Sup with the Devil
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Praise for
A MARKED MAN
“Intriguing . . . Rich in period detail . . . A successful novel appealing to those who enjoy Revolutionary War historical mystery.”
—Historical Novels Review
“The story line is fast paced and the investigation super, but it is meeting the prime real persona and fictional characters representing the divided times in Boston in 1774 that makes A Marked Man a strong late-eighteenth-century thriller.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Hamilton breathes vivid life into her historical characters . . . A satisfying read for mystery lovers and American history buffs alike.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Well crafted . . . Hamilton once again brings to life colonial Boston on the brink of revolution, vividly portraying such noted patriots as Sam Adams, leader of the Sons of Liberty; silversmith Paul Revere; and Dr. Joseph Warren.”
—Publishers Weekly
Praise for
THE NINTH DAUGHTER
“An exciting new mystery series set in revolutionary Boston. Abigail Adams could become my favorite historical sleuth.”
—Sharon Kay Penman, author of Devil’s Brood
“Barbara Hamilton plunges us into colonial Boston, where we walk beside the legendary Abigail Adams as she tries to find justice for a murdered young woman while also helping with the birthing pangs of a new nation.”
—Victoria Thompson, author of Murder on Sisters’ Row
“[An] exceptional debut . . . While bringing to life such historical figures as Sam Adams and Paul Revere, Hamilton transports the reader to another time and place with close attention to matters like dress, menus, and the monumental task of doing laundry. Historical fans will eagerly look forward to the next in this promising series.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Hamilton . . . has just the right touch to guide the intelligent Abigail through the dangerous shoals of being a patriot while seeing the good side of the colonies’ English rulers. There are no missteps here in what should prove to be a captivating series for all historical fans.”
—Library Journal
“The wry repartee between Abigail and John, together with the fact that this clandestine investigation of the murder of loose women would never have made the official record, make Hamilton’s debut believable and gripping.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A deep historical mystery. Based on true activities of that time, Ms. Hamilton weaves a tale that could have actually taken place . . . A finely written first in a new series story with a surprise ending. I am eager to see what comes next.”
—The Romance Readers Connection
“A super Revolutionary War–era . . . amateur sleuth.”
—Midwest Book Review
“The story line provides a deep look at Boston as rebellion is in the air. Fans will want to join the tea party hosted by Ms. Hamilton with guests being a who’s who of colonial Massachusetts.”
—The Mystery Gazette
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Barbara Hamilton
THE NINTH DAUGHTER
A MARKED MAN
SUP WITH THE DEVIL
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hamilton, Barbara, 1951–
ISBN : 978-1-101-54507-2
1. Adams, Abigail, 1744–1818—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—Fiction.
3. Massachusetts—History—Colonialperiod,ca.1600–1775—Fiction. I. Title. PS3558.A4215S87 2011
813’.54—dc22
2011006678
http://us.penguingroup.com
For Brandy & Joey
One
Horace Thaxter
Cambridge, Massachusetts
23 April 1774
Abigail Adams
Queen Street, Boston
Dear Aunt Abigail,
John (my cousin, not your esteemed husband) has told me upon many occasions of your extraordinary acuity in seeing through the riddles of criminal conduct, a veritable Alexander (if one may so term a member of your sex) cutting the nodum Gordium of both puzzling circumstance and the obstructio deliberi of evildoers.
Therefore, I write to you in a state of mental perturbation regarding events that befell me this week, which I am at a loss to interpret.
The events were made the more troubling because I was introduced to them by a letter from Mr. Adams (your esteemed husband, not his notorious cousin), which induced me to believe myself safe in entering a situation at best equivocal, and at worst giving rise to fears that I might have been—and may still be—in danger of my life.
Might I beg the pleasure of calling upon you on the 30th, when Mr. Adams will be returned from the circuit courts and propriety will permit you to receive a male caller? This is a matter that troubles and—though others have said it is the merest exiguum—frightens me. I look forward to the favor of your reply.
Your ob’t h’bl svt,
Horace Thaxter
Propriety indeed. Abigail Adams, perched on the back o
f Uzziah Begbie’s delivery wagon as it jolted its way along the extremely narrow streets of Boston’s North End, reread her nephew’s letter with mixed amusement and exasperation. You’d think the boy was forty instead of barely seventeen.
You’d think I was a sixteen-year-old village maid instead of a woman of twenty-nine with a husband—off at the Maine Assizes or not—and four children.
And you’d think we were in London instead of Massachusetts, where women have been going about their business in perfect freedom and safety since the Indians left. Does he think the neighbors are going to suspect him of an assault on my virtue?
Or suspect me of an assault on his?
On second thought, reflected Abigail, tucking the letter back into her smallest marketing basket, considering some of my neighbors . . .
In addition to Horace’s letter, which had arrived late yesterday afternoon, the basket was stocked with apples, carrots, corn-bread (wheaten flour of any kind gave Horace migraines), a small crock of honey, and ten hard-boiled eggs, and rested beside her on the narrow bench that served as a wagon-seat. On her other side, the carter Uzziah Begbie clucked to his horse as the wagon made its careful way among the carts and barrows that cluttered the cobblestones of Prince’s Street. To their right loomed the piled-up rooflines of Copp’s Hill, a maze of steep alleyways and small yards; to their left, through a break in the roof-lines, Abigail could glimpse the placid green water of the Mill Pond. Wind from the river flicked her face, caught a strand of her black hair that had escaped her neat white cap. She smoothed it primly into its place again. Were she on the farm in Braintree, she reflected—the land that her “esteemed husband” (as Horace Thaxter described him) and his family had farmed for three generations—she would have pulled her cap off altogether, run to the top of Prospect Hill to let the wind of the bay have its way with her hair . . . would have revelled in the sweetness of May after so harsh and unsettling a winter.
But this was Boston, and people did talk.
Indeed, as they rounded the last of the brick and timber houses and came to Gee’s Shipyard on the rocky nose of North Boston, people were doing nothing but talking. The boundaries of the street itself dissolved into a roughly defined apron of gravel and mud around the end of the hill, beyond which lay the hard blackish sapphire waters of the bay. Sailors, roustabouts, stevedores, and the lady who sold hot pies stood in knots among the piled timber and coiled cables, gesturing out toward the British warship that patrolled the bay and half shouting over the clattering symphony of shipyard hammers.
I hear the King’s going to close the port . . .
He can’t do that, can he?
They say in Salem there’s a royal commission on its way to inquire . . .
Royal commission my backside, my cousin says they’ll send troops from Halifax and hang the rebels that did it . . .
Sam Adams’ll never let that happen.
Don’t be a fool, Adams is the first man they’ll hang. The King won’t put up with rebellion . . .
No, agreed Abigail silently. The King won’t put up with rebellion. And she wondered for the dozenth time since leaving the house if she had any business going out of Boston even for an afternoon.
Her common sense told her that even if the King sent a Royal Commissioner to investigate the circumstances of last December that had resulted in over three hundred crates of East India Company tea being dumped into Boston Harbor, trouble wasn’t going to erupt on the first day. For one thing, the Sons of Liberty—the semi-secret organization devoted to defiance of the King’s arbitrary commands—would have to take the measure of the commission’s mandate and decide what to do. And these days, Sam Adams—her husband’s wily cousin—kept a tight rein on the Sons, cooling violence in one place, puffing it up in another, simplifying the issues at stake, and playing upon the angers and fears of men like a virtuoso playing upon a pianoforte.
A journey out to Cambridge for the afternoon would likely do no harm.
She hoped.
Begbie drew rein to let a half-dozen men pass, bearing on their shoulders the massive beam of what would be a ship’s keel. Some of them called out greetings to him, asked after wife, children, that keg of nails they were waiting for . . .
Abigail returned her thoughts to the note she had received.
To what “troubling” events did John introduce Horace by letter? As far as Abigail knew, her esteemed husband—stout, peppery, brilliant, and maddening—hadn’t had anything to do with any of the Thaxters other than John Thaxter, his young law clerk and Horace’s cousin (second cousin? Uncle? That was the trouble with being related to half the colony . . . ) for over a year, one whole branch of that well-off merchant clan having decided that she—Abigail—had stepped down in the world by marrying a farmer’s son even if he was related to the extremely respectable (back then, anyway) Deacon Adams of Old South Church . . .
And into what earthly situation could John have pitchforked the boy that would have put him—so he believed—in danger of his life?
A man in the leather apron of a ship’s carpenter emerged from a chandler’s shop, crossed the gravel, and spoke to the deliveryman, quiet beneath the din of hammering. Abigail didn’t hear his exact words, but she knew what they were.
Any news . . . ?
Begbie shook his head.
Only a few clouds spotted the bright April sky, but Abigail felt a chill and pulled her shawl close about her.
No news yet.
Six weeks for the news of the so-called Tea Party to reach England. Then whatever Parliament was going to decide to do about the rebellion growing in the colony. Then six weeks back.
Which meant that whatever was going to happen, was going to happen soon.
“Half a mo’, Mrs. Adams.” Begbie sprang down from his seat, darted down the split-log steps to the shipyard. From where she sat Abigail could see the broad, flat shape of the ferry scow and no sign of its captain or crew. A carter, a country minister in a black coat, and two stout farm-women in widebrimmed straw hats clustered by the ferry landing, talking eagerly with a couple of men in sailors’ slops.
Even the gulls that wheeled above the dumped remains of some fisherman’s unsold catch seemed to be yammering rumors to one another.
Men came and unloaded an immense coil of ship’s cable from the goods-wagon; Begbie took the horse’s bridle, led the animal down to the ferry just as Obed Pusey and his crew reappeared and began collecting sixpences for the voyage. Abigail climbed down before they crossed the wet black wood of the wharf, and sought out the bench farthest aft and as close to the mast as she could get without interfering with the crew’s work. Crossing through the confluence of the Charles River and the bay itself, the ferry would roll like a home-going drunkard and—a disgrace to her merchant heritage—Abigail knew she invariably became seasick in even the half-mile voyage from Boston to Charles Town across the harbor.
The sharp spring wind filled the sails as the men poled the scow off the wharf: Abigail resolutely fixed her eyes on the tidy cluster of brown houses, of orchards and farmlands, on the feet of the mainland hills. Like Boston, Charles Town stood on a peninsula, connected to the mainland by a neck of land, but from Charles Town you didn’t have to wind around rivers and over bridges to get to the town of Cambridge, where young Horace Thaxter was presently in college.
A letter from Mr. Adams . . . which induced me to believe myself safe in entering a situation at best equivocal . . .
Of course, Horace always believed himself in danger of his life. Abigail recalled more than one conversation with the weedy boy devoted entirely to his recital of his latest symptoms, which ranged from tremor cordis to sanguineous congestion of the lungs. At the time of their last meeting he had been, she estimated, fifteen and “grinding” with a tutor to prepare himself for Harvard College. Horace was tall, thin, and filled to the hairline with Aristotle and medical quackery. That had been on a visit to Salem where his parents (as well as Abigail’s sister) lived, shortly after Abigai
l’s son Charley’s first birthday.
Now Charley was three.
This is a matter which frightens me.
After long and complex circumlocutions in Latin, it came down to that. This is a matter which frightens me . . . Simple words in English.
And it was true—Abigail admitted it to herself—that she took a deal of pleasure in chopping through the Gordian knot of puzzling circumstance and the deliberate obstructions of evildoers.
It was also true that it was May, after a winter remarkable for the bitterness of its cold, and that once Mr. Begbie’s goods-wagon was off the rocking waters of the bay and onto the road that ran along the feet of Breeds and Bunker Hills, the sweetsmelling quiet of the countryside made a blessed change from Boston’s fishy reek and the stinks of sewage and backyard cows, the twitter of birds a delight after the rattle of carts and the shouting of boys playing in Queen Street and the clatter of hammers in Mr. Butler’s cooperage next door . . .
The peaceful air a relief from that dread that seemed to have settled over the town like a pillow pressed to an uneasy sleeper’s face.
What will we do if . . . ?
It should be any day we’ll hear . . .
Massachusetts in the spring.
The countryside that lay between Charles Town and Cambridge was prosperously settled, orchard trees parting now and then to show Abigail tidy farmhouses, and fields of corn already shoulder-high. Cows chewed mildly in their pastures; gray stone walls lined the road. In patches of woodland, finches and robins sang. Abigail dearly enjoyed the noise and excitement and conveniences of Boston—the ability to simply go down to the wharves for Spanish lemons or to a mercer’s on the next street if she happened to decide her daughter Nabby needed a new dress. The ability to go to a bookstore and purchase the newest works of Goldsmith or Smollett, or the fact that John could bring in newspapers printed that day. The fact that in winter, snow did not mean utter isolation. Yet she had been raised in the parsonage of a very small village, and in her heart, she sorely missed the scents of deep grass and woodland in May.