“Really?” Matthew Livesey perked up, raising one eyebrow.
“Harry sets out this little bundle o’ blooms himself, out by the path. His wanton rides by, innocent like as all get-out, but she sees it, and knows ’tis a sign t’meet there that night.”
“But he was in town all that day, Constable,” Livesey refuted. “Busy at Sessions and the Borough work. And at supper with me that night. It could have been set out in town. Easier, really.”
“Her to him, then.” Swann leered with a worldly snicker. “So, a house slave could have trotted this ‘round to his door stoop, put it by the gate post, under the porch light… somewhere private he’d know to look. Might have been sent right inside, an’ there they were in water in his receivin’ hall when he got home.”
Livesey wanted to repeat Barbara Yadkin’s testimony that Harry had not gone home directly, had passed the Moore house, but he let it bide for awhile longer. Swann had heard it once, and hadn’t shown any enthusiasm for it. Besides, Livesey was fascinated by the machinations of adultery, and its secret codes.
“Two bows, Livesey,” Swann chuckled. “Think ‘pon that. Mighta been moren one little hidey-hole where they could play ‘rock, and roll me over,’ see? One bow’s one place. Two means that glade off the Masonborough Road, most-like.”
“Well, I’m …!” Liveseywas forced to exclaim. “Really!”
“His whore used blue ribbon,” Swann went on. “Mighta meant the time, or the place. Mighta meant the way’s clear. Mighta sent red for ‘stay away, he’s suspicious,’ see? Or another color signifyin’ ‘time’s short, so don’t dawdle.’ Damme, sir!” Swann gaped at Livesey’s expression. “I swear I’d just struck ye dumb! Never heard o’ such? Ye watch yer ladies at the next drum, sir. Even in church, damn ’em. See who’s foldin’ a fan just so, or wearin’ a brooch in the odd place. ’tis like a second language! Some older’n Methuselah, some as the whores and the rogues make up t’wixt themselves.”
“Well, I never!” Livesey frowned. And he hadn’t! All the years he’d lived, and never had the slightest inkling. It was a disturbing revelation. Far happier was the revelation that Swann wasn’t a total fool, and could make something of this evidence. Why, two weeks ago, he’d not thought him capable of saying “Boh!” to a goose!
“Hmm. Then it would be obvious that someone should inquire at the other chandleries, Constable Swann,” Livesey declared. “To see who imported the ribbon. Ask among the dressmakers here in town, and the milliners. Fancy ribbon like this might be used to flounce a woman’s hat. See who bought it, was it a man or a woman …”
“Bloody Jesus, man!” Swann groaned. “Small as Wilmington is, I could spend the next month at that! Must be dozens. And what do we do when we do trace it down, hey? Root ‘round in every lady’s sewing box for scraps? Don’t need to. I got a good idea who mighta killed Harry already, thanks t’this.”
“You do?” Livesey stiffened in anticipation.
“Two, really,” Swann dithered a little. “Damme’f this ain’t a fine spruce-beer, Livesey. Delaware, ain’t it?”
“Boston, actually,” Livesey snapped, taking the empty mug once more to refill, denied Swann’s thoughts for the moment, like a puppy being promised a meat scrap held too far over his head.
“I’m sure ye’ve heard some rumors ‘bout Harry an’ some round-heeled girl lately,” Swann muttered. “Hear the name Biddy MacDougall mentioned, hey?”
“I have.”
“Lord, Livesey, ye seen her?” Swann said with a hint of awe.
“Only her Father. I gather the girl is kept close to home.”
“Bloody right she is, an with good reason!” Swann enthused. “Like an angel, she is. Not a minute over seventeen. Long, golden hair. Big blue eyes, an’ cream-pot skin. A trifle spindle-shank, t’my lights, but there’s some as likes ’em slim as saplin’s. Not so tall an’ gawky as t’put a fellow off, though. Like a yearlin’ filly colt, but woman-bountiful ‘nough for any man, haw haw!” Constable Swann all but put an elbow across the counter to nudge Livesey in man-to-man bonhomie. Swann had revived most wonderfully from his sulky, confused state since seeing the flowers, as if he’djust glimpsed Salvation after a life of crime. He also took a wistful dig at his crotch.
“An’, when ye peer at her sharp, Livesey”—Swann sobered, as he tapped his nose meaningfully—“ye could swear she resembles Georgina, but younger … an’, Devil take me, but handsomer, too! An’, I ‘spect ye’ve heard ’bout her dad, Eachan.”
“That he’s a hard man,” Livesey replied. “That he immigrated in ’46, he came without a wife and he never remarried. Stayed a widower all this time?”
“A widower of his own makin’,” Swann agreed. “There’s no proof of it, but they say he caught his wife an’ his laird’s son a’playin’ balum-rancum when she was no older’n Biddy, an’ he chopped ’em to bits, the both of’em, with a claymore! Settled up at Cross Creek and drifted to Campbelltown when word got out. Drifted here when his neighbors wouldn’t hold with him any longer. Farmed some good land over to Hood’s Creek, but his temper ruint that, ‘bout the time his Biddy started sproutin’ womanly. Eachan MacDougall’s as like to go off at half-cock as a one-shillin’ pistol, “lis a wonder he had a neighbor in cannon range, easy as he is to row! An’ when he’s hot, there’s no stoppin’ him short o’ killin’ him. There’s some say one black glower o’ his’d kill birds on the wing, hey?”
“But he lives on the wrong side of the river, Constable.”
“Used t’be, Livesey.” Swann grinned. “Used t’be! He sold that farm, bought himself twenty acres for a hog-run, an’ took a job workin’ the Brunswick Road ferryjust t’other side o’ Eagle’s Island.”
“But still, how could the girl get across? If her father is so protective of her, how …?”
“They come into town once a week to market, Livesey. Drove in a few hogs, a bushel’r two o’ truck t’sell. An’ here’s the best part. Biddy’s a dressmaker! Been sewin’ up ladies’ gowns an’ such most o’ this past year! Takes measure an’ orders on one Saturday, brings her finished dresses the next.w’ buys her materials, ha ha!”
“Oh, I see!” Livesey mused, brows raised in understanding.
“Like fancy blue ribbon, hey?” Swann chortled. “Christ, think on’t! She comes t’town, Harry sees her. She sees him: a fine gentleman, rich an’ all, an’ cock-sure with the ladies. They like the cut o’ each others’jibs, if ye get my meaning? Close as Eachan watches over her, Harry’s the first fancy fellow she’s ever met. Maybe she sewed for Georgina herself, by God! Been right in the house! Think about that!”
“It seems reasonable, Constable, but there is the problem of getting away from her father’s eye, after all. Of getting across the Brunswick to Eagle’s Island, then across the Cape Fear to town, and three miles further east to the rendezvous on the Masonborough Road. On the ferry her father runs! Do they have horses, or do they walk to town? How could she expect to get out there to meet him?”
“Wouldn’t have had to.” Swann tut-tutted. “Eachan knew Harry and his reputation. Mighta seen ’em billin’ an’ cooin’ like stable lad an’ goose-girl. Mighta spotted Harry’s signals to other women or trailed him out there, fol-lowin’ another harlot o’ his. He takes the ribbon from Biddy’s sewing box, makes the bouquet and ties itjust so, but ’tis him ‘stead o’ Biddy that shows that night. Harry’s ‘spectin’ the girl, he gets the father. Eachan shoots him, whether the two o’ them were ever really rantipolin’ in the buff, or not!”
“But it wasn’t Saturday market day, it was …”
“Monday, aye, but ’twas Quarterly Assizes and Court Sessions. Ev’rybody was in town for that. I do allow I ask about, I’ll find a dozen people as saw Eachan an’ Biddy in town, too. Then ‘twould be even easier for her t’hire a horse at Taneyhill’s, if she planned to meet him.”
“Constable, I find it hard to believe that Eachan MacDougall wouldjust shoot Harry dead, at first sight,” Livesey countered w
ith a fretful feeling. This unexpected tack was just a little too neat! “Wouldn’t he have warned him off first? Argued with him? Taken a whip to him? Beat him with his fists? And if it was the girl sent the bouquet to Harry, even if Eachan intercepted it, or made her do itup…”
“Could have been he sent it to her,” Swann rebutted quickly. “He’s a … well, he was a cultured gentleman. Maybe he took ribbon from Georgina’s sewing box, and tied those bows. Pinked the ends as they are, to make ’em neat an’ even. You told me you thought ’twas a refined lady’s hand did it. Could have been a refined gentleman’s work just as easy! An’ when Eachan saw it, he grilled her ‘til she confessed who sent it, an’ he set off that very night. An’ as for Eachan’s temper, ya don’t know him! He’s not the man to ‘front direct’ ‘thout good cause. An’ go well-armed when ye do! Goes red-eyed, like a lunatic, an’ there’s Hell t pay ‘fore he’s done, an’ him ‘thout one mem’ry of it after. I been ‘cross the river on him b’fore, sir, an’ I pray hard he’s not so cup-shot or daft there’s no talkin’ to him—an’ that with four bailiffs!”
“That is one possibility, I suppose,” Livesey said, disappointed. “Yet you said you had another idea, though.”
“Well, there’s Sim Bates, after all,” Swann said with a wave of his hand. “Hell, it’s his side o’ town. He knows all that barren country. And he had grievance ‘gainst Harry, like you said. I think your hired hound Bowlegs is wrong ‘bout Sim bein’ too cowardly to do it, too. That’s ‘cause Bates tried on Jemmy some time back, and Bowlegs beat the livin’ daylights outa him. Just about the time he took that new coachin’job for Prince Richard? So Jemmy don’t think Bates man enough to worry about. But you let Sim simmer on his grievances, an’ he’ll find a way t’do ye back, if ye prick him sore enough.”
“So he could have seen Harry meeting some woman out there, as he did his regular rounds as Ramseur’s man. And sent the bait to him?”
“An’ got what he always swore he’d get, after we come home from the militia. After Major Harry had him at the cartwheel a second time,” Swann intoned ominously. ‘Harry Tresmayne’s heart’s blood.’ Sim Bates’s very words.”
“He has the double-barreled coaching gun. He has a reason. He knew those trails, too, I shouldn’t wonder,” Livesey reluctantly agreed. Hmm…
“One o’ those two’re the most likely, aye. Here, gimme a snip o’ that ribbon,” Swann said. “I can send a bailiff down to Masonborough to nose about. Hear tell Sim’s got himself a black girl, one o’ Prince Richard’s house servants, to share his shack. Mighta put her up t’buyin’ this ribbon. Mighta had her tie these bows, too. I doubt Sim Bates could tie a granny-knot right the first time, hey? End with a pack-saddle bowline, like as not! And a storekeeper’d remember him or a black girl buyin’ ribbon like this, costly as you say it is.”
“One would hope it isn’t Bates, though, Constable,” Matthew said quickly, hoping to keep Swann there, before he set off dead-set to find the killer he wished to find. “I mean, if it was Bates, wouldn’t people believe that Richard Ramseur put him up to it? Or took advantage of his spite against Harry …for Ramseur’s own purposes?”
“There is that,” Swann admitted. “But see here; Ramseur may be a stiff-necked, purse-proud old bastard, but he’d never do anything like this behind the back. He’d come right out an’ challenge an enemy to a duel. Meet you face-to-face, man-to-man. An’ enjoy it.”
“You believe that, sir. But the common folk—who are talking of mob justice—don’t. Even if Sim is the killer, there’ll always be talk. It’ll fester for years. Best those rumors are laid to rest for good.”
“An’ not look into Bates?” Swann goggled.
“That’s not what I meant at all, sir. I think you should delve into whether the Ramseur household bought the ribbon, and question our Prince Richard direct.”
“Now lookee here, Livesey,” Swann shot back, growing cold and distant. “Would ye tell your granny how t’suck eggs, hey? There’s some’d call what ye been up to meddlin’ where ye got no right. Now I thankee for findin’ this bunch o’ flowers, an’ tellin’ me ‘bout those prints’n all. Good shoes, shod horse. Double-barreled coachin’ gun. Aye, I’ll take all ye found to heart. But I told ya earlier, I doubt it was faction, at the root of it.”
“You hope it wasn’t faction,” Livesey rejoined dryly. “Else we have Captain Tom of the Mob, after all, and the garrison down at Fortjohnston called out to read the Riot Act.”
“There’s that,” Swann grunted, stifling a belch. He was cool-voiced, though, rared back on his heels, on slit-eyed guard.
“The other rumor about the town,” Livesey prompted him. “The other woman mentioned. I told you about Mrs Yadkin seeing Harry ride down Market Street, past the Moore house. Will you ask about her when you hunt up the store which sold this ribbon? And who bought it?”
“God … hey now!” Swann growled, sounding as menacing as a cornered bear. “Lookee here, Livesey, that’s nought o’ your concern. An’ I’ll be askin’ ya t’say no more, for th’ time bein’, ‘bout that particular rumor, hey?”
“We both know, Constable, that it is implausible beyond belief,” Livesey lied, with a disarming purr. “The Moores would never countenance murder or violence. They’re refined English gentlemen.”
Poor Swann, he thought; cant pursue the home-grown aristocrats, cant delve too close into the other faction, for fear of fnding one of the Moores involved—related to his masters! Ignore faction ?
“But if all possibilities are not pursued, people might say that justice doesn’t reach to the rich and powerful, sir. The Moore name arises … any Moore is tainted, then we’re back to suspicions of favoritism and faction among the common folk. And fears of mob vengeance.”
There wasn’t much Swann could say to that. He was beholden to the Moores, their bought man. Livesey could actually feel a twinge of sympathy for Swann’s position, square in the middle. It was faction that had arranged his election, and faction that had paid out a passel of guineas for rum, beer and barbecue on the hustings. Or purchased a few key voters in the borough outright!
“It’s low, dirty talk,” Swann allowed at last, gulping and chewing as if he wished to spit out rotten gristle. “Baseless, too, see?”
“Talk which must be confounded, sir,” Livesey suggested softly.
“Know where it comes from, hey?” Swann grimaced. “Old chick-a-biddy, chicken-chested, gossipy hens is where, Livesey. Wimmen past their prime swimmin’ in their spite. Them as envy Anne Moore’s features. And her figure. Lord, like a Gypsy sash-dancer, she is! And she’s not a Wilmington girl, an’ that’ll do it every time. She’s a New Bern girl. Got manners an’ airs good as London, an’ that don’t set with our ladies either. Close as Harry an’ Osgoode were—partners in their faction, him Harry’s lawyer, an’ both of ’em well-off—see the bile there, hey? And Harry’s repute added toit…”
“Or idle men who might have wished to be in Osgoode’s shoes?” Livesey concluded for him.
“Them, too, Goddamn ’em,” Swann agreed. “Aye, I’ve heard that rumor. I kept my ear t’the ground, an’ don’t ye think I haven’t! I just can’t feature Osgoode bein’ the kind t’kill a body, though. An’ say what you will ‘bout poor Harry Tresmayne … he was a gentleman, damn his eyes. He knew better’n t’mess with a close friend’s wife.”
“True.” Livesey nodded, though he wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
“We find out it’s Sim Bates, or Eachan MacDougall, the better it’ll be,” Swann insisted. “Then all this trash talk’ll go away ‘bout Mistress Anne an’ Harry. An’ two fine young people won’t end up with their lives mint.”
“But…” Livesey attempted to argue.
“Thankee for yer discovery, Livesey,” Swann concluded for him, draining the last dregs of his pint. “Damme if ye ain’t a knacky one, no error. Leave it t’me from now on, though. Can’t have ye stickin’yer nose in ‘thout blowin’ the gaff, hey?”
�
��I quite understand, Constable Swann,” Livesey had to answer, hiding his disappointment that he had not been able to influence the man. “Do keep me apprised, though.”
“Hey?”
“Let me know how things go,” Livesey translated. “If you would be so kind. No matter his faults, Harry was my friend. And finding his killer is important to me. Ifl could be of some further assistance, do let…”
“Never ye fear! And g’day to ye, sir!” Swann hooted over a cool shoulder as he lumbered for the doors.
“Dear Lord,” Livesey muttered aloud after he had gone. “What a complete hen-head!”
“Sim Bates you expected, did you not, Father?” Bess inquired as she came behind the counter at last, now that the “men’s business” was done. “Hey?” He scowled. “Pardon, lass. Now he has me doing it. Hey?”
“As a prime candidate,” Bess went on.
“I suppose.” Livesey sighed, sitting down on a stool at last to ease his leg. “I must confess, Swann may be right. It’s hard to feature Osgoode Moore as a killer. Plausible, if there’s anything to the rumors, but … Bless my soul, though! Eachan MacDougall? There’s a tack I didn’t expect. And plausible as well.”
“Pardon me for meddling, Father, but…” Bess said, nibbling at her upper lip.
“Meddle away, pet,” Livesey laughed back. “Runs in the family, it seems—to hear our Constable tell it, anyway.”
“Well,” she posed, “it’sjust that Osgoode Moore never struck me as the sort to kill anybody. If his wife and Uncle Harry were … ahum … well, I’d think Mr Moore would be more likely to brood or mope if he had the slightest suspicion of her … affections? He’s so high-minded and honorable, he would have been cut to the quick, yes, but certainly unable to laugh andjest with you and Uncle Harry your last evening together. If he knew, surely he’d have shown some resentment, or anger.”
What Lies Buried: A Novel of Old Cape Fear Page 13