a preferred house job so soon after joining the work-force at Monticello?”

Emerson leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers. “I haven’t a clue. Do you folks have any idea why?”

Paul turned to Angela. He wanted to make up for the scientific lecture he’d given the young woman. “Miss Worth can explain.”

Angela jumped in. “We believe that Lewis was on a secret mission to deliver important information to Jefferson. Lewis was murdered because of it, but Zeb Moses traveled to Monticello to complete the mission. Jefferson rewarded Zeb with a job and freedom.”

“That’s quite a tale,” Emerson said with a shake of his head that implied skepticism without being rude. “What sort of information could have been entrusted to young Zeb?”

Gamay didn’t want to tip their hand. She interjected before Angela could answer. “We think it was a map.”

“A map of what?”

“We have no idea.”

“That’s a new one to me,” Emerson said. “Tell you what, though. I’ll look into it. You’ve got me really intrigued. I never dreamed Zeb was involved in cloak-and-dagger machinations.” He glanced at his watch and rose from his chair. “I’ll have to apologize for cutting short this fascinating discussion but I have an appointment with a potential donor.”

“We understand completely,” Paul said. “We appreciate your time.”

“Not at all,” Emerson said as he showed his guests to the door.

Emerson may have been through but Angela wasn’t.

“Oh, I almost forgot, Mr. Emerson,” she said. “Have you ever heard of Jefferson’s Artichoke Society?”

Emerson stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “No,” he said. “Never. Something to do with gardening?”

“Maybe,” Angela said with a shrug of her shoulders.

“I’ll have to look that that subject up too.”

Emerson watched from the entrance as his visitors got into the Humvee and drove off. His face wore an expression of utmost concern.

He walked briskly back to his office and punched in a number on the phone.

A man’s voice answered. Dry and brittle. “Good morning, Charles. How are you today?”

“I’ve been better. The people who called yesterday and inquired about Zeb Moses just left the library. A couple from NUMA and a young woman from the Philosophical Society.”

“I take it that you used your well-developed conversational skills to put them off.”

“I thought I was doing well until the young woman asked me about the Artichoke Society.”

For several seconds there was only silence at the other end, then the cold dry voice said: “We had better call a meeting of the others.”

“I’ll get right on it,” Emerson said.

He hung up and stared into space for a moment, and then he snapped to attention and punched in the first of a list of phone numbers from memory.

As he waited for the first person to answer, an image materialized in his mind’s eye. It was a giant ball of yarn unraveling.

“FIRST IMPRESSIONS,” Paul said as they drove past Monticello.

“Smooth, but not entirely forthcoming,” Gamay said.

“He’s hiding something,” Angela agreed.

“I was watching his reaction when you mentioned the Artichoke Society,” Paul said. “Classic deer caught in the headlights.”

“I noticed that too,” Gamay said. “Angela’s question definitely got his attention. Maybe we should dig deeper into this little society. Anyone know an expert on artichokes?”

Angela said. “I know someone who’s researching a book about artichokes. I’ll give him a call.”

Stocker was at home and delighted to hear from Angela. “Are you okay? I heard about the murder at the library and tried to call you at home.”

“I’m fine. I’ll tell you about it later. I have a favor to ask. In your research, did you ever come across any mention of something called the Artichoke Society?”

“Jefferson’s secret club?”

“That’s the one. What do you know about it?”

“I found mention of it in an article on secret societies at the University of Virginia. I didn’t follow through because it didn’t seem like a big deal.”

“Do you know who wrote the article?”

“A professor at UVA. I’ll give you his name and number.”

She jotted the information down, told Stocker she would be in touch, and relayed her findings to the Trouts. Gamay wasted no time getting the professor on the phone.

“Good news,” she said after hanging up. “The professor would be glad to see us between classes, but we’ll have to hurry.”

Trout pressed the accelerator and the wide-bodied vehicle picked up speed.

“Next stop, University of Virginia.”

Chapter 39

THE WIDOW OF THE DEAD wreck diver lived in a square, three-story house that may have once been elegant before years of neglect took a toll. The antique yellow paint was flaked and peeling. Shutters hung off at drunken angles. The air of dilapidation stopped at the freshly mowed front lawn and the neat flower beds along the foundation.

Austin pressed the front doorbell. Hearing no chimes, he rapped his knuckles on the door. No one answered. He knocked as loud as he could without breaking the door down.

“Coming!” A white-haired woman emerged from around a corner of the house. “Sorry,” she said with a bright smile. “I was out in the garden.”

“Mrs. Hutchins?” Austin said.

“Call me Thelma.”

She brushed the dirt off her hands and extended one to Austin and then to Zavala. Her palm was calloused and her grip surprisingly firm.