Chapter Twenty-Four
Mid October, the leaves a cacophony of colour, the river clogging with the debris of autumn. To the sound of a patchwork band formed of three of the townsfolk – Victory on the pipes, Remembrance on the whistle, Seaborn’s wife, Charity, on the fiddle – a procession of villagers was ferrying fresh produce to the field on the west side of town, a thrown-together assemblage of blankets covering a wooden frame, beneath which the pile of bounty steadily grew.
Mercia sat on a green quilt on the lightly damp grass, watching the scene that to her seemed bizarre – bizarre yet understandable, as Nathan said resting alongside, for it was natural that the townsfolk should want normality to prevail. Accordingly, kneeling at her other side, Nicholas passed her an apple; she took a bite, staring at Remembrance whose eyes flitted over at their elm-shaded spot from time to time.
‘She keeps looking at you,’ she said.
‘Who?’ said Nathan.
‘That Remembrance.’
‘I don’t think so.’ He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder; normally, she might have shrugged it off in public, but in front of this particular band she allowed him to leave it in place. To her right, she noticed Nicholas smile.
‘What is the matter with you?’ she asked curtly.
‘Oh, nothing,’ he replied. ‘Just – you know – enjoying the weather.’
It was a fine afternoon now, although the light was beginning to dim; the morning had brought a heavy shower, but the clouds had cleared before noon and the lowering New England sun was casting a shimmering yellow glaze over the town. Harvest was earlier this year, so Percy said, the soil producing sooner than normal, and his father had brought forward the festival in an effort to keep the villagers’ minds off recent events. Encouraged by Percy, he had even gone further, agreeing to import a festival from England: in two weeks’ time the town would celebrate Guy Fawkes Night, hoping to release tension in the most crowd-pleasing way, a festival that attacked the hated Catholics, and by definition the Catholic Duke of York, whose soldiers were now spreading through his new territory to the west.
Looking across at the industry of people, Mercia thought all did look as it should. Nobody seemed overtly worried, or mournful, nobody was shirking their duty, or protesting the futility of the day. And yet beneath it all, she could discern an undercurrent of anxiety: one too many corn slipped from the top of the pile; the band missed one too many notes; one too many children glanced furtively across before their harried parents called them back. The town knew things were not right, that seemed certain, but they were determined to make it appear as if they were.
She had given up trying to unravel the codes. After long days of staring at their confusion, she had begun to concede that Nicholas might be right, that they were deliberately obtuse, designed to throw anyone who should bother to investigate while the murderer prepared for his next kill. A few days after her conversations with Sooleawa and Kit, Winthrop had written that he too was at a loss. Sitting under the tree, she let the music drift over her, thinking how Clemency would have listened the year before, and wondering if she was still here, listening today, until Mercia was able to help her to where she belonged.
Superstitious idiocy. She chided herself for even thinking such things. Her father would have been appalled.
And yet …
The band stopped their playing, earning subdued applause. Setting down her fiddle, Remembrance ambled over towards Mercia’s group.
Her thin shadow fell on Nathan. ‘May I join you?’ she asked.
‘Of course.’ He moved up to make room at the edge of the quilt. ‘That was wonderful playing.’
‘I’m not so good,’ she protested. ‘But I try.’
Mercia forced a smile, in little mood for the intrusion. Over the past days, Nathan had been spending more and more time with the young woman, or so it had seemed to her. But then the gentle breeze sweeping over them was interrupted by a yet more unwelcome invader.
‘Mrs Blakewood,’ said Richard Thorpe, although he was looking at Remembrance, his expression one of glowering disdain. ‘I would speak with you.’
Remembrance returned his derisory look. ‘Nathan, I think instead I will help with the harvest.’ She nodded to Mercia. ‘Mrs Blakewood.’ With a scowl at Thorpe, she walked away.
‘Silly girl.’ Thorpe shifted his gaze to Nathan. ‘Now you too, and your man.’
Nathan scoffed. ‘I am going nowhere.’
He folded his arms, once again in his brown sash. ‘As the King’s appointed servant here, I have a message for Mrs Blakewood I would like to deliver alone.’
‘Do not worry, Nat,’ she said. ‘I will hear what he has to say.’
Nathan looked him in the eye, but the physician did not flinch. He pulled himself slowly to his feet, jerking his head at Nicholas to follow. As they disappeared across the field, Mercia patted the quilt beside her.
‘Would you join me, Mr Thorpe?’
‘I prefer to stand.’ Thorpe’s patronising eyes peered down, their corners creasing, suppressing what emotion she could only guess. Contempt, most like.
She smiled. ‘You do not like me.’
‘That is beside the point.’
‘But it is true.’
He remained impassive. ‘I am to deliver you this.’
He reached into his jacket, his forearm catching on the black material just enough that a shining knife was exposed in his belt. He took such time feeling in his pockets that she wondered if he had intended her to see it. Then he withdrew his hand, holding out an envelope for her to take, the folds of his jacket sliding back over the menacing blade.
She turned her attention to the envelope. ‘What is this?’
‘It is a letter, naturally.’ He waggled it gently. ‘For you.’
‘From whom?’
‘If you read it, you will know. A rider brought it this morning, care of myself.’
‘You have waited long enough to deliver it, then.’ She reached up, but Thorpe held the envelope out of reach. ‘If it is for me, Mr Thorpe, I should be obliged if you could pass it down.’
He stayed his hand. ‘I know you are helping Percy Lavington.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘I have seen the two of you together. I have seen you go into the woods.’
‘Really, Mr Thorpe. What Percy and I do in the woods is not your affair.’
He bent his face lower. ‘You and Keyte are clearly sympathisers. I know why you are here. And know this. I will not allow such corruption in this town. I will root out your friends ere long.’
‘I do not know what you mean.’
‘Of course not.’ He thrust out the envelope. ‘Take it. I cannot think why he is writing to you, but I have been asked to deliver it, and so here it is.’
Not taking her eyes from his, she gripped the white envelope between finger and thumb, tugging it from his grasp. She held his stare until he broke off and marched through the palisade gate. Moments later, Nathan reappeared at her side.
‘That was quick,’ she said.
‘I was watching.’
‘Close enough to hear?’
‘No. But I can tell his words were not welcome. I can feel the annoyance steaming off you.’
She sighed. ‘He came to give me this. This, and a warning.’
She looked down at the envelope, the inverse side, sealed with a red lump of wax. Her heart sank as she recognised the crest. She turned it over to read the direction on the front:
For the attention of Mrs Mercia Blakewood, care of Mr Richard Thorpe, Meltwater, Connecticut. To be opened by Mrs Blakewood solely, on strict order of the King’s commissioners.
She checked the envelope for tampering, but it appeared to be intact. ‘Recognise the handwriting?’
Nathan peered down, studying the cursive script. ‘I should say so. It is from our old friend.’
She tore open the envelope to pull out a thick piece of paper. Unfolding the crinkled leaf, she examined the signature.
‘Oh yes. It is from him all right.’
‘Sir William Calde. What does he want?’ He scratched at the scar under his chin. ‘I thought he was busy subduing the colonists or some such nonsense.’
She skimmed the large handwriting. ‘It seems he wants nothing. He sends his wishes and asks how I am.’
Nathan frowned. ‘That is all?’
‘Just – he is returning to New York in a month by way of Hartford.’ She glanced at the letterhead. ‘This is dated two weeks ago, in Boston, so we can expect him in the area in another two.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I wonder. Could he be useful here?’
‘Sir William? How?’
She considered. ‘I do not know.’
‘That’s helpful. But … it could be a goal.’
‘What do you mean?’
He crouched, resting a hand on her knee. ‘We have been here over a month now, Mercia. Look around you. Life is going on as best it can. We have not found the killer, or deciphered those messages. And it is not really our concern.’ He ventured a smile. ‘Perhaps it is time to return to New York, try to get the last ship home before winter sets in. As it is, the crossing may be arduous already. We know Sir William does not intend to remain in America. Why not accompany him when he passes through?’ He looked at her, a mixture of pleading and kindness in his eyes. ‘You have tried very hard, Mercia. There is no shame in letting go. Your manor house is waiting.’
She pulled at a loose thread in the quilt. ‘We do not know that.’
‘You were as good as told so after the Oxford Section business.’ He hesitated. ‘Besides, if you do not return soon, then your uncle may do so before you and try to stake a counter claim with the King.’
‘He would not dare.’
‘You know he would. We do not know how his condition fares. He may have improved sufficiently well to travel. And … Daniel needs his mother.’
She twisted harder at the thread. ‘I am well aware of what Daniel needs. But he also needs a mother who can show him perseverance and justice. And … I see her all the time, Nathan. I see her when I close my eyes, when a woman from the village walks by me. I see her everywhere. I do not think I can find peace until she does.’
Nathan’s hand tensed. ‘At the expense of your own house? Your own son?’
‘There is something … I cannot just let this go. Can you not understand that?’
‘And me?’ He got to his feet. ‘If I ask you outright to leave?’
‘I told you. I cannot.’
His whole body seemed to harden. ‘You have to face it, Mercia. This may not be for you to solve. And I can be patient only so long.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Nothing. Just that, if we have any chance of a future together, you need to decide what is truly important.’
Her stomach iced over. ‘I know what is important. But so is this.’
‘It is … taking you over. I worry for your soul.’
‘My soul?’ She scoffed. ‘You sound like a preacher.’
He growled, a strange animal sound she did not like. ‘Mercia, if you want to talk, come and find me. I am going to help with the festival.’
She watched him walk away. ‘If you like it here so much, why do you want to leave?’
He stopped, turning to face her. ‘I want you to leave. I want to leave with you. Can you understand that?’
She did not reply, wrenching the troublesome thread clean out of the quilt. She threw it in the air and it caught on the breeze, drifting to the earth as he vanished into the crowd, leaving her sad and alone.
Not alone. By the time the wisps of a cloud in the nonchalant sky had separated and reformed, Nicholas returned to sit beside her. She was glad of his company, their relationship so much more straightforward than hers and Nathan’s. When she told him to do something, he did it; when she rejected his advice, he was not angry. She thought of a sudden of that night in New York, when she and Nathan had been trapped in the fort, when she had wondered whether she preferred their relationship the way it had been, the way of friends. She wondered now whether she had been right to be cautious. But then she remembered Nicholas, and she looked at him and forced a smile.
He smiled back, and she knew he had seen her and Nathan argue. She held her breath, waiting for him to suggest in his tentative way that Nathan was worth arguing with. But he did not.
‘’Tis such a lovely day,’ was all he said.
She could have hugged him – by God, she needed the warmth of a friend’s touch right now – but she did not.
‘It is.’ She took a deep breath, shaking her head to brush away her angst. She knew Nathan was probably right, but she could not let herself admit it. Not yet.
‘Look what Thorpe brought me,’ she said, tapping the letter beside her.
He listened as she related its contents. ‘So Sir William’s coming back. I suppose he’s not a bad man, for one of them.’
‘I just wish he did not—’
‘Want to ravish you?’ Nicholas looked skywards. ‘Sorry. That was uncouth.’
She let out a startled laugh. ‘You said that to shock me from my thoughts.’
‘Did I?’ His stubbled cheeks twitched, radiating the afternoon’s warmth. ‘Well, then. What now?’
‘You are so … vexing.’ She shook her head, suppressing her own smile. ‘In honesty, I do not know. Perhaps there will come a time when—’
She trailed off as she caught sight of Percy running in their direction, leaping Fearing Davison who was hunched over an immense sack of some vegetable or other, dragging the heavy produce across the ground as though it were merely a bunch of flowers.
‘There you are,’ Percy cried, arresting his speed with an outstretched hand against the elm tree. In his other he was holding a black-rimmed parchment. In contrast his face was ashen white.
She felt a foreboding fear. ‘What is it?’
‘This.’ He cast down the parchment. ‘I just found this.’
She looked at it and gasped. A sharp pain overcame her, so intense she felt as if her whole body were being clawed at by demons:
PWKTZWKAOCMEV ∩∩
‘No,’ she said. ‘Please – no.’ A tear of panic came to her eye.
Nicholas snatched up the parchment. ‘Hell’s teeth.’
‘Another code,’ stammered Percy. ‘A new one.’
Mercia stared listlessly forward. ‘Someone has been murdered.’ The festival, the people, all faded. Death stalked the meadow, taunting her failure.
‘Perhaps not. I only found this, not a body.’
She closed her eyes in prayer. ‘Lord, please let no one else have died.’
Nicholas scrambled to his feet. ‘We have to search the town.’
His assertive words roused her from her depression. ‘You are right. We have to account for everybody.’ She pulled herself up. ‘Percy, where did you find it?’
‘Outside my house, in amongst a heap of corn I was to bring to the festival.’ He looked about him as if in a daze. ‘It was meant for me to find. No one else could have – my God! He is marking me!’
Nicholas stood in front of him, scanning the area for threats. Mercia placed herself at his other side, thinking quickly.
‘If it is you, we will keep you safe. But he may just have wanted you to be the one to find it.’ She looked over at the milling crowd, searching for Nathan, but he was not among them; she noticed there was no sign of Remembrance either. She turned back to Percy. ‘We have to get the entire town out. You will be safe in their number. And we have to tell them they are in danger. The time for secrecy is over.’
Percy nodded.
‘I cannot do that. They will not listen to me. But they will to you. We will call them out to the festival, and you can speak to them.’ She gestured to Nicholas. ‘Go with him. Make sure he is safe. I will look for Nathan.’
‘Get Amery to help,’ said Percy, collecting himself. ‘He will be in the schoolhouse.’
She nodded, watching Nicholas lead
Percy towards the crowd in the field before setting off herself, the need for action spurring her on. Now she had overcome her momentary gloom, her head felt clear and sharp for the first time in days. She hurried through the gate, her senses alert, telling everyone she passed that something was about to start at the festival, hoping that at least some of them would follow her advice.
She rounded the meeting house, pulling up short. John Lavington was chiding his manservant, wagging his finger even as he surveyed the activities of the townspeople carrying still more produce to the meadow.
‘Please,’ she urged, Lavington’s man looking grateful for the interruption. ‘You need to go to the festival. Percy has important news he wishes to tell you all.’
Lavington sighed, but she gave him no time to respond, and she continued north towards the nearby schoolhouse. Outside the low stone building, Amery was pulling shut the door, an overflowing satchel thrown across his shoulder.
He turned around and jumped. ‘Oh.’ He laughed, a hand on his chest. ‘You startled me, Mrs Blakewood. Are you not at the festival?’
Quickly, she explained what had happened, how Percy had sent her to enlist his help. As she spoke, his eyes began to blink, his fingers gripping the cut of his bag.
‘I knew this would happen,’ he murmured. Then he looked up. ‘But you are right. It is time to speak. We should have done so already.’
‘Forget all that.’ She beckoned him follow her from the schoolhouse. ‘Let us act now.’
Now she had Amery at her side, it was easier to cajole people to the festival field, and the streets soon grew deserted. They made a final sweep of the four roads, finishing again at the meeting house, Lavington now disappeared from view.
‘Still no sign of the constable,’ she mused as they returned to the western gate, the sight of Clemency’s cottage for once drawing no emotion. ‘Or Standfast, for that matter. But perhaps they have gone to the field by now.’
‘Standfast?’ Amery stroked the wrinkling tops of the parchments stuffed into his satchel. ‘He passed the schoolhouse earlier. I have not seen him since.’
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