A Death in Utopia

by Adele Fasick

  Charlotte was surprised to hear that Fanny would have had the courage to correspond with a man about any subject. This was a link she would like to learn more about.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  Abigail Remembers the Past

  November 13, 1842.

  Timothy was delighted with Bronson Alcott's conversation with the children. While the adults listened to a sermon in the church, the children were taken to the Parish Hall to for their own service. No matter how long-winded and ponderous in conversation with adults, Alcott was always successful in talking to children. They came bursting out of the Hall and into the vestry to meet their families after both services were finished.

  "He asked us how we knew we had a soul," Timothy exclaimed excitedly to Abigail. "And he listened to everything anyone said."

  "What did you tell him?" she asked.

  "I told him I knew there was something inside me that made me happy when I did good things like saving that little bird I found on the grass this summer. Remember?" Abigail certainly did remember finding the bird fluttering under one of the apple trees. Timothy had run to get a stool from the barn and together they returned the bird to its nest on the lowest branch of the tree.

  "What did Mr. Alcott say when you told him that?"

  "He told me that was very good proof I had a soul. Then a lot of the other children started telling him about why they thought they had souls. I thought mine was the best though."

  Timothy was inclined to boast and Abigail smiled apologetically at Fanny over his head. She was smiling too at the children's enthusiasm. It was impossible not to. Although she missed the silent Quaker services of her childhood, she had never found them as exciting as Timothy had found Bronson Alcott's talk.

  Fanny and Abigail walked back to the stable to find the Brook Farm carriage. On the way back to Brook Farm they talked about the sermon they had heard. It had not been inspiring.

  "Why are some ministers so much more gifted in preaching than others?" Abigail wondered. "Don't they all learn to preach in Divinity School?"

  "It is not always the way they preach that makes a minister popular with his congregation," Fanny retorted. "Fine looking ministers often charm their listeners no matter what they say or how well they preach."

  "It certainly is easier to pay attention to a handsome man in the pulpit," Abigail agreed "than to a dried up stick of a man who mumbles his sermon. There have been many Sundays when I have listened to a sermon and scarcely remembered a word of it. You are probably far too devout to worry about the preacher's good looks."

  "I am not blind," Fanny replied rather bitterly. "I too appreciate having an attractive man of God to inspire us, but I try to pay attention only to the message. Some ministers allow themselves to be too flattered by the response and admiration of their congregation, especially the women who fawn over them. I am sometimes afraid that our friend the Reverend Hopewell had a weakness in this area. His injudicious behavior led to distrust among some of the men who were originally his staunch supporters."

  Abigail was shocked into silence by that outpouring. For the past month she had heard nothing but kind words about Winslow and sorrow about his terrible death. No matter how angry she had sometimes been at him, she had never doubted that his behavior toward his congregation was everything it should have been.

  "Surely you misjudge him," she finally said. "I have heard nothing but praise of his work and his success in ministering to his flock."

  "Perhaps you have not heard all that has been said," Fanny retorted darkly. Her forehead creased into a frown as she continued. "I myself know that certain men in his congregation were questioning his behavior. There was even some consideration given to asking him to find a new pulpit rather than staying at the Third Street Church." She subsided into silence with a grim shrug.

  Abigail leaned back into the carriage cushion and retreated into her own thoughts. During those few conversations she had had with Winslow in the days after he appeared at Brook Farm, they had not talked much about his work, but he had touched upon it. What was it he said about "foolish women" in his congregation? Something about an unmarried minister being at the mercy of women who were dissatisfied with their lives and wanted someone to listen to their every thought and feeling. He certainly never said that some of the men were annoyed with him or dissatisfied with his preaching. But had he suggested that possibility? Why had she not paid more attention?

  Timothy was dozing off in the carriage as the horse clip-clopped along the muddy road. Fanny suddenly interrupted Abigail's thoughts by saying, "You pay no attention to me. Few people do, but I know many secrets the rest of you never suspect. You may say that Winslow Hopewell's behavior was above reproach, but my friend Tabitha Whitelaw has told me that her brother was sure Reverend Hopewell was improperly addressing his wife. She had made a habit of going to the parsonage for private conversations with him and fussed and preened as though she were going to a ball. You can't tell me their relationship was not beyond that which a minister should have with a married woman. Besides, the Reverend Hopewell was by no means perfect in other matters either. He had promised George Ripley he would invest in the Community, but then at the last moment withdrew his support without an excuse of any kind." Fanny's voice was shrill.

  Timothy woke with a start and looked around with a worried frown. "What's wrong, Mama?" he asked. Abigail tried to soothe him and gave no reply to Fanny. Fortunately the carriage was just pulling up at Brook Farm so the silence went unremarked.

  A tall woman in a dark dress was striding across the lawn from the barn to the kitchen door. Abigail recognized the colored woman who had attended Lydia Maria Child's talk weeks before. Fanny looked surprised and her face softened. She smiled and waved at the woman. "I have some business to attend to," she said to Abigail as she walked to meet the woman.

  Later that afternoon Abigail went down to the parlor and joined the small group listening to the soothing music John Dwight was playing. Timothy sat and listened for a while and then wandered off with his friends. A fire was burning in the fireplace and she hoped the gentle tones of the piano would take her mind off Winslow Hopewell. He had been an imperfect man, but surely he had never done anything to justify intense jealousy. She remembered how earnest he had looked the last time she spoke to him and his serious voice when he told her he was trying to make amends for the sins and errors of his youth. Surely a man who was so thoughtful and sincere could not have acted improperly with another man's wife.

  Lost in her thoughts, she was jolted by hearing someone ask Charles Dana, "Is it true that you are leaving us? We will miss you and the students will lose the lessons that have taught."

  "Surely you are not leaving!" Abigail exclaimed without thinking. "You've been a part of the community since the beginning. How will the children manage without their lessons? What is it you are leaving us for?"

  Poor Charles Dana looked uncomfortable, his pale cheeks flushed and he ran his fingers through his blond hair before he answered in a low voice. "It is by no means certain yet that I will go. As you say, I have been active in the Community since its beginning. But I am a man without money and I would like to get married. How can I ask a woman to share her life with me when I cannot even pay off the debts I already have?"

  "But when our community is more successful and our membership grows, there will be income from the farm and from the school will there not?" Abigail persisted. "The members will share in those benefits I believe. Perhaps you will have enough to pay your debts."

  "I have been living on that hope for the past two years," Dana replied. "It's hard to keep faith in the promise of rewards when both the school and the farm are struggling. But let's not worry about that today. John is about to play another piece and perhaps Mozart will cheer us all."

  While Abigail was listening, she saw Charlotte come into the room. Her face was rosy from being out in the air and she took a seat close to the fire. When the music was over, the others left the room and Charl
otte and Abigail were left alone. Charlotte told Abigail about her visit with Margaret Fuller and her meeting with Tabitha Whitelaw.

  "What is she like?" Abigail asked, wondering whether she was one of the women who admired Winslow so much.

  "She seems very austere and reserved," answered Charlotte. "She's a no-nonsense woman who is devoted to the cause of abolition. She expressed regret about Reverend Hopewell's death but I think her brother and his wife were more active members of the church than she was. Her sister-in-law, Violet Whitelaw, in particular was apparently distraught about his death."

  Abigail felt a twinge of jealousy as she wondered whether Winslow had been attracted to this woman. What right had she to be distraught about his death?

  Charlotte was looking gloomy. "I'm afraid I haven't discovered anything that will get us closer to the answer about how Reverend Hopewell died," she admitted. "Mr. Whitelaw might indeed have been jealous and very angry about his supposed behavior, but was he here on the day of the death? Neither Mr. Gallagher nor I have been able to find out what he was doing that morning."

  "Do you suppose he could have sent someone else to commit the crime? Seamen are not always known as God-fearing and virtuous men. Perhaps he sent someone else to warn Reverend Hopewell to stay away from his wife. That could have led to a fight and the dreadful end of it."

  Charlotte's eyes widened. "I hadn't thought about that possibility. I suppose Mr. Whitelaw might have sent someone else. What made you think of such a thing?"

  "Wasn't that the way Mary Queen of Scot's husband was killed? Her lover didn't do the deed himself; he persuaded others to commit the act. When you look back in history so many deaths were caused by jealous husbands and lovers. Of course Winslow was not a wicked Scottish lord or anything like that, but strange and wicked things happen even in Massachusetts."

  "Where does that leave us in our search? How can we possibly find out whether Benjamin Whitelaw had done something so vile?" Charlotte's head drooped as she thought of the impossible task.

  Abigail could not think of any way to track all of Whitelaw's movements in the days leading up to Winslow's death. He would have talked with many of his employees and seamen, especially the officers who commanded his ships. There was no way to know what he told them or whether he requested their help in confronting Winslow.

  "I guess we have to go back to asking people whether any stranger was seen around the Farm that day." Charlotte sighed as she said it. "Surely no one in our community would have failed to report a stranger, but how did the man travel from Boston? Perhaps one of the farmers along the road saw something. We have a long task ahead of us."

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  Daniel Looks for Work

  November 14, 1842.

  Monday morning lay ahead of Daniel, a gloomy stretch of dead time and not much chance of getting anything done. It reminded him of days at home when the fish weren't running and the surf too high to take out a boat. Nothing to do but kick the rocks along the shore and wonder where the money would come from to buy this evening's meal. Too many of these days and a man could lose all hope. Last week he had been dreaming of winning glory by solving the crime and writing it up. He could see himself showing Charlotte the newspaper and telling her Mr. Cabot was hiring him to be his star reporter. Stupid dreams...like a child dreaming of sugarplums.

  He needed money, so he had to find work. The last few weeks he had spent some time at the Court House writing stories for Mr. Cabot. Maybe he could work there. He could do a clerk's job thanks to the good hand Father Sheehan taught him night after night at the rectory. The priest had driven him like a slave, but it was worth it in the end.

  The Court House was no more welcoming than it had been before. The usual crowd of lawyers and merchants who cluttered the lobby begrudged Daniel the space to walk through. Upstairs was quieter. He stopped in Judge Adams's antechamber but the head clerk took one look at him and said they needed no help. It was just as Mrs. Costello had told him, "You've got the map of Ireland on your face and most of these Yankees would rather hire the Devil himself than an Irishman."

  When he got to Sheriff Grover's office, Daniel found the sheriff berating the one clerk who was there. "Where are the records of the deeds from the orchards up near Dedham? I told you last week that I'd need those by Monday."

  "I've been doing the copying for days, sir," the clerk answered in a timid voice, "but Charles has gone to Maine to visit his dying mother and I cannot get all the deeds copied myself. I'm working as fast as I can. I promise you'll have them in the morning even if I have to work all night."

  "The morning's not good enough," fumed the Sheriff. "They have to be ready for Mr. Whitelaw when he comes in right after dinner. It won't do me any good to have you still scratching away with your pen when he arrives."

  "Perhaps I can help," Daniel piped up. "I could start working right away and help with the copying. I've a fair hand and I'm quick."

  Before he knew it he was sitting at the clerk's high desk with a stack of deeds in front of him. Copying the deeds was dull work, but Daniel looked forward to having a few coins in his pocket at the end of the day. Maybe if Charles was away all week he'd earn enough to keep him in food for a while so he could continue his investigation.

  By dinnertime Josiah and Daniel had finished the orchard deeds the Sheriff was so worried about. The sheriff was pleased with Daniel's work and told him to come back after dinner to copy some other papers. He and Josiah walked over to a nearby tavern where he bought a half-penny's worth of fried potatoes and Josiah had a slice of kidney pie. Daniel asked him if he knew Mr. Whitelaw or had ever seen him before.

  "Oh, indeed I've seen him. He comes in quite often because he owns a lot of land around the city and he is always buying and selling. He's a jolly enough man if you don't cross him, but whew! What a temper he has if you do. I've seen him get angry even at the sheriff over some delay in his blasted deeds."

  Every word Daniel heard made it sound more likely that Whitelaw could be a killer. He wondered what the reaction would be if Whitelaw found him working in the sheriff's office. He'd just have to keep his head down and hope for the best. Soon after he returned with Josiah to the office Daniel had a chance to see Whitelaw in action.

  The sheriff was sitting at his desk going over some papers that had arrived by messenger, when there was the sound of loud footsteps on the stairs. The door swung open and Mr. Whitelaw came storming in. Did he always cause such a ruckus like a thunderstorm breaking hard on everyone in its path?

  "Do you have my deeds, sheriff?" he asked walking toward the desk. When the sheriff assured him the deeds were ready, he drew a chair up to the desk and sat down.

  Daniel was out of his line of vision the way he was sitting, but what if he moved and looked around? On coming in Whitelaw had looked at no one but the sheriff and seemed scarcely aware there were clerks in the room. Now he was talking to the sheriff in a low voice, oblivious to everyone around him.

  Finally he stood up and said in a louder voice. "Well, I'll leave it to you then. I'll be away for several weeks starting a week Monday. I'm having trouble with some of my customers in New York. Last month I was down there for weeks. Didn't get back until mid-October. I might as well start my own factory here in Boston if those people can't learn to make proper oil lamps that can use our high quality whale oil. I'll come in to see you when I return."

  With that he turned to leave and his eye swept over the clerks sitting on on their high stools. Daniel looked down at his desk as if he was working very hard, but he could feel Whitelaw's eyes on him and thought for a breathless moment that he paused.

  Finally, Whitelaw turned and hurried out the door, clattering down the stairs just as he had come in. It was a close call, but Daniel had escaped a scolding and given the sheriff no reason to throw him out.

  Not that his troubles were over. "Several weeks" Whitelaw had said "not back until mid-October" it sounded as though he wasn't anywhere near Boston much less Brook Farm
when Winslow Hopewell met his fate. What did that do to all their clever ideas? If he had been in New York he couldn't be blamed, but if he was not guilty then who was?

  Daniel had been so sure he'd found the culprit at last that he hadn't let himself doubt it was just a matter of proving Whitelaw had been out to the Farm that fatal morning. Now it seemed Whitelaw could not have been there. With a sigh, Daniel dipped his pen into the ink and went back to copying documents again.

  When the light disappeared from the sky, Josiah found an oil lamp to work by, although the flickering light was unfriendly to the eye. At last Sheriff Grover told them they could leave. He gave Daniel a few coins and told him to come back the next day because there was a backlog of documents that needed copying. It looked as though he might have a job for as long as Charles stayed in Maine with his mother.

  Dejectedly Daniel walked back to the boarding house. He was glad he had found work, but it was not what he had dreamed of. What he really wanted to do was to solve the mystery of Reverend Hopewell's death, write a story that would impress Mr. Cabot, and become a regular member of the newspaper staff.

  Mrs. Costello had kept some of her stew hot on the stove for him. The stew warmed him and made him feel more cheerful, but finding a letter from Charlotte waiting for him was even better.

  Dear Mr. Gallagher,

  I regret to tell you that my efforts have not been very helpful, but I have had several most interesting conversations. I talked with Tabitha Whitelaw who confirmed our belief that her sister-in-law is a bit frivolous and that her brother could well be jealous. She did not say this in so many words, but the tone of what she said left that strong impression on me. However, she gave no information about where her brother might have been at the time of Reverend Hopewell's death, so we are no closer to having any proof of foul play.