“Where was it?” I interrupted.
“Where? Why, right down below Water Street.” He pointed southward. “Along the river, foot of Hoffman. Some of them Secesh boys like to cried at how kindly the folks hereabouts treated ’em. It weren’t your general notion of a prison ’tall. Nothin’ like them in Virginia, where our boys starved.”
“Didn’t a good many die here?” I asked bluntly.
“Pshaw,” he said—the first time I’d heard anybody actually voice it—and looked indignant. “That old tune don’t play. We treated them boys like they was our own, practically. They got the same food and provisions, got to move freely inside the camp, got to make articles and sell ’em to folks so as to earn their own money. . . .”
He droned on. I stopped listening and considered how to handle the good commissioner once I got inside. The Army maintained only a skeleton detachment in Elmira now. Though guarded by federal troops, Woodlawn’s military adjunct was under day-to-day municipal administration. I stared at the gilt letters on the door, aware of butterflies gathering in my stomach; if I blew this, they’d nail me for offering a public official a bribe. Daniel J. Costigan. Wasn’t that Irish? Christ, they were everywhere.
At length the door opened and a burly man with a large paunch beckoned me inside. He had small piggish brown eyes and gray-streaked whiskers. His manner was brisk, the busy servant of the people. He gestured to a seat in a pool of sunlight, where I sat, sweating even more profusely. He retreated behind a battered oak writing table.
“How can I help you, Mr. . . .”
“Snider, Ed Snider,” I said. “People call me Duke. I’m here on a sentimental mission. One involving a lady’s honor and her most cherished memories.”
“Indeed?” His expression did not change.
“Yes, her cousin died here in the camp during the war. The family was loyal—they’d moved to North Carolina just before secession—and they promptly disowned the cousin when he joined the Rebels. But she gave him her most valued possession, a ring, to carry with him. She’d like to have it back now. It was her grandmother’s, you see, and—”
He had begun to frown as I talked. Now he interrupted. “Sexton Vincent, here in town, was the camp’s chaplain. He maintains wartime records.”
“Yes, I’ve talked with him.”
“And the boy was interred here?”
I nodded.
He placed his hands palms down on the tabletop. “Possessions of deceased prisoners were held for claim after the war, of course, but I don’t believe such is still the case.”
“Well, here’s the thing,” I said confidentially. “She feels positive the ring is still on his finger.”
His small eyes listed to mine. “On his finger?”
“Yes, in the grave. She said the ring was so tight it couldn’t have been removed in any . . . normal way.” I mopped my forehead with a handkerchief. “She’s positive that it’s, well, still in place.”
He shook his head slowly. “You must understand that those were times of hardship and confusion, Mr. Snider. Stealing was common, I’m afraid. A valuable ring, on the hand of a dead man . . .”
“I made that very argument,” I said quickly. “She insisted that the ring was of so little value that nobody would go to the trouble of taking it. A plain band, no stone. Impossible to remove without ruining it.” I packed my voice with nobility. “I pledged my solemn word of honor that I would help.”
He eyed me lugubriously, as if assisting me were his fondest wish. “I trust she appreciates such gentlemanly aid,” he said. “But I'm afraid the family will have to apply for the removal of the body in the proper manner. I can provide you the appropriate forms—”
I’d anticipated that. “No, I’m afraid it’s impossible,” I broke in. “You see, in all candidness, he was more to her than a mere cousin. They were lovers. She yearned to marry him when he returned. Now she’s betrothed to another, and—well, you can see that discretion is called for. She simply wants the ring as a token of all that was dear to her before the cruel conflict.” Not bad, I thought.
“A number feel the want of that,” he said dryly, rising from his chair. “But you appear to be asking us to disinter a corpse in order to examine its fingers, without any sort of identification or proper authorization. That, sir, is stretching sentiment.”
I pushed an envelope onto the edge of the desk. The small eyes fastened on it. He sat down again.
“More than sentiment is involved,” I said. “The lady realizes this is irregular and is quite prepared to offer compensation.” I slid the envelope across the desk. He picked it up. Four of Le Caron’s fifties nestled inside.
He said quietly, “This is a good deal of money.”
“Absolute discretion is required,” I said, and explained that I wanted to handle the disinterment myself—the lady’s wish—and that I hoped to accomplish it that very night. For the sake of all involved parties, of course, no one must ever know. I finished and waited, holding my breath.
For a long moment he sat stolidly. Calculating the risks, I guessed. He must have figured they were minimal. How could I ever prove anything against him? He tucked the envelope in his breast pocket. I breathed again.
“I believe I understand the delicacy of the matter,” he said. “Which is the grave in question?”
I hesitated, then showed him the sexton’s sketch.
“Hmm.” He stroked his whiskers. “Not much traffic on that road at night, but a lantern would show a fair distance. I think you’d better do your work between, say, three and four, to be safe.” He looked at me for confirmation; I nodded. “I’ll have the boys off duty
