by E. L. Ripley
Everyone watched as Tom limped past, sneezing; the air in the church always had a hint of sawdust.
The Quakers were all on their feet, and the men had their hats in their hands. There weren’t many tears; they were all just stunned.
Tom made his way straight up to Jeremiah, who looked only mildly affronted.
“Yes?” the older man growled under his breath.
“The trouble only started when I got here,” Tom told him quietly. There was no reason not to be blunt. “If you want me to say something or tell it all, I will.”
Phillip’s eyes became suspicious, and he stepped in close enough to join the conversation.
“No one has accused you, Mr. Smith.”
“And I reckon they’re too well-mannered to do it,” Tom replied frankly. “But they’ll all think it, as any reasonable people would, and you two as well. Hell,” he muttered, and Jeremiah’s eye twitched, but he didn’t apologize, “I’m halfway suspicious myself. Secrets are bad business. We should clear the air, and if you all want me to leave, I will.”
“Tom, are you a witch?” Jeremiah asked tiredly.
“I don’t believe in witches.”
“Did you murder Saul Matthews?”
“Of course not.”
“Are you in league with these men in the woods?”
“No.”
“Then if you want to leave, leave. If not, sit down,” Jeremiah said firmly.
Taken aback, Tom straightened up. He swallowed, actually a little hurt. Then he ducked his head.
“Yes, sir. I apologize.”
“None needed.”
Shaken, Tom did as he was told and sat. Jeremiah motioned for the rest to do the same, and they did. The pews creaked, and the breeze caught one of the shutters that hadn’t been tied. It banged against the wall, and a boy leapt up to go secure it. Phillip stood at Jeremiah’s side, and they both surveyed the people gathered.
To Tom’s eye, the Quakers weren’t nearly shocked enough. Jeremiah had told them that Saul was dead, but he must not have told them that he’d been murdered. That was why Jeremiah didn’t want Tom talking—or part of it.
Tom looked around, but Eliza, the girl who’d found Saul’s body, wasn’t in the church.
Jeremiah started to speak, but Tom didn’t hear him. Someone had taken that object out of Thaddeus’ house. Tom hadn’t been bothered by that detail because he already knew that someone from Friendly Field had made it. Had he and Asher been seen finding it in the woods? How many people in Friendly Field had known that it was in that house?
Thaddeus, Jeremiah—likely Phillip, because Jeremiah seemed to tell him everything. Jeremiah’s wife, Mrs. White, perhaps. Very little was lost on her. Who else?
Jeremiah was talking about Saul going home, being taken to heaven and so on.
No mention of murder or witches.
Tom let his breath out, discreetly watching the Quakers. He wasn’t sure if Jeremiah’s decision was shrewd or cowardly, but it was clear these people wouldn’t take well to news of a murder in their village. He was a little surprised to hear the older man lie, but he couldn’t find it in himself to disapprove. Jeremiah owed something to God, but he owed something to his people as well. If Thaddeus wasn’t going to assert himself, that meant it was Jeremiah’s choice to make.
There could be consequences, though.
Tom spotted Mary, who looked just as distressed as everyone else. And why not? Tom hadn’t found Saul to have much presence, but he’d been reasonable and easy to deal with. These people had looked up to him.
“Phillip and I will handle the particulars,” Jeremiah was saying. “We will hold service at sundown. May I lead a prayer now before we return to our tasks?”
There was a chorus of yeas, and Tom obligingly bowed his head, but he wasn’t about to close his eyes.
There was a killer in Friendly Field—one who wasn’t named Tom Calvert, no less.
These people had been a curiosity to him from the moment he first set foot in this place. Now he watched them as he’d never watched them before, and his eyes settled on one face in particular: that of Miss Adams, the girl newly arrived to be Thaddeus’ so-called housekeeper. For a moment his heart stopped, but not because of her looks.
Tom had noticed her prettiness the first time he met her, more than a year ago. He’d noticed it again the last time he met her as well, aboard the Newlywed, where she had been plying her trade on the arm of a man Tom shot and killed a few hours later.
Her name was Holly, and though Tom had never known her family name, it probably wasn’t Adams. He was startled to see her here with her head bowed. He was the last man to judge anyone for their means of making a living, but one thing was certain: Holly was no more a Quaker than he was.
* * *
* * *
Death was not new to Friendly Field. They’d been in this place for nearly forty years.
The loss of Saul was different, though. It wasn’t just abrupt; he was also one of their leaders. A fixture. It wasn’t that he was well-liked; everyone in Friendly Field was well-liked, more or less. Folks even found ways to take Mrs. Heller in good humor. There was some disapproval of Holly—or Miss Adams—but if none of that seemed to spill onto Thaddeus, then it seemed likely that they would warm to Holly in time.
Assuming she planned to stay, and Tom wasn’t sure she did. He wouldn’t know until he could talk to her, and there was no telling when that would be. At one time he wouldn’t have thought twice about shirking his chores to hold a conversation, but Jeremiah’s rebuke in the church had put him on his heels. This wasn’t his community; it belonged to the Quakers. He couldn’t just do as he pleased.
The distress in the sewing room was easier to understand this time, but the afternoon seemed to stretch endlessly, and the service was even worse. Jeremiah hadn’t needed half the day to bury a body or prepare some words; he’d needed it to decide if he was going to stick to his lie.
He was; Tom heard that perfectly clearly, and it hurt to see the other man this way. Saul’s wife was dead, but both his sons were still alive and married in Friendly Field. Tom saw them trying to explain things to their small children. He had shot more men than he could reliably count; some of them had probably been fathers.
Tom had never known his own, and from what little his mother had told him of the man, that was for the best.
These people were different, and they were all out of luck. The Porter gang. This—this business with the feathers.
Saul must have had an enemy. But had he known he had one? That was the part that Tom couldn’t stack up; unless he’d completely misjudged the man, Saul hadn’t believed himself to be in danger. He hadn’t seen it coming.
* * *
* * *
The heavy air over Friendly Field hadn’t even begun to lift by the time Tom and Asher made it to Mary Black’s door. Saul had been buried, words had been spoken, and there had been altogether too much praying. Tom didn’t begrudge the Quakers their ways, but he believed Jeremiah needed to spend less time with his head bowed and his eyes closed, and more time with his eyes open looking for whoever had done it.
Saul must’ve known something about the business with the feathers. It was the only thing Tom could think of, but what could he have known that would have cost his life?
The sight of Mary brought him out of his thoughts. There was an exhaustion in her bearing and less color in her face. It meant something if she was suffering enough that she couldn’t convincingly hide it, but that wouldn’t stop her from trying. The food smelled heavenly; Mrs. Washburn had seen enough people come and go in her time that something like this wouldn’t put her off her cooking.
Telling Mary she didn’t have to try so hard wouldn’t have helped any. It might’ve been better if Asher hadn’t been there, because she certainly wasn’t going to appear upset in fr
ont of him. On the other hand, it spared her the trouble of wondering if it was proper to be genuine with Tom. They liked each other plainly enough, but she had enough sense to remember that they’d only been acquaintances for a short time.
Good food was a waste on nights like this; no one tasted any of it.
“It was a strange look on your face,” Mrs. Washburn said to Tom as they ate. “In the church today. Was it a dressing down that Jeremiah gave you?”
“It was. And I deserved it.”
“What was your offense?”
“Being a busybody.”
Mrs. Washburn’s brows rose as she feigned surprise. “You, Mr. Smith?”
“Wouldn’t be my first time.”
Here it was; this nosy old woman wasn’t blind. She knew something was wrong, and she wanted to know what it was.
“And into what manner of business did you try to insert yourself,” she asked, “to find ire in Jeremiah White?”
“I expect his ire had less to do with anything in particular that I had done, and more with my habit of believing all the problems are mine to solve my own way,” Tom replied. “I’m a stranger here, not well-known, and undeserving of the trust you’ve all placed in me already. It’s not my place to tell anyone here what to do. It’s presumptuous of me.” That was a word he’d heard used but never used himself. He was fairly sure he’d used it right.
“But what did you presume to do?”
Stubborn old woman. He tried to think of an answer, but Mary rescued him.
“Mother, I believe you are prying.”
“Who better to pry?” Mrs. Washburn shot back. “After all, Tom’s the only halfway new thing to come to Friendly Field in a long time.”
Holly was newer than Tom, but he couldn’t point that out.
“Do you mean to say, Mrs. Washburn, that you know all there is to know about everyone else?” Asher asked mildly.
It warmed Tom’s heart that he had two allies at the table. Not that Mrs. Washburn was his enemy; she was just every bit as much of a busybody as he was. He’d still play cards with her after dinner, if she was inclined—except no. Was she a busybody? Or was she just trying to get them talking to lift the mood, to bring some life to the table?
That was probably it. She was a clever woman, and Tom liked her more every day. He expected that he’d have liked her even if he wasn’t courting her daughter.
“That is exactly what I mean to say,” the old woman replied to the boy. “It’s a small community, dear.”
“I would concede that you surely must know the people,” Asher said, his eyes on his plate. “What do you know of witches?”
Tom wouldn’t have thought there was anything the boy could say that would have startled him as much it startled Mrs. Washburn and her daughter, but there it was. The question itself was hardly something one expected to hear over dinner, but more than that—well, it was the boy’s nerve. That business was secret, more or less. The trinket, the feathers—he couldn’t just go talking to the people of Friendly Field about witches. That was Tom’s job. He’d fully intended to do it himself, but a good deal more discreetly.
Those thoughts went as quickly as they’d come, because Tom was far more interested in the two women. Mary had crumpled a bit, and a sudden vacancy had descended on her mother. It wasn’t the surprise, or even outrage, that one might expect of pious folks confronted with such an ugly subject.
No, this was something else. Something more personal. It was the same reaction they’d had when they mentioned that hanging.
“My word,” Mrs. Washburn said to Asher, though there was no surprise in her voice, just a bit of a chill. “Why do you ask?”
“I have heard things. When I was younger, from the preacher of our parish.”
Tom didn’t know if the boy was lying or not, and that was frustrating. Tom had been the one to coach him on his poker face, and there was no stopping him. Asher was taking it upon himself to fish for information, and Tom’s pride at his initiative was locked in a fierce grapple with his fear that the kid would say something he shouldn’t.
Jeremiah was irritated enough with Tom’s meddling and his association with all this misfortune. Learning that Tom and Asher were the ones who got Friendly Field talking about witchcraft as well—that might even be enough to make a man of peace want to punch someone in the nose.
“He told us about the witches and signing the devil’s book,” Asher went on, still eating. “And it was very frightening. Business of candles and black feathers and strange rituals. I wondered if Friendly Field has ever seen anything to that effect.”
“We have,” Mary replied shortly.
To Tom’s surprise, Mrs. Washburn had nothing to add. Mary took a moment with her hand on her tea before continuing. She had no choice but to continue; Asher was looking at her with such naked expectation that she couldn’t do otherwise.
With a glance at her mother, she faced the boy across the table.
“There was someone here who practiced witchcraft. When it was discovered, she was hanged.”
Asher took that in. “You did say someone had been hanged in the past. So that’s who it was, then.”
“Yes.”
“I am surprised your ways allowed it,” the boy remarked, and Tom realized he’d have to step in. He was just as interested as the kid was, but Mary didn’t like talking about this, and Mrs. Washburn clearly liked it even less. They could get the same information from someone else.
“Let it go, kid.”
“I apologize,” Asher told Mary. “I found it fascinating, and I thought such a theologically minded community might have notions to share.”
“I think of that time as little as possible,” Mary told him, smiling. She noticed how shaken her mother looked, and frowned.
“Of course. It’s unpleasant business,” Tom remarked. “It must have been a shock to find something like that going on.”
“It certainly was,” Mary replied, and they left it there.
* * *
* * *
Asher took his leave after dinner, and Tom wasn’t surprised when Mrs. Washburn did as well. She didn’t want to play cards; Jeremiah’s death and the talk of witchcraft had put her in a fouler humor than Tom had ever seen her in before.
The boy graciously apologized one last time before departing, and that was good of him. Mary was equally gracious, but that came easily to her. She followed Tom out onto the porch, and together they watched Asher stroll away across the dark field. It was all right for the two of them to be alone together this way, out in the open. Surely a few nosy Quakers would be watching from their windows. They had some degree of privacy, but no need to worry about anyone suspecting impropriety.
Mary drew her shawl close around herself and perched on one of the wicker chairs. Tom joined her without an invitation, maintaining an appropriate distance.
“The kid doesn’t always have much sense,” he said after a moment, and Mary waved a hand dismissively.
“It’s all right,” she said. “He couldn’t have known.” Her eyes narrowed. “How old is he?”
“I’m not rightly sure,” Tom admitted. “He talks like he has the head of a grown man. Part of the time, at any rate. If he’d put on a little height, you wouldn’t be able to keep the girls away. But he is odd.”
She nodded, smiling. “She was a good friend of mine, you know.”
“Who?”
“Vera.”
“I don’t know that I follow you.”
Mary shook her head and hunched over a little, resting her chin on her hands. She glanced at Tom.
“She had the devil in her.”
“Oh.” Tom straightened up. She meant the woman who’d been hanged.
“She was the sweetest girl, and pretty. Pretty like him,” she added, indicating Asher’s retreating form with her eye
s. “I never thought she would be spoken of that way.”
Feeling something he didn’t like in his belly, Tom waited in case she intended to go on. He didn’t want to learn this from Mary; that wasn’t why he was here. She wanted to talk, and he wanted to listen to her, not because of this terrible business, but because he liked her.
But he couldn’t leave money on the table.
“The witchcraft with the feathers and such?” he asked uncertainly.
Mary nodded, and as she did, her eyes widened, as though she had just now begun to notice the cawing of the crows. It had been going on for a while; it was normal, a part of the day and evening. Tom had stopped noticing it shortly after arriving here. She swallowed.
“They say the black birds are the devil’s fingers,” she told him quietly. “I don’t know what could have made Vera go to do those things. I can’t even remember it anymore, what happened. Or I’ve tried to forget, I suppose.”
“That would be hard to take. For anyone.”
Tom couldn’t let his skepticism show. He couldn’t tell her she was a fool to believe in such nonsense, because that wasn’t fair. She’d been born into this place. These teachings were all she’d ever known. There were things that Tom believed that were no less foolish. He could hardly fancy himself more sensible than anyone else; the life he’d led wasn’t something that anyone would admire.
She looked grateful. “Her in particular, though. I’m sure she never meant anyone any harm.”
“You saw her hang?”
“No. I was . . .” And she sort of pointed up, likely toward her bedroom in the house. She sighed. “I didn’t stop crying for a week.”
“When did it happen?” Tom winced on the inside as he said it, but he couldn’t help himself. He had to know. He was being a busybody, yes, but being a busybody wasn’t always wrong. Was it?
She let out a long, shuddering breath, and he realized she was close to tears.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” he said quickly.