“That will be useful.”
“To us.” Vinnie’s voice faltered. “I won’t let you do this by yourself.”
Emily hugged her little sister. “My darling, I’ll do this alone, but you can keep lookout for me. If they return early, you can whistle like a . . . bobolink!”
Vinnie laughed nervously. “I don’t know what a bobolink sounds like.”
Emily briefly considered how to teach the complicated birdsong. “Never mind. We’ll make it a crow. I know you can caw!”
The Langstons’ house was located on the far side of the College, where many professors lived. The white house was Georgian in style, with an ostentatious garden. Emily shook her head; not one interesting plant in the bunch, although she had to admit the foxgloves and bleeding hearts were beautifully tall and full of blossoms. Emily stationed Vinnie behind an elm tree near the house with a good view of the street.
“Stay here and signal if you see the Langstons returning.”
Vinnie nodded and as Emily walked up to the house, she could hear her sister practicing a crow’s caw. “Only caw if you see them!” Emily reminded her.
Vinnie looked startled and then nodded with her finger to her lips.
Emily knocked on the front door. The girl with a wild mane of black hair who opened it could only be Mary Katherine’s sister.
“Bridget?” Emily asked. “I’m . . . ”
“Miss Emily Dickinson. Mary Katherine pointed you out to me.” Bridget smiled, and Emily could see the gaps in her front teeth. “The family is at the cemetery, Miss.”
“I know. I just came from there,” Emily said.
“How can you bear to live so close to a graveyard?” Bridget asked. “Did you know that if you stumble in a cemetery it’s a bad omen?”
Yes, this was Mary Katherine’s sister, Emily thought. “Ursula—Miss Langston asked me to come and look for something.” She felt guilty lying to Bridget, but it was the easiest way to get into the house.
“Of course, Miss Emily.” Bridget stepped back to let her enter.
“Do you like working for the Langstons?” Emily asked. It was an indiscreet question, but she was curious.
Bridget shut the door and whispered, “They’re the meanest family on the face of the earth. Nothing’s good enough for Mrs. Langston. And that daughter—all she does is make messes for me to clean up. And never so much as a thank-you.”
Emily made a sympathetic noise.
“What do you need to see, Miss?”
“Ursula’s herbarium.”
“Her what?” Bridget’s thick eyebrows lifted in a questioning look.
“A large leather book that she presses flowers into.”
“Oh, that!” Bridget brightened. “She’s always working on it.”
“Really?” Emily said. “Even since school ended?”
The maid shrugged. “She had it out this week. It’s in the flower room.”
“May I see?”
Bridget led the way through a house full of new furniture. Everything was ornate and to Emily’s austere tastes, a little overblown, much like the flowers in the garden.
They walked down a long hallway into the flower room, which connected to the outside garden. It was a small room with a table and an assortment of vases and scissors. A good-sized window let in abundant light. Jars of dark liquids lined the shelves, and a wooden mortar and pestle were placed conveniently at hand.
“Here’s the book, Miss,” Bridget said, pushing it toward Emily.
Emily began flipping its pages, pausing to admire Ursula’s neat penmanship and the superb organization of her pressed flowers. They were grouped by species, with careful notes. She found the page with foxgloves and read Ursula’s notes avidly.
Bridget looked over her shoulder. “Those are those same flowers next to the front door. She cuts them all the time and works with them in here.”
“What does she do with them?” Emily asked, although she was reading clear lists of instructions.
“She dries them and makes them into pills for Mr. Wentworth’s heart.”
The sound of a bird outside, an eager crow, reminded Emily that she was trespassing. “I must go, Bridget. May I leave through the back?”
“Of course. Follow me.” Bridget held open the back door into the garden. As Emily slipped out, she came face to face with Horace Goodman, carrying a load of firewood to the kitchen.
“You’re the girl from the tavern,” he gasped. “What are you doing here?” His eyes darted around as though he wanted to flee, but the weight of the firewood kept him rooted to the spot.
Emily had no time to waste on calming words. “Give me Mr.—James Wentworth’s things.”
The caw of the crow grew more frantic.
Horace dropped the wood, just missing Emily’s boots. “What things?”
“Horace, I know you gave the family your clothes to dress the body. I want to see the clothes he was wearing before.”
“I didn’t hurt him,” Horace whispered.
“I know,” Emily said. “But I can’t help you unless you do as I say. Hurry.”
Horace turned and half-ran to a shed attached to the barn. Emily followed on his heels, expecting to be discovered by an irate member of the Langston family at any minute.
Horace stepped inside the shed and brought out a bundle of clothes, which Emily spread on the ground. She recognized the dapper suit. In one of its pockets she found a familiar handkerchief with the initials “JW.” She pulled it out, and a flask fell from its folds.
Vinnie’s birdcall suddenly stopped. Emily stuffed the flask and handkerchief in her skirt pocket.
“Emily!” Vinnie’s voice, deliberately cheerful, rang out. “Where are you? Look who I’ve met on the street. It’s Mr. Henry Langston! Come here.”
Emily peeked around the corner of the shed. Her sister and Henry were entering the garden at the far end. She still had a moment.
She turned to Horace. “Put the clothes away. Keep them in case they are needed.” He silently nodded and gathered up the suit and shoes with his enormous hands.
“Emily!”
“I’m coming!” She ran back toward the house and found Vinnie chatting with Henry. He was smiling, but the cold appraisal he gave Emily told her that he was not fooled by Vinnie’s prattling.
“Hello, Henry,” Emily said, noting the knowing look on Vinnie’s face at her familiar use of his first name.
“Emily. If I had known you wished to see our gardens so badly, I would have gladly shown them to you.”
“Sometimes I just can’t help myself,” Emily said. “I just have to look at flowers.”
Vinnie whispered loudly, “She has these turns. It’s very worrisome.”
“But I’m frightfully embarrassed to have come without permission,” Emily said. “Please excuse the intrusion. Especially on such a sad day.”
“Why aren’t I surprised that you know about the funeral?” Henry narrowed his eyes and stared her down. “I thought we agreed that your investigation was done.”
Glancing from Emily to Henry, Vinnie began to breathe faster.
“I never agreed,” Emily said somberly. “I don’t know exactly what caused James’s death. Not yet.”
Vinnie tucked her arm through Emily’s and said brightly, “We must go home now; our mother is expecting us.”
“The next time you wish to visit, please come when the family is at home and receiving,” Henry said. “It would be more . . . prudent.”
“Prudent?” Emily said coldly.
Vinnie’s grip tightened on Emily’s arm.
“I’d hate for you to waste your time,” Henry said. “Life, as we have discovered, is fleeting.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Emily’s eyes met Henry’s and held them until he looked away.
“
Good-bye,” Vinnie said, practically towing Emily toward the road. When they were out of earshot, she turned to her sister. “What did he mean about being prudent? Was he warning you?”
“Threatening me is more like it,” Emily said.
When Bells stop ringing—Church—begins
CHAPTER 20
“Hurry, Emily, we’ll be late,” Mrs. Dickinson scolded, draping a shawl over her shoulders.
Emily wrestled with a glove that was proving to be as rebellious as she felt. The last thing she wanted to do was to spend several hours in church—not when she was so close to answering all her questions.
“Emily, don’t fuss so,” Vinnie whispered in her ear. “All your suspects will be there.”
“That’s true,” Emily admitted, as the glove suddenly capitulated and slipped onto her hand.
Vinnie’s prediction proved accurate before they had traveled half a block. The first person she saw walking up the hill toward the church was Mr. Ripley. Emily hung back to let him catch her up.
“Mr. Ripley,” she said. “Good morning.”
He seemed ill at ease, and his complexion had a green tinge that made her wonder whether he had the influenza. He acknowledged her with a nod, his Adam’s apple bobbing convulsively.
“I have very little time,” Emily told him, keeping a sharp eye on her mother’s back. “So let me assure you: I know everything.”
“What?” he gulped. “You can’t possibly . . . ”
“The Langstons. The false codicil. Your bribe.”
His eyes bulged. “So it was you! I saw that the blotting paper was missing the next day, but I couldn’t bring myself to believe that a half-mad young girl . . . ”
“Trust me, Mr. Ripley, the reports of my instability are greatly exaggerated,” Emily said. “Yes, I took the blotting paper. But even more damning for your case, I have the original.”
“But how?”
“Never mind. Your true dilemma lies before you: Do you confess everything you’ve done to my father, or do I tell him?”
He stopped in his tracks. “I can’t. I would lose my position.”
“Mr. Ripley, you are in danger of losing your liberty,” Emily said flatly. “You could be prosecuted for fraud, if not worse!”
“Worse?” His voice rose an octave. A dozen paces ahead, Mrs. Dickinson’s brisk step faltered for a moment, but she kept moving toward the church as though she were tied to the end of the rope that rang the bell calling the congregation to service.
“Conspiracy to commit murder,” Emily said darkly.
“But I didn’t do anything!” Mr. Ripley protested. “The Langstons swore to me he was dead. They told me the paperwork had gone astray in foreign parts. I believed them.”
“Especially when they offered a generous fee?” Emily’s voice was implacable, as her father’s would no doubt be.
“The fee was more than welcome—but more than an honest job was worth. I should have been more suspicious,” Mr. Ripley admitted. “When Mr. Wentworth came to the office and I saw that he was alive . . . I tried to do the right thing. You saw my affidavit. I admitted everything so he could recover his money.”
“I did see it. It’s the only thing that might save you. My father returns from Boston tomorrow afternoon. Tell him everything and trust to his mercy.”
Mr. Ripley swallowed hard and nodded. Without a word, he turned and walked in the direction he had come, toward home and, Emily hoped, possible redemption.
Emily quickened her own steps to walk abreast with Vinnie. “I think he’s going to confess to Father,” she whispered.
“That’s a relief, to my mind,” Vinnie said.
“To mine as well. This business of playing with people’s lives is very upsetting,” Emily said. “Who am I to threaten a man’s livelihood and liberty?”
“You are my brave Emily, who is tireless in her pursuit of truth.” Vinnie tucked her hand inside her sister’s elbow. “Look. Dr. Gridley is back.”
Dr. Gridley was waiting at the corner of Amity and South Pleasant streets. It was obvious to Emily that he was waiting for her. He greeted Mrs. Dickinson and asked to speak to Emily privately.
Mrs. Dickinson grudgingly granted her permission. “But I expect Emily to be at the service on time,” she ordered.
Dr. Gridley led Emily toward the porch of Orr’s Apothecary. “I hear that our body has a name.”
Emily nodded. “James Wentworth. He’s the nephew of the Langstons and Sam Wentworth.”
“Did you receive my letter?”
“I did.” Emily’s thoughts were churning rapidly—she needed the doctor to answer a few questions before she told him the latest developments. “I, too, suspect poison. In fact, I have a particular one in mind. What do you know about foxglove?”
“Foxglove?” He looked surprised. “It contains digitalis. It could easily stop a healthy young man’s heart.”
“Excellent,” Emily said, rubbing her hands. “That fits very well with my idea.” She instantly regretted the satisfaction in her tone. She must never forget that James was dead, and if she were correct in her assumptions, someone would be arrested for murder, perhaps this very day.
“I understand, my dear. Sometimes I’m so excited to make a clever diagnosis that I forget what it means to my patient.” Dr. Gridley patted her arm. “So digitalis fits your theory? Well, it’s simple to make—the plants are in every formal garden in town. I also use it for heart medicine. It stops a normal heart, but if someone’s heart is beating too quickly, it can slow it down to a safe rate.”
Emily caught her breath. Dr. Gridley had just given her the final clue.
“So if someone took digitalis for heart trouble,” she said slowly, “he could drink a dose that would kill a healthy man?”
“With no ill effects,” Dr. Gridley confirmed.
“And what if the healthy man suddenly saw everything in a greenish hue?”
“That’s a symptom of digitalis poisoning,” he said, excitement in his voice. “Are you certain of your facts?”
Emily nodded.
“Well,” the doctor said, rubbing his hands. “It’s easy to test for. I’ll have a word with the authorities and perform the test immediately.”
Emily paused and then told him the bad news. “James Wentworth was buried yesterday.”
“Already? That’s ridiculous! My examination wasn’t complete. We’ll have to exhume the body.” Dr. Gridley looked as though he was about to seek out the constable.
Emily couldn’t bear to think of her friend’s body being violated again.
“Wait,” she said, and her resolute voice stopped him in his tracks. “I might have another way.” From her purse, she pulled out the flask and handkerchief.
“What is this?” Dr. Gridley asked.
“This flask belonged to James Wentworth. I have a witness who saw him drink from it just before the world turned green and he collapsed.”
Dr. Gridley stared at her as though she possessed magical powers. “You have been busy, Miss Dickinson.”
“More busy than you could possibly imagine,” she said. “Look!” She opened the flask and poured a tiny amount of the liquid onto the handkerchief.
“Miss Dickinson, we’ll need that!”
“There is plenty left—but see what I find on the linen?” She held out the handkerchief. Specks of leaves dotted the brownish stain.
Speechlessly, Dr. Gridley held out his hand to collect the handkerchief. He smelled it. “Elderberry wine. An unusually sweet drink for a young man.”
“Especially when he . . . when most young men would prefer brandy,” Emily said, recalling the aroma in the smithy’s stable.
Dr. Gridley didn’t notice her aside. Touching his finger to the handkerchief, he smelt the leaves and then tasted them gingerly. “Digitalis,” he confirmed. “What a dasta
rdly thing to do! You know, Miss Dickinson, I have to take this to the constable.”
Nodding reluctantly, Emily said, “I know.”
“He’ll have some questions for you, I’m sure.”
She stifled a groan, thinking of her mother’s reaction.
Dr. Gridley let out an exclamation. “There’s Constable Chapman now! Excuse me.” He abandoned her, walking toward the church so rapidly that a man of lesser dignity would have been running. He met Reverend Colton on the steps of the church, under the wide portico. Standing to one side was the constable. Emily could not hear what was said, but she saw the doctor gesturing widely and speaking with passion. Her name must have been mentioned, because all three men glanced in her direction before their animated conversation began again.
Emily watched from a distance. She knew she should give the affidavit to the authorities, but she preferred to wait a day until her father returned. He would know what to do.
“Are you finally coming?” Mrs. Dickinson said at her shoulder. “Your secret investigation is not more important than going to church.”
Emily wanted to disagree. To her, church was a cold and artificial place to worship God. Unsure of the depths of her own faith, she knew she felt it more deeply and with more clarity when she was out of doors. James Wentworth had understood that. Would he have preferred to worship along the banks of Amethyst Brook.
“I’m coming, Mother,” she said dutifully.
Vinnie was waiting near the church steps. Emily ignored her questioning looks because she had just spied another set of late arrivals. Coming from College Avenue, the Langstons appeared in the same order in which they had attended the funeral: first Henry and his mother, then Mr. Langston, and finally Ursula. Even Horace Goodman was there. Emily knew he would enter the church by the same door, but would immediately go upstairs to the gallery, where the freed blacks sat.
Only Sam Wentworth was missing. She hoped he had recovered from his heart attack, and that his medicine had proved effective. It was a small comfort that the means used to kill her friend could also save a life.
Constable Chapman saw the Langstons, too, and beckoned them to him. They looked reluctant, but it was too late for them to reverse course. Reverend Colton seemed torn between wanting to hear this conversation and starting the service on time. He kept looking at his pocket watch and glancing inside the Meeting House, where his congregation was waiting.
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