‘Are you not listening to anything that is being said?’ she cried. ‘You cannot just slaughter an innocent man!’ She held onto the crowd’s shoulders. ‘What if – what if Hopewell was killed for the same reasons as Clemency?’
It was too much for the town to endure. As one they turned on her, pushing her back, ordering her out. At their centre, Godsgift lifted his sword above the trapped boy’s chest.
And then another voice raised itself above the din.
‘Godsgift Brown, I forbid this! In the name of the Lord, put down your sword!’
The crowd grumbled, unhappy at the intrusion, but the voice had shaken them, and they parted in two lines to allow Renatus Fox in. The old preacher walked slowly towards the constable, Silence Edwards bearing a flickering torch at his side.
‘Think on your soul, Godsgift.’ Renatus came to a halt in front of him. Not wearing his hat, the moonlight seemed to intensify the whiteness of his hair. ‘All of you. God is watching here. Be very certain of what you do.’
Some of the crowd seemed to waver, but others amplified their calls, baying their merciless justice. Godsgift hesitated, looking into the preacher’s eyes. Then he lowered his sword, returning it to the carved scabbard at his side.
‘Perhaps you are right,’ he said. ‘Perhaps the sword is not the best way.’
The crowd muttered, the crowd roared. Renatus nodded his encouragement.
‘Seaborn,’ said Godsgift. ‘Move away.’
Seaborn looked up and frowned, but he and his companions did as Godsgift bade. Still trembling, the boy stayed put. As Mercia breathed out, a woman in the crowd shouted her disgust.
‘My soul, Renatus?’ Godsgift stared down at the cowering boy. ‘You have told me time enough how I lost that long ago. So yes. I am certain.’
He reached for his gun and shot the Indian dead.
Chapter Seventeen
The street was silent, absent of human sounds at least. Birds still whistled, a cat mewled. A dragonfly hummed atop a low picket fence, the heady scent of animal dung behind enticing the walker to move along. Mercia, the walker, approached the meeting house and looked around, a measure of controlled sadness, craning her neck to search out people, but no one was in sight. As far as she could tell, she was alone in the noontime streets. She had stayed most of the morning in bed, thinking through what had happened. It seemed most of the town had done likewise. It had been a late night, last night.
At the meeting house she swallowed, trying to avoid looking towards the bloody memory of the northern gate, but she could never forget that desperate scene. Nauseous, disgusted, she pulled her hood around her face so as better to avoid the physical presence of the place, but the image that scarred her mind betrayed the painful truth: avoidance of this crime was impossible, indeed unpardonable.
Still she turned south, thinking she could see faint movement through the southern gate. As she passed the smithy, finally signs of life: Victory was leaning against the back wall, watching a teenage boy, his apprentice perhaps, running about the yard, but he was not yet at work himself. He looked up as she passed, and as their eyes met he jumped forward from the wall, picking up a hammer and approaching his anvil, beginning to work as though she had startled him into it, turning his cheek to her as the townsfolk had seemed determined to do to the Indian boy last night.
She walked on, and as she drew nearer to the gate, a murmur of human voices grew steadily louder. She passed under the arch to squint in the sunlight at a crowd gathered in the meadow just outside the palisade. It could have been an ordinary town meeting, but no one was arguing or calling their agreement, the mood firmly subdued. She had no particular wish to join them, even be seen by them, but she forced herself, or rather that tenacious part of her that had crossed the Atlantic forced herself, taking dominance as it did ever more over the woman who had been happy watching the daffodils from the window of her Halescott cottage each spring. So she approached the gathering, watching the faces turn towards her one by one. She was startled, for there was none today of the certainty of last night, their ferocity replaced by worry, concern, even guilt. Nobody spoke, but most seemed drawn by the gate, for their eyes continually flicked towards it. She turned to see what was so compelling: nothing, as far as she could tell, but then she looked up, and the bile rose in her gullet, for it was not the gate they were caught by, but the foulness projected above it, nailed to the posts that formed its arch. The head of the Indian boy, staring out, the stump of his neck as black with blood as his hair that flapped black in the growing wind. The boy who was the town’s shame, their shared tragedy of last night.
Sickened, she retreated through the gate, hurrying back towards the meeting house. Passing the smithy she again looked in, slowing momentarily, and this time Vic did not turn away. She lowered her head and resumed her walk, but seconds later a shout from behind made her stop: Vic was calling her name.
‘Mrs Blakewood.’ He stood in the entrance to his yard, the sweat from its heat gathering on his chest. ‘Pray, come talk awhile.’
She paused. ‘As you wish.’
She entered the smithy. In the cluttered yard, the teenager was dunking hot pliers in a trough of water, the steam hissing and rising, obscuring his young face. Not much younger than the Indian boy, she thought, but she spared him only the briefest of glances, curious to know what Vic wished to discuss.
The smith wiped his brow, patting the tips of his tied-back hair. ‘I don’t like this, Mrs Blakewood.’
She waited. ‘Don’t like what?’
‘This.’ His hand twitching, he grabbed a rusted iron rod that was lying on a workbench beside him. He squeezed it, as though relieving his tension. ‘All this.’
Again she waited, but still no more. ‘Mr Smith—’
He waved the tool. ‘Vic.’
‘Vic.’ She had her eye on the rod, half expecting him to lash out with it. ‘Why have you asked me in?’
He sighed. ‘I don’t know.’ He threw the rod on the bench and looked away. ‘Because—’ He sucked in through his teeth. ‘No. Forget it.’
Warily, she approached, positioning herself in front of his turned away face. ‘There must be something.’
‘I suppose there must.’ He ran his hand through his hair to untie it, letting it fall to cover his hot cheeks. ‘Obedience! We need more water. Fetch some from the well.’
True to his name, the boy ran to carry out his task. When he had gone, Vic snatched a ragged shirt from a menacing hook hammered into a post at his side. Pulling it over his chest, he looked Mercia full in the face.
‘This town isn’t right.’
She inclined her head. ‘An accurate observation.’
‘Last night – that shouldn’t have happened.’
‘You think so?’
‘That lad was no more guilty of Hopewell’s death than you or I.’
‘But you said nothing at the time.’
‘Still, one more Indian dead doesn’t exactly matter, does it?’
‘You really believe that?’ She frowned. ‘I may be new in these parts, but I can see that the Indians belong here as much as we English do. You cannot be blind to that.’
He looked away. ‘They attack us, Mrs Blakewood. They steal our things. They peer from behind the trees, chanting the Lord knows what at us. Renatus and Standfast say once they are converted to Christian ways they will become like us, but I don’t have their faith.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘You did not ask me in to discuss religion, Vic, or Indian concords.’
‘No.’ He sighed. ‘’Tis these deaths. They make me uncomfortable.’
‘Not as uncomfortable as Clemency and Hopewell are in their graves.’
His eyes dropped. ‘I didn’t mean … I am sorry they’re dead. I wanted to say’ – he glanced nervously towards the street – ‘that I agree with you. I think they were murdered.’ He rubbed at his forehead. ‘Both of them.’
A peculiar lightness, inappropriate she knew, fluttered into
her chest. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘I knew Clemency. I know she wouldn’t have killed herself. She was too strong.’
‘And yet you said nothing after her death, either.’
He shuffled his feet. ‘I was deciding what to do.’
‘It is taking a long time for you to decide.’ Her voice dripped with acerbity. ‘And what now?’
‘I don’t know.’ He shrugged. ‘I can’t just … I’m here at Lavington’s permission.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning I cannot afford to cross him. I would lose my position, Mrs Blakewood. ’Tis evident he does not think these murders are such, and so—’
‘And so you do nothing, as you said nothing.’
He growled. ‘I am speaking with you.’ He held up a hand. ‘Just listen. I know Clemency did not kill herself, so she must have been murdered. I do not think Hopewell was killed by that boy, and I begin to wonder whether George Mason was killed too.’
Mercia’s head jerked up. ‘Your old minister?’
‘They say he fell in the river and drowned. But now I am not certain.’ His eyes darted about. ‘Wait here.’
He walked to a large wooden chest at the back of the yard; even from a distance, Mercia could tell it was well made, the lock on the front gleaming in its newness. Reaching down, he unhooked the clasp and rummaged inside. After some trawling he tugged out a ragged piece of cloth and returned, handing her the fading rag.
‘Of course this isn’t the paper I found on her, but I thought it was strange, so I wrote it down when I had the chance here alone.’
‘Paper? I don’t understand.’
Frowning, she looked at the cloth. It was stained with ink marks, letters of the alphabet. Some of the letters had run at the edge and the writing on the coarse fabric was inevitably a mess, but she could tell clearly enough what she was holding. She looked up at the smith openmouthed.
‘But this is exactly like—’
‘Yes.’ He looked at her. ‘Like the note found on Mason. The original is gone, but this is a copy of a piece of parchment I found when I … laid her out. I wanted you to see it because … perhaps it might help.’
She looked again at the cloth. It bore a simple sequence of letters, different to that found on Mason, but it was the same principle:
BNFOWVPSGGJNB .
‘You are telling me a paper with this strange word was placed on Clemency’s body?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you are certain this is an accurate copy? That dot at the end too?’
His forehead creased. ‘Yes.’
‘By God’s wounds!’ She stared at him. ‘Why could you not have said something before?’
He set his face. ‘I’m giving it to you now, aren’t I?’
‘Who has the original?’
‘I cannot say.’
She let out an exasperated sigh. ‘Come, Vic! This makes it look as though someone killed them both. Two of your fellow townsfolk. If you know more—’
‘I don’t.’ His jaw twitched. ‘And what of Hopewell?’ Although they were alone in the yard, he lowered his voice. ‘There may have been no message found, but I don’t think he was killed by any Indian. Gutting their victims – ’tis not their way.’
‘By our Lord, Vic.’ Overwrought, she steadied herself against the smithy wall. ‘Who is doing this?’
He hesitated. ‘Will you stay? Humility cannot order you out this time.’
She looked up, her thoughts a roaring jumble of confusion. ‘I want to. Now all the more. But the cottage I am in is not mine.’
‘It is not anyone’s, now. And Hopewell – he would want you to stay.’
‘Perhaps.’ A keen gloom was settling in her heart. Was it really possible that three of the townsfolk had been killed by the same person? ‘If only I had not brought him back here. He was only in town because I asked for his help.’
Vic shook his head. ‘Hopewell had many enemies. He annoyed people, and he enjoyed doing so. You cannot blame yourself. Besides, he was due to return here soon in any case.’
‘So I am told. But to stay in his house – how can I?’
‘I could tell last night that some others think the same, that these deaths are not so easily explained. We will have to speak up for you. Lavington cannot have everything his way.’
‘So poor Hopewell said.’ She looked across the yard, the tip of the magistrate’s roof visible further down the street. ‘Well, then. My discomfort is scant price to pay. I will persevere, as long as I can.’
She returned to her lodgings, struggling to concentrate, barely touching the msickquatash Nicholas had procured from one of the townswomen, a dish of boiled corn and beans the settlers had learnt from the Indians. She had always been certain that Clemency was murdered, and now she had proof, evidence besides that linked her death to Mason’s, which she had hitherto assumed to be an accident.
But the revelation, crucial as it was, was not the only concern on her mind. Uncertain who to trust, she shut herself into the cottage with Nicholas, staring at the code, comparing it to Mason’s, and growing ever more frustrated when she found she was unable to decipher the nonsensical phrase. She was concerned that Lavington could arrive at any moment, seeking to remove her from the town once more, but he did not. As the hours passed, she grew more and more nervous, but not because of the magistrate. She laid the codes to one side, thinking forward to the other confrontation she was expecting any moment.
She got up, standing at the open door. She turned away, pacing the tidied rooms. She walked into the kitchen area, fiddled with the pots and pans, and returned to the sitting-room window, craning her neck to see as far down the road as she could.
‘Come and sit,’ said Nicholas, patting a stool.
‘No, I am well.’
‘You will not be if you keep worrying.’
She went to the door, stepped outside a moment, then came back in. ‘If he is coming – how long now, do you think?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. ’Tis several hours’ ride, so if he got the letter yesterday and set off at first light – then soon. You told him where to come, and you know he rides fast.’
Another hour passed. She dismissed Nicholas, sensing he was in need of a distraction; that, and because she wanted some time alone. She looked again at the cloth Vic had given her, but she remained too agitated to think, or else to rest. It was not that she was needy, or desperate, but she thought she knew how Nathan was going to react. She wanted to sort out the dispute and move on. With his help, she knew she could bring Clemency’s killer to justice. Clemency’s – and Hopewell’s now too.
Finally, a horse snorted as it was reined in outside. She scurried to the window; sure enough, Nathan was tying his steed to the picket fence. Closing her eyes to calm herself, she waited as his boots pounded their way to the front door, and then a pause – he was waiting to delay the moment, she knew – before a gentle knock on the door. Not a sharp rap, she noticed. Maybe that was good.
‘I am here,’ she called. Of course she was here, where else would she be? A stupid thing to say. ‘Come in.’ Another stupid statement. What else would he do?
Nathan pushed open the door and entered. He took off his hat, setting it on a hook in the wall, and turned to face her.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Hello.’ A greeting – that was good. No immediate descent into argument.
‘How have you been?’
‘I have managed. Nicholas has been very good.’
A frown. A mistake to mention Nicholas.
‘You could have had my help.’ He came closer. ‘And I meant, how are you feeling?’
She smiled weakly. ‘I have felt better. To think, we came here looking for calm before returning home.’
‘It could still happen that way.’
‘No. It cannot.’
A pause. ‘I suppose it can’t.’
‘I am glad you are here, Nathan. I value you deeply, you know that.’<
br />
‘Value? Is that all?’
She sighed. ‘Let’s not … for now. There is too much to do first.’
‘Is there?’ He moved around so she was facing him. ‘Look at me, Mercia. What is more important?’ She did not reply. ‘I have been frantic with worry. I would have ridden after you immediately had I known where you were. But Winthrop said he thought you would be returning to Hartford, as I think you well know, and that he had no idea where you were going in the meantime.’
She looked through the window at his horse. ‘On that point he was right. I did not know myself.’
‘Then last night that quick-mouthed preacher brings me a letter saying you have come back to Meltwater and want me to follow. And so here I am. I had to let Winthrop pay a driver to cart your belongings. They should be here before long, but I wanted to get here sooner.’
‘That was good of him.’ She tried to soften her tone. ‘I am sorry, Nat. But I thought it best you stayed behind.’
‘Why? What can Nicholas do that I cannot?’
She allowed herself a smile. ‘Follow my orders.’
‘Like I do not.’ He looked around the room, fixing on Nicholas’s satchel on the floor. ‘Is that his?’
‘He has been staying here.’ She scowled at his dark face. ‘As protection. And now you are here he will share again with Amery.’ She blew out her cheeks. ‘Look, what is done is done. You would have tried to stop me coming back. But I could not give up on this. I cannot give up on it, especially not now.’
‘You are too damn stubborn.’
She hesitated. ‘There has been another murder.’
‘What?’ His face turned pale.
‘The man I went to meet, Clemency’s cousin.’ Briefly, she filled him in on the past few days. When she had finished, he looked at her in deep concern.
‘Mercia, this is … I was going to agree we should stay, but now – two dead, the same two you have had most connection with in the town – you have to leave!’
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