Harbor of Spies Read online

  When he arrived, Townsend could hear the soprano notes of Emma’s violin accompanied by the rich resonant tones of a cello. Mrs. Carpenter seemed happy to see him. She took him to the outdoor courtyard. One of the Irish maids brought out some Earl Grey tea and a plate of molasses cookies. Mrs. Carpenter told him that Emma would join them shortly.

  As she poured them both a cup of tea, Mrs. Carpenter seemed intent on finding out more information about him and his background. She had already asked him where he was from, and was trying to learn more about his family. Townsend wondered how he could persuade her to divulge more information about Michael Abbott. He tried a couple of times to suggest he would like to talk about Abbott, but both attempts were unsuccessful. She ignored his hints, and he ended up boldly asking her how she had come to live in Cuba. Mrs. Carpenter seemed to tense up at that question, but then after a brief moment of silence, she told him how she had been brought to the island from Philadelphia as a young bride. She was married to a Spanish merchant by the name of Enrique Lozada. They had two children, but then a few years after Emma, the third child, was born, he had left to go back to Spain.

  “Oh, I see,” Townsend said awkwardly, noticing that her voice had taken on a sharper edge. “That’s terrible. I’m sorry.”

  “Well, that was more than fifteen years ago. Ancient history, I suppose. You are probably wondering why I don’t use the name Lozada? Legally that is my name, Eleanor Carpenter de Lozada, but with my guests, I prefer the name of Carpenter.”

  She looked at him with a solemn face, somewhat vulnerable, and Townsend realized he might have trespassed into too-personal territory.

  “I bought this boarding house as a way to support myself,” she said proudly. “And I raised Emma and her two older sisters here.”

  “Did you ever contemplate returning to Philadelphia?”

  “Why, Captain Townsend you certainly are an inquisitive young man,” she said, arching her left eyebrow sharply. But with a deep breath, she continued talking.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I did think of going back, but I quickly dispelled that notion. Given my status—I mean the awkward situation with my husband, it would have created difficulties. I’m not sure I would have been accepted back readily into my family’s circle of friends, certainly not without a great deal of harmful gossip. So I stayed in Havana against the advice of my mother and sister in Philadelphia. There was a growing community of expatriate Americans here, more than five thousand. I suppose that’s why I remained on the island,” she mused. “I always thought it was inevitable that Cuba would one day be American.”

  Eleanor Carpenter pursed her lips as she poured them both another cup of tea.

  She offered him a molasses cookie, looking at Townsend closely, seeming to study his face and his clothes.

  “But enough about my life. Let’s talk about you, Captain Townsend. You seem well educated, and well spoken, not like some of the dregs you find on the docks. I’m surprised you aren’t in the Navy.”

  “I was a midshipman at the Naval Academy . . . but Navy life didn’t agree with me.”

  “How extraordinary! You were a midshipman? What didn’t you like about the Navy?”

  “It wasn’t for me.”

  “I see. So you left the Navy to come here to Cuba, and now you’re a hired ship captain on a trading schooner.”

  “I suppose it does seem strange—but circumstances, as you know, obliged me.”

  Townsend could now feel Eleanor Carpenter’s fixed gaze on him, making him feel vulnerable and uncomfortable.

  “And where do you sail on your next voyage?” she asked pointedly.

  Townsend muttered that they were repairing and refitting the schooner. He was still trying to pull together a crew, but that he had heard Mexico mentioned. Townsend hesitated, and then replied defensively. “Matamoros probably.”

  “Running the blockade then, are you? I had surmised as much.”

  “No, no, not really,” Townsend stammered, caught off guard by her directness. He knew where Emma had gotten it from.

  “Oh come now, Captain. Everyone in Havana knows the merchants and ship owners here file papers clearing for a neutral port, when in fact they’re headed for Galveston or Mobile. These days the profits lie in getting through the blockade. Just about any ship that can float here in Havana Bay is being readied to run the blockade.”

  Townsend muttered that all he knew was that they were headed north into the Gulf.

  “Mr. Townsend. I wasn’t born yesterday so stop the pretense.” Mrs. Carpenter arched her left eyebrow and gave him a skeptical look. “Given your new profession and your Maryland roots, might I assume you are of the Southern persuasion, Captain?”

  Townsend tried not to squirm in his chair. He could tell from the stern tone in her voice that she had no love for the Southern cause.

  “I consider myself a Southerner, but I grew up in a home that had no use for slavery. My father is a Yankee with little regard for the institution.”

  “I see. And your mother?”

  He paused before answering.

  “My mother is . . . or rather was . . . she died recently. She was from here originally.”

  “Your mother was Cuban? Where from?”

  “Matanzas, I think. I’m not really sure.”

  “You’re not sure?”

  “My mother never wanted to talk about her past, so sadly I know little to nothing about her life in Cuba.”

  “I see,” Mrs. Carpenter replied, her eyes sparkling with interest at all this new information.

  An awkward silence settled in between the two of them. Townsend could tell she wanted to ask another question, but she didn’t. After another sip of tea, Mrs. Carpenter suggested they move farther into the garden where there would be more privacy. They sat at a table next to a small water fountain that splattered and splashed noisily into a Moorish-style blue and white tiled basin. She leaned toward him and began speaking in a soft voice.

  “I know you want to talk about Abbott. I didn’t want to say anything before. Some of the servants might be eavesdropping. The Spanish government is always listening, and even among my staff I never know whom I can trust. Here we should be out of earshot. After your last visit, Emma and I felt we should tell you more about Michael Abbott. We both are worried you could still be in danger, particularly if Abbott is alive. What do you know about him?”

  Startled by this unexpected turn in the conversation, Townsend replied, “I know almost nothing. He told me he was investigating an unsolved murder . . . some man who was stabbed to death eight years ago. That’s about it.”

  Mrs. Carpenter looked around her to see if any of the maids were approaching. Satisfied that they were alone, she once again leaned in closer.

  “Michael Abbott is a detective from London. Or maybe I should say, was. . . . He came here to investigate the Backhouse murder.”

  Townsend stared at her with sudden interest.

  “Yes, he was investigating the murder of George Backhouse . . . British diplomat. He was Her Britannic Majesty’s judge in Havana. Knifed in his own house by what they said was a gang of men. Eight years ago but never brought to justice.”

  She paused for a moment and patted her hair before continuing.

  “We foreigners all knew them. An attractive young couple. George Backhouse was only thirty-seven years old when he died, in his prime. His wife, Grace, could be a bit temperamental at times, but she had a group of friends among some of the other British and German wives. I must admit she wasn’t enamored with Cuba. She thought the men were dishonest and the women wore dresses that were provocative and too revealing. She found the city to be dirty, and she hated the pervasive African music. She and her friends would come down here to have tea and some of my coconut lime pie. She seemed more relaxed then. I must say she was always very gracious to me and extremely kind to my dau
ghter. Emma was invited to their home once a week to play the violin. Grace loved her piano, and she and Emma would play duets. She wanted to expose her young daughter, Alice, somewhat of a tomboy, to Mozart and Bach. I think Grace Backhouse missed England terribly. Emma said that she had covered the walls of their house with paintings of the English countryside. She was always talking about returning home.”

  “What exactly did George Backhouse do here?”

  “He had judiciary powers over captured slave ships. By treaty law, he could imprison slavers. An important job.”

  “But he’s a foreigner. I don’t understand how. . . .”

  Mrs. Carpenter cut him off. “Let me explain. By treaty with England, the Spanish Crown agreed to abolish the slave trade. This was decades ago. The result was the formation of a Joint Commission made up of Spanish and English representatives. But to those of us who live here, this Commission was, and still is considered somewhat of a shameful farce. The fact is slave trading to Cuba has only grown. No one knows for sure, but they say ten to twenty thousand new African slaves are landed here each year. The Spanish government routinely thumbs its nose at the British, and breaks the laws it promised to uphold.”

  “And Backhouse?”

  “Well, as British representative he was supposed to enforce the treaty. As soon as he arrived here, George Backhouse made it clear he took the job seriously. He was no fire-breathing abolitionist, mind you, but he was committed to enforcing the treaty’s laws to end slave trading.”

  “But why investigate this now if the murder took place eight years ago?”

  “I asked Abbott the same thing. All I know is what he told me. Grace Backhouse told him she needed to find out once and for all who killed her husband. She had received some new information about the murder and wanted to know if he would help her. He said she was desperate to put the murder to rest. Put it behind her. Truthfully, I fully understand. I can’t imagine living with that tragedy. Never knowing who did it, I mean. Thankfully she remarried recently, Abbott said, to a minister, but for all these years, he said she’s been nearly destitute, barely scraping by on a budget of one hundred pounds per year. He said her appeals to the British government for further assistance were largely ignored. Frankly I don’t know how she managed all these years to bring up those children alone.”

  Mrs. Carpenter took out some slightly faded and folded newspaper clippings from England and the United States, holding them out to him.

  “Abbott took most of his documents with him but he left these old clippings behind in his room. He must have brought them with him from London. I’m not sure what newspapers they came from.”

  Townsend picked up one slightly crumpled article from September of 1855, with the headline “Murder of Mr. G.C. Backhouse.” He read how Backhouse and his dinner companion, Thomas Callaghan, were attacked the evening of the 31st of August after dinner by “a gang of negro ruffians accompanied by two white men” and in the struggle, Backhouse was knifed on his left side, “the knife passing through his lungs and spleen and in about four hours he died.”

  “Here’s another one,” Mrs. Carpenter said. “This one has more details about the attackers.” Townsend glanced quickly at this other article. It was from London’s The Examiner dated October 8, 1855. He read how Mr. Callaghan “was thrown on the ground, his arms tied and his watch taken from his person.” The article said Backhouse fought back, and “made an manful struggle . . . tried to throw his assailant on the ground, but he was too powerful a man . . . he attempted to take away the monster’s knife.” That’s when Backhouse was stabbed. The article went on to say that the “murderer and all his confederates were captured.”

  He looked up at Mrs. Carpenter.

  “So they caught the assailants?”

  “Well, they made arrests. The newspapers made it sound like the police had found the culprits.”

  Townsend read another account that stated there was reason to believe “there was sufficient proof to condemn at least two of them,” and concluded “before this month is over they doubtless will be garroted.”

  “We thought there was going to be a trial, but then the suspects were mysteriously released.”

  “Why?”

  “Insufficient evidence.”

  “And what about the investigation?”

  “The newspapers here weren’t informative, but that’s not surprising given the general government censorship in Cuba. The investigation came to a halt. The truly astonishing fact was that the British government did next to nothing.”

  “How surprising!”

  “All we ever heard is that the British consul general, Joseph Crawford, offered a small reward for more information, and that was it.”

  “Crawford?” Townsend looked at Mrs. Carpenter. “Do you remember when you suggested that Abbott should go to the British Consulate to speak with the consul general?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I do remember. He wouldn’t go.”

  At that point, Emma walked out into the courtyard with a graceful swish of her long skirts. A faint flush filled her face as she swung her hair back so that Townsend couldn’t help noticing her thin neck. She asked what they were talking about. When she heard they were discussing Michael Abbott and his strange refusal to seek help from the British consul general, she gave her mother a long, lingering stare.

  “What is it, Emma?” her mother asked.

  Emma looked around, pausing before she spoke.

  “Mother, I know you don’t know this. Mr. Abbott told me not to say anything, but you might as well know. About a week before he disappeared, he tried to speak with someone at the British Consulate. When he mentioned the Backhouse case, he was politely told that the consul general was ill and unable to see him. He went back another day, and was told again that the consul general was indisposed.”

  “So he was turned away from his own consulate?” Townsend asked.

  “Yes, apparently so. He was quite distressed. He thought the British consul general would be eager to help him. After all, Mr. Crawford had worked with George Backhouse. He also thought he might be able to talk to some of the consulate staff. Perhaps uncover some clues about what happened all those years ago. He said he wanted to tell the consul general face-to-face that Grace Backhouse still strongly believes her husband was killed because of his job . . . that he was the victim of a conspiracy.”

  “Pshaw,” exclaimed Mrs. Carpenter as she shook her head. “We will talk about this later, Emma. You know my concerns.” Her face was taut and strained. “If you’ll excuse me, Captain. We have guests arriving on the New York bound steamer from New Orleans.”

  After she left, Townsend could hear her shouting at the maids to get the rooms ready and put new linens and mosquito netting on all the beds. Emma seemed not to notice. He took a deep breath and decided he would ask a sensitive question.

  “If it’s not overly presumptuous to ask, Miss Carpenter, what can you tell me about Michael Abbott? Did you know him well?”

  “I would describe him as a highly principled man,” she replied. “Earnest in his beliefs. Firm in his resolve. A decent man.”

  “You seem to have been fond of him?”

  “Yes, he was so nice to my mother,” Emma replied. “So charming. She told me Mr. Abbott reminded her of a true Philadelphian gentleman of the old variety, so polite and refined, even though, of course, he was English. I thought maybe Michael Abbott was the one.”

  “The one?” he asked quizzically.

  “Yes, the one,” she said with a smile.

  “The one . . . for you?”

  “No, no,” she laughed. “Not for me. For my mother, you silly, of course, my mother. Not me. Why would you say that?”

  “Oh, I thought maybe . . .”

  She laughed lightly even as a slight crease appeared between her dark eyebrows. With a deep breath, her voice turned serious.
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  “Mr. Townsend,” she said. “Let me tell you something. I am not usually drawn to older men.”

  Townsend smiled awkwardly. She grinned, clearly enjoying his obvious discomfort. She looked away, and the smile faded.

  “No, I liked Mr. Abbott because he was kind to my mother. It was the first time I had seen her interested in anyone since my father left us. She doesn’t like to talk about that—but my father abandoned us after squandering all her money. As you may have noticed, we don’t use his name. Like my mother, I go by Carpenter. Legally Lozada is my last name, but I never use it. It has been hard for my mother, raising three girls on her own. With Abbott, she was a different person, laughing and smiling here in the boarding house, even treating the maids kindly. Imagine, she wasn’t even shouting. The two of them were going on evening walks down at the Cortina de Valdés to see the sunset and the harbor. I thought she had finally found someone, but then that all changed.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “He confided in her about why he had come to Cuba. She got scared and told me I should stay away from him. She said he was a danger to himself and to anyone who got too close to him.”

  “I’m presuming you didn’t listen to your mother.”

  “No, I ignored her, of course. Abbott cared for my mother. I could see that. They were in love. I was trying to mend their relationship, and I suppose that is why Abbott took me into his confidence.”

  “Did Abbott tell you anything more about his investigation?”

  “He said Grace Backhouse had received a letter from someone in Cuba. She read it to him in tears, and begged him to help. Abbott told me that she called on him in London and asked him to go to Cuba. ‘Not just for my sake,’ she told him. ‘It’s for my former husband, George.’ That’s what she said to Abbott. ‘George is lost to history. No one in England even remembers who he was. He lost his life in the service of his country, but his murder has been forgotten.’ ”