by Adele Fasick
When I returned to Brook Farm I also talked with Abigail who had significant news. She told me that she drove home from church with Fanny Gray who talked eagerly about troubles at the Third Street Church and her belief that there was at least one jealous man in the congregation. Abigail also suggested to me that perhaps Mr. Whitelaw would not have had to be at the Farm himself but could have sent someone else to warn Reverend Hopewell to stay away from his wife.
These are troubling thoughts and I am eager to talk them over with you. Perhaps you could come out to the Farm on Wednesday afternoon if you do not have other work or perhaps next Sunday.
Cordially,
Charlotte Edgerton
Charlotte's letter gave Daniel a new idea. He had not considered the possibility that Benjamin Whitelaw might have sent someone else to talk with Hopewell, or possibly to threaten him. But how could he discover who it might be? If he had to investigate all of the officers and men who worked on the Whitelaw ships, it would take months. Some of them might have sailed after the crime was committed and would by now be far off in the Southern seas. Whaling trips often lasted for years. He and Charlotte would never be able to track all the men down.
He went up to his room and paced up and down the small space trying to think. The very walls of the room, mustardy yellow with a few brown streaks where water had leaked in around the tiny window, reminded him of illness. He'd seen the yellow faces of folks with jaundice that was slowly killing them. But he wasn't going to think such gloomy thoughts. He was going to make a new life in this new country and somehow he would find a way to win back Mr. Cabot's respect.
They needed to find someone who had been out in the early morning when Reverend Hopewell was taking his walk. There were good reasons for many people to be up before dawn during the short autumn days to attend to chores especially on a farm. Abner Platt had been there; that's how he had seen Rory O'Connor. He jumped to the conclusion that Rory was the murderer, but there must have been someone else out that morning. Platt might not have even noticed someone else because his first thought was that an Irish tramp must have been guilty. What if he was so eager to blame the crime on Rory that he neglected to mention anyone else he had seen? Perhaps if Daniel went back and questioned him there would be more to learn. And that wasn't all. What about Rory? Daniel spread out a piece of paper and added a few drops of water from the shaving pitcher to his precious small jar of ink.
Dear Miss Edgerton,
Thank you for your letter and your sensible idea that someone might have acted for Benjamin Whitelaw. This is important because I learned today that Mr. Whitelaw was traveling to New York at the time of the Reverend Hopewell's death. We must find out whether he might have had an accomplice working with him.
Our task now is to discover whether anyone saw a stranger around the Farm on the morning of the death. Perhaps you could interview Mr. and Mrs. Platt. They might have more information than they have given us so far. I am afraid I was clumsy when I asked questions at the Platt farm and may have learned less than I could have done if I had been more diplomatic.
As for me, I have found work in the sheriff's office replacing a clerk who is visiting his mother. I will have to continue to work there for the rest of this week because I must pay my board and expenses. However I will seek out Rory O'Connor and question him about whether there might have been any other person lurking about the Brook Farm property that morning.
My time will not be my own for the rest of this week, but I will visit you on next Sunday and we can compare the information we have learned. You can be assured I will be thinking of you and wishing you well for the remainder of the week.
Your respectful and affectionate friend,
Daniel Gallagher
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Charlotte Talks to a Farm Wife
November 16, 1842.
Charlotte waited eagerly for Daniel's letter, but was sharply disappointed when it arrived. So Benjamin Whitelaw was nowhere near Brook Farm when Winslow died—what did that mean? She had been sure he was the man responsible. Violet Whitelaw was a weak, silly woman. Charlotte could understand why listening to her talk about her interest in the minister might lead her husband to do something he would regret. She had heard stories enough about matrons in some of the fashionable parishes who somehow confused their adoration of the Deity with their admiration of his servant in the pulpit.
Daniel's suggestion to talk with Abner Platt and his wife Hetty made sense. Daniel had aroused Mr. Platt's anger by his attempt to spy on the barn, but perhaps she could approach Mrs. Platt. She might not have been quite so annoyed by the suspicions of outsiders because no one had questioned her yet. Like all farm wives she would have been up before dawn, so perhaps she saw someone in the area but never thought to mention it. Charlotte resolved to visit her after dinner on Wednesday, when she would have time to sit and talk for a few minutes.
Wednesday morning went slowly as Charlotte helped her students with their struggle to learn to read. They were copying a short verse from their primer. Timothy, as usual, was the first student to finish his lesson and he proudly presented his slate with every word copied correctly and clearly. Charlotte thought of how proud his father would have been of him if only he had been spared and tears stung her eyes. She was more determined than ever to find out what had happened.
When the morning finally ended Charlotte led her charges down to dinner and watched to see that they all were silent and attentive during grace. After that she was free to enjoy her own dinner and enjoy every mouthful of the delicious pork and beans. It was no trouble to join the cleaning crew afterward and help clear the tables. One of the things she liked most about Brook Farm was the way everyone helped with chores without complaining. She thought, as she often did, that the Ripleys had devised a fine scheme for living, although not many people in the outside world seemed inclined to join.
After dinner she slipped on a warm cloak and started toward Mr. Platt's farm. The weather had turned very cold this week. Snow threatened every day, but so far had produced only a few short snow showers that ended almost as soon as they began. Not a soul was on the road as she walked up a barely-marked path to the weatherbeaten farmhouse. Behind the house was a large vegetable patch barren now except for a couple of languishing pumpkins too small to bother harvesting.
The kitchen door was closed tight against the wind, but Charlotte knocked sharply and heard a child's voice cry out "Someone's at the door". A minute later the door opened to reveal a sturdy woman wearing a dark blue dress and red-checked apron. Her blonde hair made her face look youthful even though it was graying at the temples. Behind her the kitchen was warm and fragrant from a large kettle of soup bubbling on the stove.
"Good afternoon," she said. "You are one of the young ladies from Brook Farm, aren't you?"
"Yes, I am, Mrs. Platt. My name is Charlotte Edgerton and I am a member of the Community. I teach the young children there, children about the age of your son here." Charlotte stepped inside the kitchen and enjoyed the welcoming warmth. "I wonder if I could talk to you for a few minutes about the recent unfortunate events at the Farm."
Mrs. Platt invited her to sit at the large wooden table and insisted on making tea. While they talked she busily peeled and diced potatoes for the soup. Her son quietly played with the potato peels pushing and pulling them around the table and twisting them into figures like stick men.
Charlotte scarcely knew how to begin, but she plunged in. "You have no doubt heard that one of the guests who was visiting the Farm was struck down early one morning several weeks ago. I know your husband was out early that morning and saw a man on the road that he thought might have been responsible. As it turned out the sheriff decided that man was not involved."
"Yes, I know all that," Mrs. Platt said in a gentle, plaintive voice. "That's what the sheriff told Abner, although he still isn't sure that the Irishman wasn't to blame. He said to me, 'Hetty, the good people at Brook Farm aren't going about hurtin
g one another. If it's not the tramp then who could it be?' and I have to agree the Irishman seems the most likely."
"Were you out early that morning, too?" Charlotte asked. "Did you see the Irishman or anyone else about?"
Hetty Platt considered this seriously before she answered. "I went out early to feed the chickens just like I do every morning. You should hear the racket that rooster makes waking us all up before dawn. We couldn't sleep late even if we had a mind to." She stopped for a minute to put a bowl full of potatoes into the soup kettle. Then she came back and started peeling more.
"It was a foggy morning as I recall and I couldn't see as far as the other side of the road. When I walked toward the chicken coop, I heard a noise across the way. A few yelps like a dog was being disturbed and of course their roosters started crowing too, same as ours. I saw one figure—a man—walking toward the patch of trees beside the barn. Later I thought that must have been Reverend Hopewell. It makes me shiver to think of it."
"But you didn't see anyone else?" Charlotte leaned across the table eager to catch every word.
"The sun was just coming up and I was busy with those chickens. I heard the baby start crying here in the house and I wanted to get back to tend to him. I scarcely paid the Brook Farm place any attention. They do things differently there. Those folks do their farming any time of day and they don't seem to think much of real farmers like us."
Charlotte could hear the grievance in her voice, but didn't want to say anything take her away from her memories of what happened that morning.
Finally she continued, "I looked over at the Community a couple of times, wondering what that man was doing walking into the woods. And I kinda thought I saw someone else. Might have been a woman, but why would a woman be out there at that hour? There's no chickens in that patch of woods."
A woman! That wasn't what Charlotte had expected to hear. Why would a woman have walked out there so early in the morning? Benjamin Whitelaw would never in the world have sent a woman to pick a quarrel with Reverend Hopewell. It made no sense at all.
"Do you think it might have been a man wearing a cape or something like that?" she asked.
"I've never seen a man in a long skirt, but as I say the morning was foggy and I wasn't paying all that much attention. I have my own family to take care of not to mention the chickens. I don't have time to pry into other people's business. I wasn't snooping."
"Oh, of course not. I understand that. Probably there was nothing at all to see. I didn't mean to bother you. You are a busy woman and you have a lot of work to do here."
Mrs. Platt had finished peeling her potatoes now and was putting the peels into a bucket. No doubt their pigs would feast on those. The little boy was sorry to lose his playthings and was pulling on his mother's skirt saying, "An apple. I want an apple?" It was time to go back to Brook Farm.
Back at the Farm she settled down in the parlor to read one of the books Mr. Ripley made available for everyone. She was tired of trying to solve problems that had no answers. Fanny was sitting at the desk on the other side of the room writing, probably a letter to her brother. Charlotte had scarcely started reading before Abigail came in with Timothy. He wanted to look at some of the books too and chose one with pictures of insects and fish. He lay down on the floor and soon was poring over it while Abigail sat in front of the fire knitting winter mittens for him.
Charlotte soon began to tell Abigail about her visit with Hetty Platt. "I had hoped she might be able to remember seeing someone who had been in the area on the night that Reverend Hopewell died. She was friendly enough and tried to help, but I'm afraid she didn't see very much."
"It was very early in the morning," Abigail agreed. "It would be difficult to see people across the road and the lawn that lies between here and the Platt house."
"Mrs. Platt said she thought she saw a figure moving among the trees. That must have been Reverend Hopewell. Then she added that she might have seen another figure—a woman—but that that seems unlikely. How would a woman find her way out here at such an early hour? And why would she come? I suggested it might have been a man in a long cloak, but Mrs. Platt did not really agree."
"A man in a long cloak sounds a bit fanciful. Most likely Mrs. Platt did not see a figure at all, perhaps just a bush blowing in the wind or even an animal. Deer sometimes come down toward the trees early in the morning to forage."
"It's not easy to mistake a deer for a woman," Charlotte insisted. "Perhaps Mrs. Platt saw nothing but a bush blowing in the wind, but there must have been someone about in those woods. Someone who was willing to injure Reverend Hopewell."
A clatter across the room interrupted their talk. Fanny had stopped writing and stood up abruptly knocking her chair to the floor. Timothy ran over to help her right it, but Fanny didn't even thank the child as she left the room. Abigail made up for the lack by giving Timothy a hug and a kiss and telling him he was a good boy.
"Fanny certainly seems upset," Charlotte commented. "Do you think we were making too much noise with our talk? Or maybe that's just Fanny being cross again."
"Don't be angry at Fanny. She's been on edge ever since this terrible thing happened," Abigail reminded her gently. "I think everyone at Brook Farm has suffered and no one knows what to do. We all have questions and no answers." Her voice hovered on the edge of tears and Timothy moved closer to lean against his mother's shoulder.
Charlotte had no answer to that and the evening ended on a gloomy note.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Daniel Asks More Questions
November 19, 1842.
Daniel worked all week for the sheriff. It wasn't until Saturday afternoon when the office closed that he finally had a chance to track down Rory O'Connor. Last month when he had looked, Rory turned up in no time working on the docks, but this time Daniel couldn't find anyone who had seen him. A light snow started falling as he tramped the streets and he was soon chilled to the bone. The light was fading over the docks and everyone had stopped working.
Finally he stopped in a small tavern close to the docks to warm up. A steaming pot of oyster stew was bubbling on the stove and he was glad to buy a bowl. The landlord's wife, who was in charge of the stew, was friendly, so Daniel plied her with questions about Rory.
"I'm looking for a friend named Rory O'Connor. Do you have any idea where I might find him?"
"Is he a Kerry man?" she asked. "That's my county and I knew an O'Connor family came here from Kerry when my husband and I did, about ten years ago. But I think they headed West and I never heard from them."
"The Rory O'Connor I knew is from Galway. Kinvara I think. He might have signed on to a fishing vessel is what I'm thinking."
A few new customers came into the tavern calling for food and drink, so the landlady moved on to serving them and Daniel sat down at a table against the back wall. It wasn't easy to be patient when he was having so little luck. He should have asked Rory where he was living so he could find him again. He wanted desperately to have some news to give Charlotte when he saw her on Sunday.
His heart was slipping down into his boots as his mother would have said, while he slurped the oyster stew, but when he looked up who did he see but the very man he was looking for, Rory O'Connor. Maybe his luck was turning!
He jumped up and grabbed Rory's arm, "I'll stand you a treat, Rory, if you'll sit down and talk to me about what you saw out at Brook Farm."
Soon they were sitting together over pints of ale and bowls of stew and Rory was telling him again about the day he walked past the Platt farm and saw the group of people standing around in the wood.
"As I walked down the road, the sun was just coming up and that patch of woods looked dim and misty in the fog. I was moving slow and easy. I didn't want to be seen or heard. When you're wandering around a strange neighborhood, sleeping where maybe you're not welcome, and picking up any food that someone's carelessly left lying about, people can think you're a tramp. These Yankee farmers mostly think we're all tramp
s anyway. The minute I open my mouth I can see them reach for their purses as if they're afraid I'll snatch anything I can get.
"Anyway, I came down the road kind of cautious and slow, wondering why someone would be moving in the wood at this early hour. Strangest of all, it looked like someone in a long skirt—a woman, or maybe a priest in a cassock. Then the figure disappeared and I figured it was safe to move along a bit faster, but next thing I knew I saw another woman over there, a woman in a white dress that stood out against the trees. And then I heard a scream and the woman ran and people started running toward her—another woman and several men. I hid in a bush to see what was going on. Pretty soon there was a whole bunch of them standing around and talking, looking at something on the ground. I crept up closer to see what was going on. That's when I stopped behind that big bush they call the chokecherry. Then, like I told the sheriff, they weren't paying me no mind so I thought I'd skedaddle out of there and that's what I did."
"Would you tell the sheriff that whole story if he asks you about it?"
Rory nodded. "You're sure he's not thinking of arresting me again?"
"Not a chance." Daniel took out the paper and pencil he always carried. "Give me the address of your boarding house so I can find you if I need you again."
On Sunday when Daniel started out for Brook Farm the snow was starting to fall again, but not enough to bother him as he walked. The fields looked white and clean after having been brown and dying these past weeks. It made him think of a body laid out in a clean white winding sheet after being dressed in rags and dying in a foul hole of a room. Death can look a lot cleaner and purer than life, especially for poor people who spend their lives in hovels.
While he walked Daniel wondered what to make of Rory's story. He'd been hoping Rory would have seen someone Mr. Whitelaw might have sent out to the Farm. A man to pick a fight with Winslow or to lay down the law to him. Either way he would have chosen a good strong man to deliver his message, certainly not a woman. Maybe Rory was dreaming when he thought he saw a woman. At least the first woman. The woman in white who screamed must have been Abigail, but she ran off to get other people. She wasn't trying to hide anything. Was there a second woman? Did she really exist?