“Cider,” he pronounced, setting the glass down again. “Diana, did you talk to Miss Morris last evening?”
His sister nodded. “Some time before dinner, and she did seem quite agitated—as, of course, we all are! But then she went into her room to rest, and Mr. Pelham came, so I talked with him, alone. We sat there in the large room. After Mr. Pelham left, I went to see what Hannah was cooking. After that, I went upstairs, and called for only a little rice pudding. I meant to come down again, but I never did. Richard, might she not have done something extremely foolish? What is it she was reading?”
Longfellow picked up the volume from the table.
“Only Pope,” he answered. “Hardly the sort of thing to excite a modern young woman unduly.”
“But … if I had only come down again and talked to her … do you suppose she’d be alive still?”
Something new in her eyes decided him. “No sense staying here any longer,” said her brother, taking Diana by the shoulders and turning her around. He had soon marched her into the sunny kitchen, where he sat her down, found the pot of tea, poured one cup, and then another for himself. Recalling her own duties, Hannah wiped her eyes and set out toasted bread and preserves, with more chunks of sugar to pound down for the tea.
Then, officially, Longfellow instructed them to close the study door, and keep it closed until a decision was made by the selectmen and the constable.
“Are you going to look for Will?” Hannah asked tremulously, for Longfellow had said no more of her son’s disappearance.
“I’ll ask if anyone has seen him, Hannah. Since he’s gone, I have to assume he’s aware that Phoebe is dead—and he must have felt her death more keenly than we. He’ll be better off by himself, while he finds his way through the beginning of the suffering that must come.”
Knowing that he understood a lover’s sorrow, Hannah forced herself to agree with Longfellow’s conclusion.
“As for the girl,” he went on, “I will go and inform Reverend Rowe—though God knows I don’t relish the task. Do you wish to join me, Mrs. Willett?”
“I’ll stay here,” Charlotte decided, “and do what I can.”
Dr. Tucker voiced his approval. “Make sure everyone keeps warm and continues to eat. We should be able to move her shortly,” he added quietly.
Promising himself a large brandy long before then, Richard Longfellow led the doctor out of Mrs. Willett’s kitchen door, and back across the garden to his own.
Chapter 7
ALONE IN HIS study, Richard Longfellow found himself perplexed, as he felt his active mind sink once more into a black humor. That was to be expected, he supposed, with a young woman lying dead only a few yards away.
But there was more to it than that. With no immediate answer to the question of cause, he could not help but wonder if he himself might be at least partly to blame. After all, he had chosen Benjamin Tucker to perform the inoculations. Had the man somehow failed in his duties? It was clear now that Tucker had a tendency toward excessive indulgence, at least in drink, which must indicate a weakness. Yet, regardless, physicians could not always be successful—as he knew from bitter experience.
But what if his own idea had been a dreadful mistake? No, there was no reason to suspect the powder, and he refused to think of it, at least for the present. After all, Diana was well, and she, too, had been given the stuff. But he vowed to watch his sister’s condition more closely, as long as she remained in Dr. Tucker’s care.
For a moment, as he looked about the familiar room, Richard Longfellow pondered something even more strange. He sometimes suspected that Cicero had a queer idea about the Howard farmhouse. It did seem that Death stopped there more often than he visited others. Could the place be some kind of infernal magnet? His sister was still in the house—with Charlotte. Dear God—might they, too, be yet in danger?
Swiftly berating himself for even imagining such superstitious nonsense, he set down his brandy. Then he returned to what he knew to be the facts of the matter before him, though they were admittedly few.
Was it to be death by natural causes, then? He, Tucker, the other selectmen, and Constable Wise would have to decide upon an answer. Everything, after all, had to have a reason, for the physical world did not operate by magic! It would be well, though, if the girl’s father could be given something beyond condolences, when he found his daughter had died in Bracebridge. But what, exactly, could they tell him?
Rowe, he suspected, would be quick to blame the inoculation, having made his opposition clear from the pulpit. But if smallpox was not the cause of Phoebe Morris’s death, and if no other natural morbidity could be discovered during a closer examination of the body (which the doctor had promised to undertake that afternoon, after they’d moved her)—then what other reason could there be? What was most often considered, he asked himself, in the case of an unexplained death?
Human agency, of course, was one possibility. Diana’s feminine mind had immediately suspected that Phoebe took her own life, perhaps while affected by some sort of romantic madness. But had they knowledge that might lead them to believe the girl had any such desire? And where would she have found the means? On the face of it, the idea seemed implausible.
Mrs. Willett was concerned that Will Sloan was nowhere to be found. And the boy’s own mother clearly seemed to fear his involvement. High emotion between lovers often enough did turn deadly. It was something to consider.
But if it had not been Phoebe’s wish, or Will’s, could someone else have wanted her dead? Might an unknown person have walked into the girl’s bedchamber last evening, and helped her soul out of it? No, even more absurd! For who would have wanted to harm her?
Finally he groaned aloud, forced to admit that none of his theories could be easily sustained, nor could any of them be disproved. And so, when Reverend Rowe’s knock sounded on his outer door, Richard Longfellow rose to answer it with a feeling of relief. Another disconcerting problem was approaching—but at least this was a devil he knew.
Christian Rowe entered as usual, his long-tailed coat of black broadcloth clinging to his frame like a wrinkled skin. Barely thirty-five years of age, he dressed as an old man in mourning. Yet there was an ageless arrogance in his manner, something that stifled compassion and nettled more than a few of his flock. Longfellow had long supposed Rowe expected to find no goodness in anyone; clearly, he preferred to hunt for evil—softly, though, at first, without alerting his quarry.
“I was told I’m needed to discuss a matter of great importance.” His stern face implied that it had better be so.
Longfellow stood his ground and spoke with an authority of his own. “As a selectman, I must tell you that Phoebe Morris, a young woman staying in Mrs. Willett’s house, has died.” He saw the reverend’s demeanor alter immediately.
“Dead, sir? Who is responsible?” Rowe demanded.
“There is no obvious cause,” Longfellow returned, surprised that the preacher appeared to feel more outrage than shock.
Reverend Rowe sat down, taking off his hat, paying some heed to the state of its round brim before setting it on a table. By uncovering his head he showed a quantity of wispy golden hair, said by a devout few to resemble a halo.
Longfellow smiled as he remembered a whispered rumor he’d heard from Cicero, the gist of which was that there lived inside Christian Rowe an angel, revealed when the fearful black suit and ivory stockings were removed, and he stood in his long white shirt. Then, according to at least one witness, the reverend had a desire to please more than the Lord. Perhaps, Longfellow thought again, the fellow was not entirely deficient in normal human feeling, after all.
“I see by your smile,” the preacher finally replied, “that you are not displeased to give me this news! So I presume you do not believe the pox is to blame?”
“Yes, and no. The news of Miss Morris’s death is something I heartily wish I did not have to give—but as for the smallpox bringing it about, I don’t see how it could have. Nor does
Dr. Tucker.”
“No, I would imagine not. But can you prove that it was not responsible?”
“No more than you can prove the reverse,” Longfellow replied, unable to mask his impatience. Hearing it, Rowe pounced.
“Have I not warned you that inoculation is the work of Satan? Through your foul ministrations, you may well have helped this child to become his victim! For she has surely been snatched from the world before her time, with no chance to prepare for the next!”
“I don’t yet know whose victim she might be,” Longfellow interposed, “but does it not seem strange to you that Satan routinely takes only a few of the inoculated, while far more die of the disease among those who remain as the Lord made them? I would think a man with a God-given brain and a wish to preserve himself could see what is obvious.”
The preacher grew rigid with righteous anger. “If a man dies in a natural state, we can at least be certain his death is a part of Jehovah’s Plan!”
“Yet Cotton Mather, surely one of our most celebrated preachers, encouraged inoculation,” Longfellow volleyed.
“Yes, Doctor Mather did,” Rowe returned with a sneer, for he had little sympathy for the old Puritans or for their learning. “But Jonathan Edwards, a greater man of God, refused the practice, even while he ministered to the savages on the frontier—heathens, it should be remembered, whom God chooses to destroy by smallpox in far greater numbers than our own people! Reverend Edwards rightly labored to save only their souls, while their lives were taken in a part of the Great Design. Yet the Lord chose to preserve him from smallpox! I will admit Edwards later fell from grace—he should never have accepted the presidency of that renegade college, at Princeton—but when he met his fate, it was a result, you may recall, sir, of inoculation!” Reverend Rowe’s voice boomed in triumph.
Longfellow slouched back into his chair. “Tell me, Rowe,” he finally asked, staring at his guest, “have you had the smallpox yourself?”
“When I was a boy. Through God’s grace, I recovered.”
“Why do you think that was?”
“I cannot say. I imagine He had good reason.”
“Reason! And now, you think it His judgment, His justice, when anyone else who sickens from an illness does not recover?” Yet again, Longfellow painfully recalled the pitifully swollen face and dark, matted hair of his fiancée, Eleanor Howard, as she lay dying.
“His ways are beyond our knowing,” Rowe returned, pleased with this ultimate answer.
Longfellow closed his eyes. The man was insane—further argument would be pointless. Years ago, he had seen this particular minister for what he was—something far worse than the average, which was bad enough! Here was a zealot skewed by the rumblings and bleatings of the Great Awakening … a reformer who loved the idea of Hell even more than the Puritan founders of the Bay Colony had enjoyed their hopes of an orderly Heaven. Most of the descendants of those paragons of old Boston no longer spoke of Predestination, of course. Instead, modern men proved their worth by seeking material things with which they adorned their inherited City on the Hill. They had grown powerful and secure, on earth at least—even if they were arguably less prepared to enter the world beyond.
Rowe’s kind had taken a different path. They craved power that sprang from fear, while they sought out and preyed upon human doubt hiding beneath many a modern veneer, in many a guilty heart. In this, they opposed rational, mercantile, and scientific beliefs—things all men of good sense in the community revered. Flying in the face of Reason, these smoke-belchers were men quite capable of anything. Rowe, angelic? Ha! Although Satan, he suddenly recalled, had once been an angel, too …
“What about the boy?”
“Mmmm?” said Longfellow, called back from distant fields.
“What about young Sloan? What does he have to say?”
“Will? At the moment, he’s not here.”
Rowe’s interest increased. “An evil sign,” he concluded, his eyes roaming around the room. “I recently spoke to them both, prior to their nuptials, and I cannot say the pairing seemed likely to fare well. If you believe the death of Phoebe Morris was not caused by the inoculation …”
“You think Will could have murdered his own intended?”
“From what I knew of her, she might well have driven a man to acts of shame. Young women do kindle men’s passions, and Sloan is a fiery youth, as we all know! They must have had a quarrel. It’s likely she didn’t respect him as she should—these days, a fault increasingly common among women. If she rejected him, he could well have lost his reason! For even the most vigilant—” Rowe stopped, and looked searchingly at the man before him.
“Yes?” asked Longfellow, waiting.
The reverend wiped his lips with a handkerchief, and dabbed at his forehead, before he concluded.
“When you find him, Will Sloan must be questioned thoroughly, for as long as it may take.”
“As long as what takes?”
“As long as it takes to get him to admit to his sin! For if he has fled, he has all but admitted his guilt.”
“You think so? Unfortunately, I have little experience with interrogating men, especially to discover their souls. Perhaps what we need is a Grand Inquisitor. I am only an elected official, trying to do my duty. To that end, I’ll confer with Constable Wise and ask him what he plans to do. I shall also call for a meeting tomorrow of the other selectmen and Dr. Tucker. If you come to the inn, you will find a seat. That’s where I’m bound now. I will walk you to the road.”
Reverend Rowe had been notified, as the village would expect. And that was that. Longfellow would be damned before he would give the man more. In fact, he thought ruefully, he would most certainly be damned by Rowe anyway—in the village, and quite possibly in the preacher’s prayers—no matter what he did.
Soon Richard Longfellow watched the minister scurry away toward Mrs. Willett’s house, probably to inflict as much unease there, too, as he could. Meanwhile, Longfellow strode across the road to Jonathan Pratt’s establishment. Inside, the innkeeper bustled toward him, a look of sympathy on his round face.
“I’ve just heard. A customer from the Blue Boar came and told me, after Cicero called for Phineas. I’m sorry, Richard. I know you did your best for her. This is most disturbing! What has happened, do you think?”
“Who knows? But, we may yet find some physical evidence. Beyond that, I suppose we’ll need to question a few people concerning the girl’s state of mind, and seek out anyone else who might have information about her recent behavior. I believe that’s what’s expected.”
Behind them, the chatter from the taproom erupted into laughter, but it had no cheering effect on the two men.
“It puts you in an uncomfortable position.”
“It does. Though I hope to have some company quite soon. Can you find Tim for me?”
“Certainly. What would you like him to do?”
“I want him to take a letter north. I’ll write it out now. Send him off right away.”
“He’ll leave at your pleasure.”
“Pleasure,” Longfellow repeated darkly, as he sat down in a hall nook at a baize-covered table. Its single drawer contained paper, a few split and sharpened feathers, and a bottle of ink. It only took him a moment to scratch out a brief message, after which he leaned back with a deepening scowl.
IN HIS BEDCHAMBER across the road, Benjamin Tucker was finishing a much lengthier epistle of his own. Perhaps the letter would never be opened, and its contents would make no difference. He still hoped to keep worse from happening.
And yet, this morning, Phoebe Morris was dead! The horror of his situation continued to grow, as some of the confusion in his spirit-addled brain ebbed away. The cause of death was, after all, unclear, but he grew more afraid. Three years ago, such a beautiful child … no, that was all finished! But how could he have convinced himself that she needed no help? Why had he allowed her to return to Concord?
Hadn’t she looked fine, though—better
than before, even, when he was with her only yesterday? After that, he had to act … for she was about to marry! How could he allow it? How?
He had told her at last … but had he done far more? Even now, he wasn’t sure. If he could only remember!
If only he had disengaged himself, when he first saw her again—but how could he be expected to live in disgrace, with no clients, no work, so few pleasures to lighten the eternal pain? What would they have thought of him, had he told them? Would he ever be able to give up his final hope?
The doctor’s head throbbed. Last night he had talked with Longfellow in his study, peering into his host’s microscope until the small hours while gulping down brandy. It had been a long while since he had been able to afford his fill of anything so costly. And yet, on top of the opium he had swallowed for his twisting gut, had he been wise to drink at all?
He did remember going out for air, and barely recalled coming to the greenhouse. The climbing roses at its doorway … surely, they must explain the carefully hidden scratches on his wrists.… Though how he had ended up in his bed fully clothed this morning, he could not tell.
There was still time to warn Longfellow’s sister—but would she listen? Even if it came from his own lips, could she bring herself to believe such a ghastly thing possible? Such weakness—such madness? Frequently, women refused to see what stood before them. Yet Phoebe had been terrified enough, when he spoke with her! At first, she had only dreaded her young man’s reaction, should he hear the worst about their shared past. But then—
The question was, how much did the boy know now? Had she told him anything? Had she confessed everything? Or had this Will Sloan been the one to kill her, after all? Oh, if only he could remember!
How Benjamin Tucker longed to tell what he suspected, and confess to what he’d done, whatever the consequences. But if, in the end, he found himself unable, they would at least have his letter.
Too Soon for Flowers Page 9