IN ANOTHER WEEK, Diana and Edmund Montagu were gone, leaving two country households to restore themselves to their normal states. On the morning of their departure, Mrs. Willett went walking, while she mulled over some of the recent changes in Bracebridge.
After accompanying Betsy Morris home to Concord, Will Sloan had written back that he would stay for a time, if that met with the approval of his parents, which it did. Lem was again well and strong, although possibly less interested in his studies. Cicero and Longfellow had returned to battling over philosophies, and reading aloud bits from newspapers and pamphlets, especially those relating to the proposed Stamp tax—an amusement shared by a great number of men in the countryside, as well as in Boston.
Charlotte now found that she had wandered into a far meadow, as a hot wind rushed over the drying grass and into the forest beyond. Suddenly, she squinted, trying to make out something in the green haze at the edge of the trees. Was someone there, waving to her? She was too far away to be sure. Walking forward, she watched the fluttering of a handkerchief, or a sleeve, perhaps? Until suddenly, the waving figure whirled and was swept up into the dark shadows beyond.
She supposed her eyes might have been affected by the sun and the wind, and that Richard Longfellow would have called her vision nothing more than a mirage. But she had seen enough—felt enough—to believe that a young girl had stood there, beneath the full-throated rushing of the forest. She was still not positive—but that no longer mattered. It was enough to welcome the calm of peace, and a growing sense of grace. Then, a couplet from Pope’s elegy came back to her.
Yet shall thy grave with rising flow’rs be drest,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast.
Until that time, thought Mrs. Willett, she herself could do something more. She leaned down to pick a small bunch of wildflowers, thinking of a corner of the churchyard where she would go to whisper a final farewell.
About the Author
Margaret Miles is the author of A WICKED WAY TO BURN, the first Bracebridge mystery. She lives in Washington, D.C., where she is at work on her next mystery, NO REST FOR THE DOVE.
If you enjoyed the second book in the Bracebridge mystery series, Too Soon for Flowers, you won’t want to miss Margaret Miles’s third mystery, No Rest for the Dove.
Look for No Rest for the Dove at
your favorite bookstore in spring 2000.
NO REST FOR THE DOVE
A Bracebridge mystery by Margaret Miles
Coming in spring 2000 from Bantam Books
BARELY AN HOUR earlier Caleb Knox had driven along through the heat on the nearly deserted Boston-Worcester road, longing to be home. The farmer had given the reins he held a mild shake, causing them to ripple. But in the end this was not enough to alter the pace of the plow horse who pulled his wagon. Judy kept plodding, and the rude conveyance rolled on, slow to suit the weather, its sleepy driver again drowsing to the creak and rumble of heavy wheels.
While a field aflame with tall goldenrod went slowly by, Knox saw himself seated behind his own horse. The smell of hot sun on his linen shirt reminded him of his old dame’s ironing, which she did in summer beneath the kitchen overhang. If only, he thought, he could get up and walk down to the spring for a drink of cold water! The ale he’d consumed at the Blue Boar, once he’d left the mill where he’d exchanged sacks of grain for flour, had not really helped to quench his thirst at all. Neither the first pint, nor the second … nor the third.
The horse neighed unexpectedly, almost as if she followed his idea of a drink, Caleb imagined with a wobbling grin. But then he saw that something else concerned her. Beside the road, next to a long hedge of hawthorn, stood another horse, this one wearing bridle and saddle while it grazed peacefully. A curious thing? On such a warm afternoon, perhaps not.
The farmer pulled himself erect and looked out attentively from beneath his rime-encrusted hat. The rider was no doubt asleep near his horse; as far as Knox could tell, it looked as if a nest of sorts had been made there. But why would he be there, when he could have chosen the hedge’s shade? Why would anybody lie out full in the afternoon sun? And what were all those flies doing? Despite the heat, he felt a chill pass through him. Though he did not relish the exercise, it did seem the situation might be worth a closer look.
When his wagon came even with the saddled horse, Knox gave a pull that made Judy shake her head and stop. He climbed down, giving further instruction for the animal to stay where she was. Precariously, he leaped over the ditch at the side of the road, landing on both feet. Then he wound his way through the weeds until he reached the silent rider.
The man was not resting. It looked as if he would have no need for rest ever again. Noah Knox knelt down to make sure. After that, he spent a few more minutes in quiet speculation.
Surely the poor devil had been drunk—he could smell that, and it appeared the sot had even lost some of his liquor down the front of his old black coat. A sad thing, very sad. One hated to see a man enjoy himself and then choke for it! Unless, now, unless he’d been thrown? That might account for the liquor coming up again, for a knock on the head sometimes did affect the stomach, he recalled. Maybe the poor fellow had directed his horse down from the road, intending to give them both a rest, and maybe it shied at a viper—that was quite possible! He only hoped the snake, if there was one, had taken itself away. Or it could be the horse had stumbled into a hole, for there were always plenty about. Though the animal hardly looked injured. But if the man had some form of drink with him, where was it now? Not by the body, that was sure. But might there be something else of interest nearby?
Caleb Knox soon came upon a few pieces of Spanish silver in a pocket, along with some coppers and even some brass, all of which he returned. Better to leave them for burial, he thought. For he sensed that the curious man who lay there was far from home and might never be missed at all. Besides, it wouldn’t do to rob the dead—although right there, next to him, was something that had a pretty shine to it and even a small gem or two! Did it belong to the stranger? Though it lay close, the answer might be … maybe, and maybe not. Wouldn’t it be something sweet to give to the old dame, as long as he never told her where he’d got it? She’d long forgiven him a great deal—and would forget even more, he imagined, if he were to offer her such a gift one day soon, telling her he’d bought and paid for it on market day.
At last decided, Caleb Knox put the small, glittering object into his pocket. After that, he walked around a clump of yellow stalks full of bees. As he approached the riderless horse, it raised its head with a whinny. Clucking to keep it calm, the farmer crept the last few feet, then grasped at its bridle. Before long he had the mount tied to the back of his wagon, to the intense interest of Judy. Then, leaving the two to become acquainted, he returned for the corpse.
He felt a little foolish picking up the man’s dark hat and setting it on top of his own. He lifted the pair of legs and hauled as he walked backward, causing the other’s coat to drag over a new furrow left in the vegetation. At the ditch Knox lifted up the dead weight, grunting fiercely as he carried it down and back up, and at last rolled it into his wagon. He took another few moments to arrange the man decently before climbing forward to his seat. Finally he turned Judy around on the road, heading the wagon back to Bracebridge.
Looking both ways, he still saw no one ahead or behind him. But soon there would be many clamoring to hear his story, for a reward of a tankard or two. The farmer felt for the object in the pocket of his coat on the wagon’s seat, to make sure his secreted prize was still there. At least he would amuse them by telling most of what he’d discovered, if not exactly all.
But first he would do his duty and go and unburden himself to someone who held a position of authority, who would surely know what else needed to be done.
“NOT A PLEASANT picture you paint for us,” said Richard Longfellow, smoothing his gathered hair further with a callused hand. They had all, he suspected, become increasingly awa
re of the heat and stillness of the afternoon since Caleb Knox had brought Death to intrude upon them. “And you believe he met his end only an hour or two ago?”
“Aye,” the farmer replied, his eyes drifting to reexamine a man unknown to him standing at the edge of the arbor.
Longfellow turned abruptly to Gian Carlo Lahte, who adjusted his coat sleeves over lace cuffs. “You saw nothing, I would imagine, on your way here?”
“Nothing of that sort.”
“Where again was he, Caleb?”
“Some two miles east of here, by a hedge of hawthorn.”
“You recovered his horse, as well. A good animal, is he?”
“Not for working fields. For walking, maybe—though he may well have bloat by now.”
“Spirited?”
The farmer considered, rubbing at the stubble on his neck where sweat continued to trickle down. “Not as I could tell,” he decided.
“Hired in Boston, probably. They often have their own tricks to get rid of a rider.” Caleb Knox snorted his agreement, though he had never hired a stable horse in his life. “So,” Longfellow continued, “he went off the road, was thrown and landed hard on his head, and stayed where he was until you picked him up and brought him in to us. You’re sure you haven’t seen him here before?”
“Nor anywhere else, I’d say. Though at first I thought I recognized him for a drummer. His clothes are like that of a gentleman, but too old for one, you see. Castoffs, maybe, but still queer somehow. And he had no tin box of goods, nor even saddlebags.”
“No wallet, I presume?”
“A little silver was nearly the sum of his pockets.” Caleb Knox shifted uneasily before he went on. “When I looked into them, it was to see if he might have a letter on him or a note of credit—so we might learn where to send him. Then when I found little, and knowing he shouldn’t be left to lie there, I hauled him into my wagon, tied his horse on behind, and turned round to bring both to the meetinghouse. He’s in the village cellar now.”
“A tragic tale, but one hardly surprising among riders both poor or proud who find it advisable to race from here to there.”
“Amen to that,” exclaimed the farmer, whose plodding Judy had feet the size of firkins.
“You found Reverend Rowe?” Longfellow asked after a sigh.
“Heard he went over to Brewster’s, so I sent a boy running for him.”
“I will guess, then, that our unknown man came out to visit someone and planned to return to his lodgings by nightfall. A small mystery, but one we’ll understand shortly, I’m sure. My thanks to you, Caleb.”
The man nodded as he put his hat back on, then lifted it again briefly to Mrs. Willett. But still he did not go. Instead he gave a shy bow to the man he did not know, hoping to have one stranger’s presence, at least, explained that day.
“Oh, I see,” said Longfellow. “Well, since we may all soon be neighbors—Mr. Caleb Knox, farmer and native son of Bracebridge, I would like to present Signore Gian Carlo Lahte, a gentleman of Milan.”
Though it seemed Lahte jumped, he graciously offered a salute that was returned with pleasure. At that, anxious to tell a yeasty story that had now risen into a nice, substantial loaf, Caleb Knox disappeared around the corner of the large house.
“Will you come with me, Lahte, and offer your opinion?” asked his host. “This thing will be likely to have one or two scientific points of interest, I am sure. Cicero? I thought not, on those feet. Mrs. Willett? Will you wait here, or will you return to your own duties?”
“Richard, if we are to suppose this unfortunate man traveled to meet someone, as you say, then might it not be wise for me to go with you, as well? For what if he came to see me?”
“To buy a pound of butter? Unlikely, but as good a reason as any, I suppose, to view a corpse. Come along, then, Mrs. Willett. But wait a moment …” Longfellow strode past Cicero into the kitchen and came back carrying a small box of coals. “Now I believe we are ready,” he said, and with that the small party walked off on a path across the dry fields, leaving Cicero sitting silhouetted under the cool green vines, finishing a plate of pears.
“IT IS A thing we made this spring,” Longfellow explained as they approached the cellar behind the meetinghouse, walking along a mossy path between the headstones in a shaded burial ground.
An underground chamber had seemed a useful idea when suggested by a pair of men in need of work, and so the selectmen gladly approved the digging of a temporary site in which to deposit the dead, when weather or other circumstances kept them from being immediately put into the churchyard above. Everyone knew it was no easy thing to take a pick to frozen ground, nor did anyone want to worry about the possible spread of putrid fever in warmer weather.
“Just down these steps. Leave the door open, while I touch a scrap of paper to these coals and light the pair of candles down here. No, I don’t know this man. Mrs. Willett?”
Charlotte, too, climbed down into the close, timbered space, where the good smell of damp earth was a background for an odor of mold. She looked instinctively to the closed eyelids, then at the waxy face. The state of its features suggested a man of perhaps forty years and certainly something other than a farmer who spent his days toiling in the open. His oily hair had a reddish hue, as did the short curls on the knuckles of relatively smooth, unbruised, and unadorned hands, whose nails were clean as a benefit of being long gnawed and sucked at by their owner. She quickly speculated this had been a person whose fortunes had moved up and down, for though his apparel was quite worn, it appeared to be made of thin-stranded and tightly woven fabric, surely not home loomed. It also looked to her as if the cut of the coat was original and the stitchwork good; there was also something unfamiliar about the proportions of the garments, as well as their finishing details. And over much of them there was a dark stain, which accounted for the smell.
Looking up, she shook her head to Longfellow’s question and noted that Signore Lahte, too, must have been staring hard and long into the stranger’s face. She saw him pull himself together with a shudder.
“Can it be,” Longfellow asked in surprise, “that you know this gentleman, Gian Carlo?” A wave of the other’s hand dismissed the idea, but Longfellow persisted in his concern.
“You appear unwell. The stagnation of the air seems to have made it lose its potency—er—so perhaps we should move on.”
Lahte then attempted an explanation. “A man of art, of strong feeling, is sometimes overcome …” His handkerchief appeared, and he wiped it over features that had begun to quiver, though he still tried to contain his distress.
“Something of a shock, I agree. I, too, have little stomach for viewing death—though I would guess that Mrs. Willett might like to linger awhile longer.”
Charlotte looked up from examining a hat, largely intact, which she had found on the floor. “I think a brief prayer would do no harm.”
“Hmmm,” Longfellow responded, as he led Signore Lahte up the wooden steps set into the soil, rising toward warmth and light.
When she was alone, Charlotte closed her eyes, while the two tallow candles continued to smoke and sputter. A few seconds later she slid behind the trestle table that supported the body, and carefully lifted up the head with her hands. His neck was undamaged, she thought, yet the top of the skull was obviously indented. That was odd. And the affected area was not swollen. This told her he must have died suddenly, very soon after the injury had occurred. Though he may, of course, have died of inhaling what he could not swallow. Nearly overcome by the horrible thought, and the odor, she looked away, then forced herself to examine a patch of the matter on the coat more closely. It was unusually dark … but it most probably had little to do with whatever final misfortune had overcome this man out on the road. Why, then, did she have a nagging suspicion?
Charlotte seemed suddenly to hear the echo of a familiar voice in the close chamber. Again she heard the angelic song of Gian Carlo Lahte, and felt a sudden rush of warmth as she rea
lized that this death affected her somewhat less than had the recent discomforts of Il Colombo. But could he know this stranger? Or had her imagination, too, become feverish? Longfellow had asked the same question—but if it was true, why would Lahte not say so? Well, if he would not or could not enlighten them, the dead man might yet tell them something, after a bit of wheedling and teasing—perhaps even enough to satisfy her own suspicious spirit.
Blowing out both candles, Mrs. Willett hurriedly pulled the door closed behind her, to join the two men waiting above. At her appearance Longfellow walked forward. His guest continued to pace slowly among the village stones, some distance away.
“Mrs. Willett! Are you satisfied? He was thrown, it would seem to me.”
“Well …”
“Of course you question, too, where he has come from. But we may know more when I have made a sketch of him and sent it off to Montagu in Boston. Though I believe all signs point to a trader from abroad. I might even guess, from his physiognomy, that he is of a European race which I have observed near the eastern Mediterranean and up toward the Slavic lands. The reddish hair and pale skin are similar to those of many Scots and Irishmen, yet there is something else about the face which reminds me of the residents of Prague. The clothing seems inconclusive. His Spanish silver, of course, could have come from anywhere. Have you an idea of your own?”
“He seems to have lost some of the wine I presume he drank while on the road earlier today—”
“No doubt of that, by the aroma.”
“But when?”
“When?”
“He could hardly have vomited the wine up, I think, after his fall—if death was due to the injury to his head. For that must have come only moments before his heart ceased to beat …”
“You refer to the lack of swelling in the depression over the brain. Not unlike the difference between a deer killed outright and one whose wounds fill with blood when he must be chased down. Well, perhaps the man’s stomach rebelled first, then. He may have gotten off his horse, had another drink, vomited it up, then stumbled. And having fallen back upon a rock—”
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