Page 62

March 30, 1800

“Did you visit Mrs. Ashmore?”

As usual, Hamilton wasted no time on polite nothings. With the trial of Levi Weeks called for the following morning, counsel had met for one last conference to prepare their strategy.

“I did,” said Aaron.

They were once again in Hamilton’s office, in the chairs with no padding, with the salt-scented wind whistling through the cracks in the wood. March appeared to have decided to go out like a lion as well as in like one.

As for Aaron, he was busy playing the lamb. He had allowed Hamilton to convene this meeting at his office; he graciously ignored the fact that Hamilton was ordering him about as though Aaron were one of his clerks. He had his own reasons for not wanting Hamilton anywhere near Richmond Hill.

Let Hamilton crow; he’d have his wings clipped soon enough.

Brockholst was bristling on Aaron’s behalf, but Aaron answered calmly, “I called on Mrs. Ashmore at 884 Bowery Lane yesterday. Mrs. Brown, as she sometimes prefers to be called. The house is a distillery—with other diversions to be had.”

“It’s a brothel?” said Brockholst, diverted.

“Not as such,” Aaron replied. “At least, not officially.”

Brockholst gave a barking laugh. “Did you sample the wares?”

“Only the brandy,” said Aaron blandly.

Although there had been one engaging piece by the name of Eliza Brown who had offered him a cordial, quite cordially. Not a relation of Mrs. Ashmore, alias Mrs. Brown, he’d been informed. It was remarkable what a wide array of unrelated persons named Brown one might encounter.

Mrs. Ashmore, as far as Aaron could tell, catered to a clientele of small tradesmen, men like Richard Croucher. She provided a veneer of respectability and a great deal of home-brewed brandy.

While he might not have sampled all the wares, Aaron considered his visit to Mrs. Ashmore an afternoon well spent.

Mrs. Ashmore herself couldn’t vote in the upcoming elections—a fact his Theo had so frequently deplored—but many of her clientele could. Men in their cups tended to be suggestible. Mrs. Ashmore had provided several valuable pieces of information—not about the Weeks affair, which was largely beside the point, but the political and personal preferences of her visitors.

They had parted well satisfied with each other—although not so well satisfied as some of Mrs. Ashmore’s customers.

Back at Richmond Hill, Aaron had added the details Mrs. Ashmore had given him to his growing roster of the name, political leanings, financial situation, and temperament of every eligible voter in the city of New York.

Even now, as he sat here in Hamilton’s office, docilely letting Hamilton order him about, the list was being divided among Aaron’s corps of volunteers. Theodosia was hard at work, providing refreshments and endless streams of coffee, with pallets on the floor for those who might need to rest from their labors. Among his volunteers, he had Dutch speakers, German speakers, French speakers; he had elegant young men and forthright farmers. Whatever the nature of the man, Burr would find someone who could persuade him.

Hamilton might have his army, but Burr felt that his election apparatus was an altogether more military arrangement, and likely to be of longer standing.

Hamilton, in happy ignorance, was brooding on the Weeks affair. “So Croucher might have passed the well that night.”

“Mrs. Ashmore was insistent that he hadn’t left the party—but I would take her word for what it’s worth.”

“And what’s that?”

“Whatever you’re willing to pay for it.” In a house where everything was for sale, information was just another form of coin.

“Do you think he’s bribed her?”

“I think,” said Aaron, “that he is a client of such long standing that it would ill behoove her to contradict him.”

“What does it matter?” demanded Brockholst, trying fruitlessly to find a more comfortable position in a chair designed for a much smaller man. “Are we to ascertain the whereabouts of every one of the prosecution’s witnesses? I hear Colden has bound over seventy-odd persons.”

“Not just a witness.” Something appeared to be worrying Hamilton; he lacked his usual bombast. “I spoke to Levi Weeks. He says he saw Richard Croucher embracing Elma.”

“It seems a great many people embraced Elma,” murmured Aaron. “One can hardly claim it as a distinguishing characteristic.”

“This may yet be of use to us,” said Brockholst thoughtfully. “Our primary argument, of course, is that the wench did away with herself. Failing that, we open the prospect that one of her many other lovers had cause to do away with her.”