“I am sure I would enjoy it later,” the musico returned, “but now, I am hearing of the ladies and gentlemen of Boston from your sister, who kindly instructs me.”
“No doubt you’ll both be glad to hear I’ve sent a message to the lieutenant governor. You and I have an audience with him this afternoon.”
“Richard,” asked Charlotte, “will you tell Lem we’ve arrived, as well? I hope he can find time to call.”
“He will, if I have anything to do with it,” Longfellow assured her. “We can see what knowledge he’s picked up in the metropolis—which I suppose will need knocking out of him again, as soon as he goes home.”
It was then that Hephzibah reappeared with a welcome message.
“Sir, Captain Montagu is below.”
“WHOSE PISTOL WAS it?” Edmund Montagu asked, cautiously sipping a glass of currant wine as he sat with Richard Longfellow.
“According to Jonathan, Pomeroy took it from a guest who left it in his room. Though how Pomeroy knew of it no one can say, for the man swears he left it deep in a trunk.”
“That does suggest—” The captain paused to speculate. “At any rate,” he soon continued, “Thomas Pomeroy will now be fleeing from his former friends, on shank’s mare if he has no other. Has he funds of his own, do you know?”
“Jonathan gave him a purse of gold coins only yesterday morning, in exchange for a diamond Pomeroy claims he brought with him from England.” Longfellow went on with the story until Montagu held up a hand.
“I’ll look into this further, Richard, before we see Trowbridge tomorrow. I had one of the sketches of Sesto Alva shown about again, with the addition of his cousin’s scar—but so far it has not yielded any results.”
“Did you see Dr. Warren?”
Montagu then revealed most of what he had learned two nights before, while at the Green Dragon.
“Then it’s still uncertain how Sesto Alva died. That is irritating.”
“I agree. But was murder ever simply done, or discovered?”
“Cain was easily found….”
“Unfortunately, neither of us is omniscient, Richard. Although I do have a pair of new assistants who may be better at this job than you, or even I.” Captain Montagu then described the recent arrival of two ‘thief-takers’ from London, whose business it was to apprehend accused criminals for the law. “These men,” Montagu concluded, “can think as a low, criminal mind will … and one day, I suppose, they will be hung for crimes of their own. Unfortunately, those of good character are rarely welcome in their ranks. Still, we may as well benefit from such talents when we can.”
“Perhaps now that they are out of London, our more pious ways will improve them.”
“I see your mood is playful today.”
“If it is, it’s because I’m avoiding my responsibility. I have yet to tell Lahte he may choose to have an attorney present, when he’s examined,” said Longfellow, his face clouding.
“Do you think one is necessary?” returned the captain.
“Perhaps not, yet. But it does begin to look as if Lahte is something more than a victim in this affair. If he himself dropped his clasp at the scene, and if someone else should come forward who saw them together on the road—then I wonder what the law will say. It may be forced to try him.”
“If Lahte repeats under oath that he is innocent, he should be believed. After all, he’s a man of some standing.”
“But if we believe Lahte—if we believe Sesto Alva took the clasp from him while they were both still in Milan—then why would Alva wear the thing on his way to meet the very man from whom he stole it? That makes little sense to me.”
“Possibly he’d decided to give it back. I have learned,” the captain continued on another front, “that you and Il Colombo propose to visit Hutchinson this afternoon.”
“At any rate,” said Longfellow, as he began to wonder how closely his movements would be watched in town, “we will draw Tommy’s mind away from his recent troubles.”
“Let us hope so.”
Captain Montagu then sat back to sip the last of his sweet wine, while he began to ponder a new suspicion of his own.
IT WAS NEARLY three by the church bells when Richard Longfellow and Gian Carlo Lahte left the house, after a dinner of cold vegetables and haddock pie. Following Hannover until it turned to Middle Street, they walked on for half a dozen blocks, past Cockerel Church, then around the corner to a pilastered mansion that stood on one side of North Square.
Built only two blocks from the sea, the large brick home of the Hutchinson family had clean lines in the classical style, and was, as Boston’s citizens often declared with pride, magnificent. The business of its current owner was obvious; each window, flanked by tall columns, was topped with a bright crown. Longfellow explained to his foreign guest that the place in a very real way belonged to the town, for its current furnishing had been largely financed from the rewards of numerous public offices, which came from taxes paid by the city’s lesser mortals.
After a liveried footman admitted them, they were left standing in an impressively large hall.
“Who, I wonder, is that?” asked Signor Lahte, once they were alone. He pointed his gold-handled walking stick at a statue across the vaulted room, lit ethereally, it seemed, by light from above.
“One of your own countrymen—and, coincidentally, one of mine.”
Lahte walked toward the carved alcove that held this work of art and read with a smile the name of Cicero on its pedestal. Strolling further, he looked into a room whose long walls held tapestries, and paintings surrounded by gilded wood—where fresh flowers stood in cut crystal vases, perfuming the air. Everywhere, it seemed, were the trappings of wealth.
“Richard,” asked the musico, “how did this great man come to be here?”
“Thomas Hutchinson is a Harvard man, of course, and one of Boston’s own. Though this house was inherited, he began his political career over thirty years ago as nothing more than a simple committeeman. Now he sits at the side of our royal governor, and perhaps enjoys even greater influence than Bernard, as the holder of several reins of power. He’ll be governor himself one day,” Longfellow speculated. “When Sir Francis has had his fill of Massachusetts. After last week, I suppose that day may not be far off.”
“What are these other reins you speak of?”
“Mr. Hutchinson also became a simple judge years ago. Today, he is our Chief Justice. And he is a member of the General Court, which drafts our laws and decides on governmental salaries.”
“I begin to think he is a Medici!”
“There’s more. He’s written a volume of this colony’s history; in fact, I hear he’s nearly finished with a second, built, too, upon the documents of our ancestors.”
“He finds time for all of this?”
“And, when a large part of the college burned last winter, the lieutenant governor came up with the plan for a new Harvard Hall. He also designed much of his summer home in Milton. You see, there is ample reason for him to be admired as a man of artistic sense, as well as a wielder of power.”
Lahte concealed a yawn as he waited to hear more of the man’s perfection. Longfellow gave a sidelong glance, and a brief smile.
“The heat, and our haddock pie, have fatigued us both. But I believe I’ve said enough.”
“You have certainly sharpened my desire to see this fellow. If life is just, he will be horribly bent and ugly, and possess, perhaps, a cough like a rattle.”
Longfellow’s lips curled further. The next moment, almost as if he had been waiting in the wings, Thomas Hutchinson himself walked into the entry hall.
Gian Carlo Lahte’s surprise was obvious, as he took in the striking similarity between the lieutenant governor and his host—something the latter had not mentioned. Both, he saw, had the same hazel eyes, penetrating, though far from cold. Both were tall and spare—each was well supplied with a gentleman’s grace and charm. If the lieutenant governor was his fellow townsman
’s elder by a score of years, the only obvious difference between them was that where Longfellow was dark, Hutchinson was fair. And either one, the world could see, would make a formidable adversary.
“I apologize for having kept you waiting, gentlemen. I have been speaking to my brother-in-law Mr. Oliver. Andrew is distressed by his recent adventure, when he was singled out by the Liberty Boys—and others of the community who should know better! He is afraid, he tells me, that there may be worse to come. And indeed, who can predict what a few scoundrels might like to do to any of us with privilege? How rarely they realize this carries with it a vast obligation. But how is it, Mr. Longfellow, that you are in town today?”
“I have come, Your Excellency, to present a visitor,” Longfellow replied to the man often referred to as ‘Tommy Skin-and-Bones’.
“The gentleman from Milan, is it not?”
“Sir, I am your servant.” Lahte bowed low and extended a leg in courtly salute, as each admired the other’s rich and careful attire.
“I am yours, sir! I have heard of your talent, which I am aware reflects many years of training and devotion. It is my great pleasure to have one of such discipline, and such accomplishment, in my home. Have you come here with friends?”
“I am with my wife.”
“Your wife!” Hutchinson exclaimed, before catching his tongue. “Well, then, I would be pleased if you would both honor us by coming to dine, when it is convenient. As a newcomer, you cannot know that I lost my own dear wife some years ago; but I am certain my sister-in-law, and my children, can entertain you. Possibly, you will be good enough to entertain us, as well? What Bracebridge has made of your music, I only wonder; but I hope you might sing for us—perhaps as soon as we are blessed with some relief from this oppressive heat, and you are comfortably settled.”
“Signor Lahte may be gone before long,” Longfellow broke in. “It seems his safety is threatened, and his marriage is in question.”
“Who dares to threaten him?”
“The young lady’s father.”
“Indeed … indeed.”
“It seems Signora Lahte left her home abruptly, and we now believe her father, Don Arturo Alva, has come after her—and that he may have engaged a man to shoot at Lahte. Happily, he was no marksman.”
“In Boston?”
“In Bracebridge.”
“Ah, well. I am glad to see, sir, that you have escaped injury. But it seems we frequently hear of curious things taking place in your adopted village, Richard—especially when Mrs. Montagu visits with my daughters. Do you know, listening to their chatter, I’ve lately begun to wonder if there is not a new caucus growing among the young ladies, which will one day rule us all. They now tell me silk will shortly be spurned, and replaced with woolen stuff prepared entirely by their own tender hands. Where do you suppose they learn these strange ideas?”
“From their London magazines, no doubt,” said Longfellow, returning the lieutenant governor’s cool smile. “But look here, Hutchinson, can you legally record Signor Lahte’s marriage in this colony, on the strength of a parson’s letter which he has brought with him from Italy? It seems the actual ceremony was a quiet affair.”
“I suppose I might do something. But what about this father? Where is he now? We can’t have such men running about, attempting murder!”
“At the moment, he appears to be in hiding.”
“Gone to ground, eh? Where was Don Arturo Alva last spotted?”
“At the Green Dragon.”
“A well-known den for foxes,” came the chilly reply. “But, I will take your letter, signor, and find a place for a copy in our own records. As a judge, I do see some benefit in proving a young woman has left her home at a husband’s command, instead of simply fleeing a father’s control. Though I suppose there is still the question of whether she could marry, legally, without his consent. Speaking as a father myself, I believe we had better not encourage young girls to try such things. They most often end badly. But when the deed is already done, and has involved both clergy and … consummation? … then there is little even a governor can do to restore things to what they were. I will give you another piece of legal advice, Signor Lahte. You should be married again, by one of our own clergymen. That, none here would question. And of course, if the father is guilty of soliciting your own death—! But what of this hired assassin, Longfellow?”
“I imagine the young man is already far away.”
Hutchinson gave the matter another moment’s thought. “If,” he concluded, “after all, you wish to leave in secret, Signor Lahte, I’m sure we’ll be able to find you room in one of our departing ships. Perhaps in a bark leaving Clark’s Wharf for the Canaries next week? Once there, you can surely find another to take you farther. If you choose to go, sir, for your own safety and that of your wife, I will see to it that you are not listed as passengers.”
“I would be most grateful to Your Excellency,” Lahte replied, though he still appeared undecided.
“I would also,” said Longfellow, “invite you, sir, to join many of our friends on Monday evening. I plan to gather several musicians whom you know, and Il Colombo has agreed to sing.”
“That would be delightful, I’m sure,” said Thomas Hutchinson. “And let me know if I may do anything more,” he added, signaling that the interview had ended. After shaking each man by the hand he moved to go, then turned back.
“You must realize that I, too, disagree with this stamp business, Longfellow—and I’ve long told them so in London. But I can do no more to put a stop to it than I have already tried, through official channels. Last week I was stoned in our own streets, as I believe Captain Montagu has told you. Our fellow citizens should indeed practice to improve their aim, if they intend to do any real harm. Nonetheless, I did not enjoy the experience. Ah, well. Tonight, I will put on my surtout and slippers, sit down with my family, and wonder what the rest of the town is up to. I pray it is not much, in such appalling weather.”
“I have every intention of emulating your own peaceful pursuits, I assure you,” came Longfellow’s quiet reply.
“Perhaps,” Hutchinson returned with an uncertain smile, before he walked briskly away.
Chapter 19
Saturday, August 24
ON A MILD morning two days later, Richard Longfellow set off in a rented coach seated next to Mrs. Willett and Edmund Montagu; Signor Lahte shared a side with two young wives. As the roads were still dry, the party had decided to take the long way around to the coroner’s inquest.
From Sudbury Street, four horses pulled them along the base of Beacon Hill and on past King’s Chapel, along Treamount. From there, they skirted the Common until a jog took them to Newbury, and eventually across Hannover Square. The great oak at the corner of Essex caused them all to look up as each imagined or recalled events of the week before, which had taken place beneath the newly named Liberty Tree.
Leaving town, the coachman drove down Orange onto the narrow Neck, where they were surrounded by stinking mud flats—as luck would have it, they crossed over at low tide. Once past the old fortifications and the town sentries, the coach continued west toward Roxbury. There, it turned north, soon moving over Great Bridge and the Charles below; minutes later, they saw a church steeple and then the golden cupola of the Cambridge County courthouse, near Harvard College.
Longfellow remembered as he rode that Judge Trowbridge had been both troubled and intrigued by what they had told him on the previous afternoon. He had examined the witnesses and in the end did, indeed, sign warrants for the arrest of Thomas Pomeroy and Don Arturo Alva. Trowbridge had also been given a brief statement written by Joseph Warren, who promised to testify more fully when he answered in person. Although the judge raised his curling brows at the information that the body in question had been buried in a churchyard in Dorchester, a hint from Longfellow that it might carry the contagion of fever was enough to settle the matter. Dr. Warren was well respected in his profession, Trowbridge had maintaine
d with a squint, and was a man whose medical observations, at least, could be safely taken.
Today promised developments of considerable interest, for the sheriff had been ordered to send a summons to the farmer Caleb Knox in Bracebridge, as well as one to Jonathan Pratt. Longfellow supposed both would bring their spouses.
They finally arrived at the courthouse to find the Pratts, the Knoxes, and Reverend Rowe all waiting in the entry, while another case was considered in the large room on the first floor. In the weighty atmosphere, few words passed between them. Fortunately for the nerves of all, onlookers and participants soon spilled out, and those newly arrived from Boston and Bracebridge made their way inside.
When they had taken places at the front, Mrs. Willett lost herself in childhood memories, thinking back to the several times the Howard family had come to view suits between their neighbors. Though the raised platform before her held only empty chairs, she knew twelve men would return to hear the second or perhaps the third case of a long day. A small box nearby would see a series of witnesses. Farther along, in armed chairs, judges would sit with a high bench before them. Between bench and spectators stood a rectangular table topped with baize, set with ink pots and quills; there, lawyers acting in a case, dressed in robes, generally sat by with others in plain clothing, who came to observe and to learn. At the moment, two such young men bent over pages of notes with their satchels at their sides, waiting.
The jury soon returned from its brief withdrawing, and many more spectators crowded in through the rear door. At last, through a doorway behind the judges’ chairs came Justice Trowbridge, robed in black and bewigged, followed by a smaller man in street attire. Each settled himself. Then, at the clerk’s call for silence, Trowbridge looked with a scrutinizing eye over the party surrounding Richard Longfellow, before nodding to the jury and beginning new business.
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