Nobody's Secret

by Michaela MacColl

  “Vinnie—that cat of yours!” Emily cried.

  “Be careful, Emily!” Vinnie knelt down and scooped up the gray tabby. As she draped it around her shoulders, the cat’s loud purr filled the kitchen. “She’s still nursing. Her nerves are in a fragile state.”

  “That’s no excuse for always being underfoot.” Emily sniffed. “When are those kittens going to the barn?”

  Shooting Emily a reproachful glance, Vinnie said, “They aren’t ready yet.” As if on cue, the three oversized kittens began mewing in the basket near the stove. “The nights are too cold.”

  “It’s August, young lady,” Mrs. Dickinson corrected. “The nights are warm enough that your precious kittens can sleep in the barn.” She held Vinnie’s rebellious glance until Vinnie nodded. “And wash your hands. Who knows where that beast has been?”

  “Just outside, playing with the toads and crickets,”

  Vinnie said.

  Mrs. Dickinson scowled and handed Vinnie a towel and the box of soap powder.

  “Mother,” Emily began, hoping to take advantage of her mother’s distraction. “I need to go into town at nine o’clock. I have to meet a friend.”

  “Who?”

  Before Emily could present her carefully prepared story, a scream pierced the air outside. Emily was instantly out the door, Vinnie hard on her heels.

  Their occasional daily help, Mary Katherine, was standing outside the chicken coop, a mess of broken eggshells and yolks at her feet. She was still shrieking.

  “For goodness’ sake, what is it?” Emily cried. “Did Vinnie’s black cat cross your path again?” Mary Katherine’s Irish superstitions were both infuriating and a source of amusement to the family.

  Vinnie was gentler and put her arms around the girl to comfort her. “Mary Katherine, what’s wrong?”

  Trembling, the maid opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

  Emily reproached herself for speaking so sharply; the girl was in great distress. “What’s happened?” she asked in a kinder voice.

  Mary Katherine lifted her arm and pointed toward the pond at the far end of the garden.

  Emily and Vinnie stared where she indicated, and for a moment they were frozen in horror. A man was floating facedown in the water among the lily pads, drifting under the trees on the opposite side of the pond.

  Vinnie inhaled sharply, and her breath made a whooping sound that quickened Emily’s pulse. She ran to the

  water’s edge, Vinnie not far behind. The graceful branches of a weeping willow caressed the man’s back in the light breeze. His coat floated above his head and obscured the color of his hair.

  “Look at that mess!” Mrs. Dickinson cried from the kitchen doorway. “A waste of perfectly good eggs.”

  “Mother, there’s a dead man in our pond!” Vinnie called out.

  “Nonsense.” Mrs. Dickinson didn’t budge. “Mary Katherine is imagining things.”

  “Mother, Vinnie and I see the body too!” Emily said over her shoulder.

  “Oh.” Mrs. Dickinson put out her hand to support herself against the doorjamb. “Are you sure he’s really dead?”

  Vinnie and Emily looked at each other and then at the still body.

  “He’s dead,” they said together.

  Emily started to circle the pond, trying to get a clearer view of the unfortunate man.

  “Emily, get back!” Mrs. Dickinson cried, her voice faint.

  Emily halted.“Mother, I have to see who it is!”

  Mrs. Dickinson’s breath came fast and shallow. “A dead man is no sight for a young lady. Girls, come inside!” she cried.

  Vinnie hissed, “Emily, don’t upset Mother!”

  “Maybe we know him. We have to look,” Emily urged.

  Vinnie looked from Emily to her mother and back again. “Mother needs us.” She tugged at her sister’s sleeve.

  Reluctantly, Emily trailed Vinnie back to the house.

  “We need to fetch the constable,” Mrs. Dickinson said.

  “He might be anywhere,” Emily said. “I can find Reverend Colton.”

  “Yes, he will know what to do,” her mother began. “Wait.” She reached out and grabbed Emily’s chin so she could look her daughter in the eyes. “Emily, you look overexcited. You might start coughing at any moment. Vinnie, run and get Reverend Colton.” She held the door. “We’ll wait inside.”

  “But . . .” Emily protested.

  “You aren’t strong enough for such exertions,” Mrs. Dickinson said. “No arguments.”

  Vinnie, eyes wide, ran off without another word.

  “I need to sit down.” Mary Katherine stumbled toward a chair.

  “Mary Katherine, stop crying.” Mrs. Dickinson sank into a chair next to her, shooting the maid a sour look. “I’m sure it was upsetting, but it’s over now. Reverend Colton will take care of it. We won’t be involved.”

  Emily stood at the window, staring toward the pond. “Mother, of course we’re involved. Whoever the poor soul is—was—he died in our pond.”

  “Stop saying that!” Mrs. Dickinson groaned and put her head in her hands. “I wish your father were here. Or Austin.”

  With a sigh, Emily filled the kettle with water and put it on the stove to boil.

  Mary Katherine’s sobs were reduced to a few hiccoughs. Her dark hair hung in a cloud about her head. She stood up, her tall figure dwarfing Emily’s. “Miss, I’m sorry for making such a spectacle of myself.”

  “So you should be, silly girl,” Emily said, not unkindly. “Here, sit down and churn the butter; that will calm your nerves.” Under her breath she said, “It always deadens mine.”

  Gulping, Mary Katherine nodded. Emily left her to it and went back to the window, craning her neck to see. Mrs. Dickinson drank her tea without saying a word, watching Emily keenly.

  As they waited for Vinnie to return, the clock struck nine. No sooner did Emily edge toward the door than her mother said, “No, Emily.”

  “But . . . ”

  “Emily, you are not to go out there.”

  The minute hand continued until it reached the half-hour mark and Emily gave up all hope of making her assignation. What would Mr. Nobody think if she failed to keep their

  appointment? Of course, once he learned why, he would

  forgive her, but what if she never saw him again to explain? If only Mother would let her go for just a few minutes.

  At the sound of footsteps, she jumped up. Vinnie, flushed with running, came back into the kitchen.

  “I did it, Mother. The reverend is here to take the body away.” She pointed outside. Reverend Colton and a handful of men were trudging toward the pond.

  “Did you see anything more?” Emily whispered.

  “Me? You were here. What did you see?”

  “Nothing.” Emily bit her lower lip. “If only Mother wasn’t so afraid of everything, I could have gone out there.”

  “Who do you think he is?” Vinnie asked. “What do you think happened?”

  Glancing over at her mother’s stiff-backed figure, Emily answered, “He was dressed like a working man.” It was the first thing she had noticed. “Probably a tramp.”

  “Mother’s always warning us about drowning in that pond.”

  “They’re coming,” Mary Katherine said, a tremor in her voice.

  Without a word, they went to the door to see. Reverend Colton, his face solemn, supervised a procession of men, carrying a man-shaped burden covered by a plain cloth. He saw Mrs. Dickinson and hurried over, telling his men to wait. “Mrs. Dickinson, Emily, Lavinia.”

  “Thank you for coming so quickly,” Mrs. Dickinson said.

  “It’s a shame that your family has been bothered. I hope you aren’t too distressed.”

  “Of course I’m distressed. He had no business dying in our pond.” Mrs. Dicki
nson’s voice was accusing.

  “Mother, I doubt he was worried about inconveniencing the Dickinsons when he drowned,” Emily said sharply.

  Vinnie giggled nervously, but fell silent when her mother glared at her.

  “Emily, Vinnie, be still,” her mother said. “What will Reverend Colton think of you?

  The reverend turned his wise gray eyes to Emily. “Only that your charming daughters have been protected from the tragic side of life.” He sighed heavily. “I’ve attended too many deaths to make light of any. Especially when the poor gentleman is such a mystery. I’ve never seen him before.”

  “Was he a gentleman?” Emily asked.

  Mrs. Dickinson brushed the question aside. “Do we know if the poor man died in a state of grace?

  Her mother’s preoccupation with the hereafter had never failed to irritate Emily. Who cared about that when the here and now was so much more interesting? She stamped her right foot. “Mother, before we worry about his soul, don’t you think he deserves a name?”

  “Emily! That is none of your concern.”

  Before Emily could draw breath to retort, the reverend rested a hand on Mrs. Dickinson’s arm. “My dear lady, until we identify the poor man, he is the responsibility of every good Christian in Amherst.”

  Emily rewarded him with a cautious smile.

  “How will you find out who he is?” Vinnie asked.

  “After Dr. Gridley has taken a look at the body, we’ll lay out the poor man in the vestry of the Meeting House. Someone must know him.”

  Mrs. Dickinson stepped back, her hand at her throat. “Are you sure that’s wise? My husband might not approve. That man could be . . . anyone.” She glanced about, as though Mr. Dickinson might suddenly appear from Boston. “And you can’t leave him there for long.”

  “The church’s basement is cool enough, Mother,” Emily said. “He won’t smell for a few days.”

  “Emily!”

  Staring at the ground, Emily mumbled an apology. Vinnie grabbed her hand and squeezed it. When Emily glanced up, she saw her sister holding her breath, trying not to laugh.

  The reverend was also struggling to keep a straight face. “With good fortune, someone will recognize him before we need to worry about . . . ” He coughed. “Nature taking its course.” He paused, then went on. “We’ve sent for the constable. He’ll have some questions for you.”

  “All of us?” Emily asked, unable to keep the pleasure out of her voice.

  “Why would he?” her mother asked in the same moment. “We know nothing of this unfortunate tragedy.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Reverend Colton assured, “but

  he must do his duty and ask whether you heard or saw

  anything.”

  “Duty must be done, I suppose,” Mrs. Dickinson muttered. “I hope his questions are brief. I don’t want the girls to be further upset by this inconvenience.”

  The reverend’s eyebrows rose, but he said nothing. He took his leave, and his men hoisted their burden to bring the body to the church.

  “We should go,” Vinnie said. “Perhaps we’ll recog-

  nize him.”

  “It’s our duty,” Emily said.

  “Absolutely not! Emily, Lavinia, I forbid either of you to do such a thing.”

  Emily spied the reverend leaving the garden by the side gate. With a mental nod to Mr. Nobody’s wisdom, Emily decided to approach the problem from a different direction. She ran out of the kitchen to look out the parlor window, hoping to get a better view of the grisly parade.

  “Emily!” her mother called. “Don’t you dare. The reverend will think you are morbid.”

  From the parlor, Emily couldn’t see clearly; an elm blocked her line of sight. Ignoring her mother, she took the stairs two at a time and ran into the room she shared with Vinnie. Looking down at the procession, she could only see a body dressed in cheap, ill-fitting clothing. His face was covered. She could have screamed in frustration. Who was he.

  There’s been a death in the opposite house

  As lately as to-day.

  I know it by the numb look

  Such houses have alway.

  CHAPTER 4

  At her first opportunity to slip out, Emily made a beeline for the pond. She left Mrs. Dickinson dozing fitfully on the sofa. As for Vinnie, she was too engrossed in cutting a new dress pattern to spare a thought for Emily.

  Emily studied the scene for a long time. When the rever-end’s men had removed the body, they had left a swath of lily pads ripped from the roots. Because of the rain the day before, there were too many footprints on the muddy bank to tell her what happened.

  She moved around the pond, ducking under the willow branches and pushing bushes aside. She noticed an area on the far side of the pond where the mud was particularly churned. She clambered up the bank, slipping in the slick dirt to where the road passed closest to the pond.

  “I bet this is where he went in,” she murmured. “But it was chilly last night; I remember Vinnie fussing about the cats. He wouldn’t have gone swimming. Perhaps he fell in?

  She cast her eye over the ground and spied a fresh trace of carriage wheels in the mud. She knelt down, heedless of the dirt on her gray skirt. Her nose almost to the ground, she examined the track. It was narrow, and within the groove of the right wheel she spied an odd square imprint, as though the wheel had been repaired with a thumb-sized block of wood.

  She pulled a small notebook from its hiding place inside her corset. A length of stiff whalebone was supposed to go there to help flatten her stomach, but Emily had replaced it long ago with the handmade notebook. So far, her mother hadn’t found out. She pulled out a silver pencil on a chain around her neck and carefully drew the square imprint.

  A trace of a wheel leaves a shadow in the mud.

  “He didn’t walk here, he drove.” She corrected herself. “No, because someone drove the carriage away. He was driven.”

  “Young lady, what are you doing down there?” A voice from above startled her, and she fell back into the mud.

  “Now my back will be as filthy as my front,” she grumbled. “Mother will have a fit.” She looked up, shading her eyes to block out the afternoon sun. She recognized the portly figure of the constable who split his duties between Amherst and Northampton. “Hello, Constable Chapman.”

  “Ah, it’s Miss Dickinson.” He held out a hand and helped her to her feet. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “No harm done,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “What were you doing down there?” he repeated.

  Without considering, she said, “I wanted to see how the body came into the pond.” His scandalized expression made her wince. When would she learn to think before speaking?

  “Miss Dickinson, what would your mother say? Or worse, your father? You should be inside keeping yourself calm, not looking to upset yourself.”

  She assumed a demure look. “Yes, Constable Chapman. You’re right. Are you coming to our house? I’ll walk with you.”

  “I’ve already been,” he said.

  Emily knew she had been away for only a few minutes. “Did you talk to Mother?” she asked, eyebrows lifted.

  The constable leaned back on his heels and hitched his thumbs in his belt loops. “I could see that she wasn’t well, so I kept my questions brief.”

  “What questions?” Emily pressed.

  His brow furrowed, but he answered easily enough. “Did you hear anything last night? Did you notice anyone out of the ordinary yesterday? The usual questions I ask in such a situation.”

  “But they won’t get you the answers you need,” Emily retorted. “We didn’t notice anything because he came into the water over here, out of sight from the house. See the carriage tracks? And then there are footprints going down the bank.”

  With barely a glance at her evide
nce, the constable smiled condescendingly. “Then you have solved the mystery. He was probably a tramp who hitched a ride with someone. He got off, slipped down the bank, and then drowned. It’s a simple as that—and that’s what I’ll tell the coroner. There’s no need for an inquest.”

  Emily stared at him. “But we don’t know anything yet!” she exclaimed. “We don’t even know his name!”

  “We will. Someone is bound to know him. I’ll inform the town clerk that the death was accidental and I can go back to tracking Mrs. Elmtree’s stolen cow.” With a polite nod, the constable headed back toward the Common.

  “But . . . ” Emily watched his retreating back with disgust. “We know nothing, and if you are in charge, we never will.” She looked back across the pond, glimpsing her house through the trees.

  “I must get a closer look at that body,” she said.

  Emily waited for what seemed like hours, watching a column of respectable townspeople climb the steps to enter the First Congregational Church of Amherst to view the body. Their puzzled conversations as they left told her that the body was still unidentified. As the time passed, she spared a thought for her mother. She would be livid with Emily for having stayed out so long. But that was nothing to what she would say if she knew where Emily was.

  As twilight fell and the good citizens of Amherst retreated to their homes, Emily took her chance. Slipping through the double doors of the church, she went downstairs to the vestry, which was used by the church’s congregation and, when needed, by the town. Today it served both masters.

  The room was empty except for the body, which lay on a table, covered with a woolen blanket. Several lanterns were placed about the still figure for light, and the smell of burning whale oil hung heavy in the air. As Emily drew closer, her steps grew slower. And slower. She stopped, suddenly reluctant to go any further.

  Emily had helped her mother lay out her deceased elderly relatives, and had spent hours sitting with them while they lay in the parlor. Usually she found dead bodies restful; because they had departed this life, they gave her space to think. But those were people she knew, with names and histories. There was no mystery to those bodies. Everything about this corpse was a question. She forced herself to approach.