by E. L. Ripley
Tom put his hands on his hips and took a breath. “I wish I was smart enough to do that. Ma’am, I won’t be joining you today. I think it’s high time I went to the fields. I’ll miss the society,” he added quickly, seeing her look of concern. “But I have to do my part.”
“Of course,” she replied.
“Would you like to have dinner with me and the kid this evening, if your mother’s still taking her leave of the house?”
“I would. I think it might be best if the two of you called on me,” she suggested.
“We accept. I just didn’t want to impose.”
“You’re very polite, Mr. Smith.”
“The kid gives me lessons.” He tipped his hat.
So it was embarrassment that had made her flee. He had to leave the sewing room; she’d just have been self-conscious with him there.
Phillip was by the barn with some of the others, handing out tools. Tom yawned and headed that way, wondering what was waiting for him. He’d seen the men doing this work, but he’d never done it. It didn’t look hard. They were just hilling right now, weren’t they? Making sure the potatoes were covered with soil so the sun wouldn’t get them?
That couldn’t be very difficult.
“Would you let me go out? Peace be with thee,” he added.
Phillip didn’t reply for a moment, instead handing a spade to another man. He opened his mouth but didn’t speak. Something had caught his eye.
Tom turned to see a girl he knew only as Laura hurrying out of the trees. She was a long way off, but Phillip wasn’t blind.
“Something’s wrong,” he said, but Tom had already started off at as close to a jog as his limp would allow. Laura didn’t appear to be injured, but there was naked desperation in the way she ran, not even bothering to hold up her skirts.
A second figure came out into the open—it was Holly, and though she wasn’t running, she was every bit as pale. Was Laura running from her? No, that wasn’t it.
Tom reached Laura, seizing her hands, which were locked into shapes like claws by her panic.
“Miss,” he said, looking at her very directly. She didn’t resist, but none of the tension would leave her, and her wide eyes were glassy. “You’re safe,” he said, looking past her at Holly.
Phillip arrived, and Tom passed Laura to him, striking out for Holly. She didn’t rush toward him; she just walked stiffly. Rather than wide, her eyes were down, and her fists were clenched.
“Someone killed him,” she said before Tom could even open his mouth.
“Killed? Who?” His hand was suddenly on his belt where his pistol should’ve been tucked into it—but he hadn’t seen that gun in weeks.
“I don’t know his name,” she hissed, staring at the ground. Of course. She’d arrived only recently, and she didn’t give a damn about these people.
“Did you see who did it?”
She shook her head.
“Where is he?”
“Right there. Just there.” She jabbed her finger toward the trees.
Tom stepped aside, and Holly hurried back toward the houses. For a moment he stood, skin hot, a ball of queasiness sitting in his belly like a stone. The birdsong that normally filled the air all sounded miles away.
The body lay no more than ten paces past the tree line in the shade.
Some things got easier the more you practiced. Being wrong wasn’t one of them.
When Tom had been lying in that wagon and thinking he would die of his wound or the fever, he’d been so careful not to talk himself into a lie. Not to tell himself that it would be all right.
He’d wanted to be ready to die, and being ready meant being honest.
Tom had convinced himself that he was right. That Saul Matthews had done something wrong, and some woman in this community had gotten justice and that was that. Had he been sure? No. He’d just wanted to be sure.
The leaves were kicked up, and the blood was all dark and dry. Jeremiah had been lying here for a while.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Jeremiah’s eyes were open, and the pain and terror were fixed on his face so ferociously that Tom could see why Laura had looked that way. It struck even him, and he was no stranger to death.
This time the feathers weren’t in his mouth; they were just scattered around his body.
Tom startled as Phillip appeared next to him, white and shaken.
“My God,” he said.
The knife buried in Jeremiah’s breast had been used several times. It was so dim that Tom couldn’t be sure, but it looked as though there was also a wound on his abdomen. He’d been stabbed in the gut, then in the heart. The murderer’s hand had been sure this time.
Jeremiah held no weapon, of course. It looked to Tom as though he’d fallen, and then his murderer had swooped down to finish him.
Tom found himself looking at the trees, watching as though there might be someone out there. Who? One of John Porter’s outlaws? No, that wouldn’t have made any sense. This was the work of the—well, the witch. Why? Why Jeremiah?
No one was perfect, but Jeremiah was genuine. He really had been. Tom could have seen Saul doing something in a moment of weakness, wronging someone. Jeremiah, though? The people of Friendly Field found it in themselves to like Thaddeus despite his vice.
They loved Jeremiah. He was a shade worldlier than the other two leaders, but that was good sense, not evil. They’d known that and taken comfort in it. Tom had taken comfort in it. He’d known Jeremiah wouldn’t throw him out of Friendly Field because at the end of the day, even if he didn’t like how Tom had gone about it, he was glad that he wouldn’t have to deal with the Porter gang. And maybe he had believed that God would protect them, but he saw the benefit to having someone like Tom around in case that didn’t turn out to be true. Friendly Field wasn’t perfect—nowhere was—but it was a decent place and filled with decent people. Jeremiah had known that, and he’d known it was worth his while to do whatever he had to for its protection, even if it left a bad taste in his mouth. He had been a good leader.
What reason could anyone have had to kill this man? It almost wasn’t an act of murder; it was more like a declaration of war. Taking away their best leader was an attack on all of Friendly Field.
Could that really have come from within?
Tom swallowed and turned his back on the corpse, rubbing his eyes. He’d felt obliged to figure out who’d killed Saul, but he hadn’t felt urgency.
“Hell,” he muttered, but Phillip didn’t even hear him.
Tom lifted his hand, intending to give the other man a shake, but no—no, that wasn’t the way to do it. Phillip was a solid man, but one killing in Friendly Field, let alone two—it was like the sun falling from the sky. Phillip didn’t know what to do. And Thaddeus was likely very good at saying what the Quakers liked to hear and taking care of money and potatoes, but he didn’t have much in the way of a spine.
Or a strong stomach.
Tom left Phillip there and hurried out of the trees. A couple of men from the field were making their way over; a commotion was brewing, and it wasn’t clear where Holly and Laura had gone. Probably to their homes. Word would have been spreading.
“Sebastian,” Tom called out, “find a bedsheet and run it out.” He pointed. “And a blanket. Hurry.” He kept on limping. “And you, Mr.—uh—Mr. Simmons?”
“Simcox,” the man replied worriedly. “What’s the matter?”
“Something bad has happened. You need to gather everyone up right away. I’m going to go get Thaddeus. He and Phillip can tell everyone what’s happened.”
“And what has happened?” the man pressed, clutching his spade.
Tom hesitated, standing in the sun. He was sweating. “Someone’s killed Jeremiah White.”
Laura was already talking. There was no hiding this. Jeremiah had concealed the first mur
der, and now—yes, it was time for everyone to know. They had to know.
The words were out of his mouth, and they couldn’t go back in.
Mr. Simcox just looked blank.
“Did you—,” he began, and Tom cut him off.
“No,” he snapped. “I didn’t kill him. We found his body just now.”
“Could it have been an accident?”
“I don’t think so.” Tom meant to go on and tell him to do as he’d been asked, but Simcox was still talking.
“Over there?” he asked, pointing. “Why’s he out by the lily pond?” That was what they called the pond where the women went to bathe.
Tom had been wondering about that himself, but all hell was about to break loose in Friendly Field. It would be bad no matter how it played, but it would be worse if someone didn’t at least try to control it.
“Gather them up,” Tom repeated more firmly, and Simcox flinched. “Get everyone in the church, and do it now. They need to know what’s happened.”
He didn’t argue, and Tom got moving.
“What’s the matter?” Mrs. Heller demanded the moment he was within earshot. “What’s wrong?”
She wasn’t alone. Tom waved them toward the church. Others emerged onto their porches, some of the older folks and children. The news could spread only so quickly; the spirit of panic and confusion had already overtaken the village.
Thaddeus emerged from his house, mopping his brow with his kerchief and looking lost. Someone moved behind one of his windows, and that could have only been Holly.
Tom waved to him and limped over.
“Jeremiah’s been killed. It was not an accident,” he added before the older man could even think of pushing back. “Everyone needs to go to the church.”
Thaddeus didn’t even hear that, though. It was as though the news had been witchcraft itself, something to turn him into stone. Thaddeus wasn’t anything like stone, though. He was soft—soft in his midsection, soft in his sensibilities, and, Tom was beginning to suspect, soft in the head. He grabbed the older man’s sleeve, steered him toward the church, and gave him a push.
“To the church,” he repeated, gesturing.
On Sundays the townspeople flowed into the church like an impeccably dressed and groomed river, but now it was like herding squirrels. Worse, Tom’s mind wasn’t really there. It was still in the woods with Jeremiah’s body. He didn’t know if it was shock that the man was gone or shock at how profoundly he had been wrong. It all hurt.
Where was Friendly Field’s newest widow, Mrs. White? Mary and a few other women were with her on her porch. Tom wasn’t about to bother her. Phillip returned without Jeremiah’s body. It seemed Tom’s intention hadn’t been clear—someone had dutifully gone out with the sheets, but they hadn’t brought the body back; it was still lying in the woods.
Tom clarified that and dragged Phillip into the church and up to the front.
Workers from the far fields were still making their way in. Irksomely, there wasn’t anything to stand on: no pulpit, nothing to put him up high enough to be seen and heard properly. The Quakers liked to walk around the church when they preached. Tom didn’t feel like walking.
“Are you doing this or am I?” he asked bluntly.
“What?” Phillip asked.
“Do you want to address them or should I?”
“What do I say?” Phillip asked dazedly.
“Not a damn thing,” Tom told him tiredly, letting go and raising his hands. “All right, everyone. All right.”
They quieted miraculously quickly. He had to give them that: they were a well-mannered bunch.
“Um, peace be—,” he began. “Screw it. Listen up, you all.”
That got their attention. Now was his chance, but Tom didn’t have the words. How was he supposed to know what to say? He wasn’t a mayor or a preacher; he just couldn’t stand chaos. And if nobody said anything, chaos was exactly what they’d all get.
“Is everyone here?” he demanded, scanning the faces.
There was Mary. And Asher. He didn’t care much about anyone else, but everyone had to be accounted for. They had to know everyone was safe.
“Where is my mother?” Mary asked, looking around.
“She would not come out,” Mrs. McHenry replied, frustrated. “She has been stubborn of late.”
“Anyone else?” Tom called out. “Is anyone else missing?”
“Where is Jeremiah?” a woman asked. Clearly word hadn’t reached her.
Tom couldn’t put it off any longer.
“Jeremiah’s dead,” he announced, and it was like he’d told them God was a cow. “Shut them up,” he muttered to Phillip, who looked at him as though he’d sprouted horns. “Do it,” Tom ordered.
“Uh,” Phillip said, making some calming gestures. And the Quakers were so polite that it more or less worked. He’d managed to live this long without raising his voice, and he planned to go on the same way.
“Listen,” Tom said as loudly as he’d ever said anything. “You all need to listen. We got a problem, but we have to be calm. Stay in those pews and listen to what I’m telling you. Thaddeus, come up here. Yes. You,” Tom added, pointing at him. “You’re a leader in this village, and you’d better have something to say when I’ve said my piece.”
Thaddeus was at the back of the sanctuary, dripping sweat. He mopped his face and hurried forward, visibly panicked.
Tom cleared his throat.
“I’m not your leader,” he said. “But I’m doing the talking because I don’t see that anyone else can or will. Saul Matthews did not die in his sleep. Well, he did—but not because he was ill. Someone killed him.” Tom tapped his chest. “Stabbed him in the heart.”
He should’ve been relieved that wasn’t greeted with a storm of noise and panic, but it was almost more alarming the way the Quakers looked: uncomprehending.
“That’s nonsense,” a man said, getting to his feet.
Tom was genuinely startled, but as far as these folks were concerned, it was unthinkable. Murder was like a fairy tale to them: something that happened to other people, or maybe not at all.
“It isn’t,” Tom replied. “Jeremiah lied about it. He didn’t lie out of sin or evil or any of that. He did it because he didn’t want you all to be afraid. But now someone’s done the same to him. And we need to find out who’s done it and why.”
They weren’t hearing him. They were still hung up, hung up on murder itself—no, not all of them.
A bearded man Tom didn’t know well stood up.
“If anyone here has killed someone, it’s you,” he said bluntly. “I know about you, Tom Smith. You said yourself you’re a cardplayer. You think our people are like the money you like to win. You want to be king of Friendly Field. This trouble started when you came here. There is talk of your past, and now this.”
The man hadn’t done a good job of putting it into words, but the sentiment was exactly what Tom had feared. Well, “feared” wasn’t the word. He wasn’t afraid.
There was a murmur of agreement.
“Yeah,” Tom replied, “I take your meaning. But I don’t want to be your leader. It’s a burden, not a privilege. I wouldn’t take it if it was offered to me freely, let alone kill for it. You have leaders. They’re right here.” Tom pointed from Phillip to Thaddeus. “I’m not going to lead you. I’m going to say what needs saying, and they’re going to lead you. Jeremiah tried to lead and got himself killed. Someone here is a murderer. It’s not an outsider. I’ve been wrong about things, but I’m not wrong about that. It’s someone in this church with us.”
That got the people muttering and looking around, but Tom wasn’t finished.
“And you need to know that. If there was someone like that around, I would want someone to tell me, so I am telling you. That is what I’m doing, sir.” Tom wished he knew the
man’s name, but he couldn’t remember everyone. “I’m telling you because Jeremiah tried to tell you and you didn’t listen. You remember when he talked about watching for the devil? What he meant was to watch your backs, because he didn’t know who had done for Saul.”
The man didn’t seem to have anything to say to that.
“Who saw Jeremiah last?” Tom demanded. “I saw him yesterday in the evening when it was dark but still early.” He didn’t want to call out to Mrs. White by name. He didn’t mind being rough with these Quakers; they needed it—but she had just lost her husband. He turned to Phillip. “You were still with him when I left. How long did you stay?”
“Not long,” Phillip replied, licking his lips. “And Mrs. White returned.”
Jeremiah hadn’t been alone, then.
“Did anyone else see him last night, then?” Tom addressed the others. There were some tears and some muffled sobs, but he pressed on. “After dark? He was killed in the night. I know that much. Anyone?”
Nothing.
Tom’s temper stirred, or maybe it was his pride. They were all staring at him. Not at Phillip, not at Thaddeus.
“Thaddeus,” he said, and the older man jumped as though someone had struck him. “You’re Jeremiah’s neighbor. Did you, or anyone in your household, see anything?”
“No,” Thaddeus replied quickly, dropping his handkerchief. He stooped to pick it up. “No, of course not. No.”
“Miss Adams?”
Holly got to her feet, pale but calm. She wasn’t as fragile as these Quakers. “No,” she replied shortly. “I saw nothing to remark on.”
“All right. And Mr. and Mrs. Pilkin. Your house is the next nearest. You saw or heard nothing?”
Mr. Pilkin was shaking his head, his wife right next to him.
Tom pulled Phillip over. “Go and ask Mrs. White when she last saw her husband. Be as considerate as you can, but someone has to ask. And it shouldn’t be me.”
“All right.” Phillip was too rattled to be bothered by Tom ordering him around.