Leaving the lady, Longfellow had suggested they inquire about the missing canvas bag and the found hatchet, starting with a visit to the Bigelows. Dudley rejected the idea, insisting instead that they go immediately up the hill to speak with Lem—though they could easily have seen Jonah and Ned on the way. In fact the constable had left them to go into the inn, no doubt for a bumper of courage. Some time later, before he'd left Charlotte with Magdalene Knowles, she'd told him quietly that the seed bag had been sent back to her—and, that it had been taken off accidentally by none other than Dudley himself! No doubt the constable had been in his cups the day before. But why, today, had he neglected to mention what he'd done? Longfellow asked himself if something else might have taken place by the bonfire.
And then, he recalled that when Moses Reed came down to inform them the old woman was dead, Dudley had hurried to say the second death could in no way be related to the first. Reed seemed not entirely to agree, but he'd said no more. Perhaps the lawyer thought otherwise? If so, what did he know that he wasn't saying?
After he'd simmered for another minute, Longfellow forced himself to ask fairly if he might not be imagining things. Yet it did appear that everyone kept him in the dark about certain events. Perhaps even Charlotte had done so. Above all, it hurt him to suspect that this might be true. But she was a villager by birth, something which carried a level of acceptance here that he'd not been granted—and probably never would be.
At any rate, before much longer he would confront them all with what he'd discovered on his own. As a selectman, it had been his duty to investigate. As a man ignored, it had been his pleasure. Now, he was reasonably sure he knew what at least some in the village had been up to. And at the proper moment, he was certain he'd find a few eager to turn about and give more evidence, by which the others might be discomfited, at the very least!
Returning to the problem at hand, Longfellow began to sift through what Lem had told them of his trip to Boar Island, while Catherine Knowles lay dying. He'd first informed the two women of Alex's death. Both were surprised, but beyond looking long at one another they'd shown no regret, at least in front of their visitor. Catherine had instructed Lem that he would find a woodpile on the western side of the house. There he'd discovered a great many sawn logs made from windfalls. He'd taken up an ax and set to work splitting some of the dry stuff for kindling and cooking. Meanwhile, he had a clear view of the path that led from the front door, and he'd soon seen Magdalene go out walking.
For half an hour, he continued to work alone. Startled when the old woman screamed, he ran back into the house. He recalled his own ringing footsteps, but no others. When he found her, Catherine was on her hands and knees by the hearth, her lower clothing aflame. Keeping his wits, the boy had rolled her back and forth across the hearth rug, then poured a pot of tea on a few parts that continued to smoke. After that—
Moses Reed cleared his throat to attract the attention of the others, and picked up their earlier conversation. “What do you think the village will say, Dudley, of two recent deaths here?”
“The village?” the constable asked blankly. Like Longfellow, he'd been gathering his own wool.
“We have one man obviously murdered, but not enough proof to lead us to arrest anyone. Unsettling, yet these things take time. What I fear is this: matters can quickly get out of hand when people take it upon themselves to decide the truth, without the weight of oath, judge, or jury. What do you think will be said about Lem Wainwright's involvement in Godwin's death? He is, as you know, my client, and my responsibility.”
“Yes, yes,” John Dudley said, somewhat nervously. “I think they'll agree with me there's no sense in blaming Lem—even though he did leave the hatchet where someone else could pick it up and do this filthy deed. But he has told me he did not do it, and I believe him.”
“Then you think Lem is in no danger?”
“Danger? No. Of course, someone murdered Godwin— we're certain of that But there's no reason to suspect anyone from Bracebridge. No, more likely whoever it was came down the road and saw the rest of us by the ice. The worst sort of man is drawn to such gatherings—pickpockets, especially. It could be this stranger first took up the hatchet to steal it. Once taken, though—if Godwin insulted him in any way, as he often did—then, matters might have gone another way. That, I think, is what the village will say, sir. I've little doubt it's the truth.”
“Do you suppose,” asked Reed slowly, “any might wonder if someone here made it appear Lem was responsible for Godwin's death?”
“Would it be in the interest of young Wainwright, if such a suggestion was to be thrown about?” Dudley returned. “Better, I'd say, to ask around Worcester, where Godwin spent most of his years. To see if someone there might have had revenge in mind.”
“Perhaps we should stay with your earlier fabrication— that of a complete stranger.”
Now Dudley scowled, his dislike of the attorney returning.
“This second death, then,” Reed continued, “which Lem seems nearly to have witnessed. Will the village take it for an accident? You seem to have decided, John, on very little evidence, that it was no more than mischance.”
“Well, it would seem Catherine Knowles did no more than what others have done! She was old and feeble, and could hardly see. However, some may say ‘Mad Maud’ is now free of the old woman, and is off that cursed island. Not that I'll be among those to suggest she had anything to do with what happened. But it was a strange thing after all, the two of them living there alone. If they were alone. I believe they may have had company—unquiet spirits, and other unnatural things that have kept most men away.”
“Some will be more interested,” said Longfellow, “in learning where the money goes, now that Mrs. Knowles is dead. Isn't it said she controlled a fortune?”
“As it happens, I know the answer to that particular question,” said Moses Reed. Longfellow rose to pour another round of brandy.
“Do you, Mr. Reed?” he asked, when no further information was offered.
“I should. I've acted as attorney for Mrs. Knowles for many years.”
“I wasn't aware of that.”
“Few are.”
“Will you tell us more?”
“At the moment, I'm afraid I can't say much. First I must speak with the family—at least with Magdalene Knowles. Though there are some things, I suppose, that I might reveal to you now.”
“Gentlemen, may I join you?” asked a new voice. The men looked to the door and saw Diana Montagu sweep toward them.
In fact, she had been waiting for some time in the passage, wondering if she would hear something of interest within.
“We're discussing legal matters, Diana,” said Longfellow. “Which you'll probably find tedious.”
“I think not. Please, continue.”
Moses Reed made no objection. Constable Dudley, Diana thought, actually blushed at her approach. He reached to a table and picked up his hat, looking as if he might run away. But it seemed he only wished to mangle the thing further.
“Sit, then,” said her brother, setting a chair near, but not too near, the fire.
“When I came here two days ago,” Moses Reed went on moments later, stroking his beard, “it was for two reasons: First, I wished to discuss a small legacy with Mrs. Willett, as I believe you already know. Second, I also hoped to see Catherine Knowles, or at least to send a message to her, and wait for a word in return. I needed to clarify certain matters relating to her late husband, Peter Knowles.”
“Oh, yes!” said Diana, suddenly sitting forward. “I knew I'd heard something about a family named Knowles. But I hardly thought this could be the same, for they live in Philadelphia. Yet I'm sure a Peter Knowles was mentioned by my friend Mrs. Cooper.”
“It is a wealthy family,” Reed went on, “and an old one with several branches. Peter Knowles, the patriarch of one, has just died.”
“I'd assumed he'd done so long ago,” said Longfellow. “Then husband
and wife lived apart?”
“For reasons that had to do with an unfortunate bent in the husband. After the marriage it became clear that his mind was weak, or worse—not entirely unlike the case of Magdalene Knowles, his unfortunate sister.”
“You've known them long?” Longfellow asked.
“I met Peter Knowles a year or two before he returned to his family in Philadelphia, now some twenty years ago. I can also tell you that while he lived, Catherine Knowles gave up her right to his support, in exchange for complete control of the fortune left by her father—including the island. That, perhaps, was not in her best interests. I found she had little understanding of business, and refused to invest wisely. But under the new arrangement, she retained a right to a widow's portion, a third of her husband's estate. At his recent death this became hers, as well.”
“She will hardly need it now,” said Longfellow. “But then there's Magdalene to consider. Yet I don't imagine she can inherit, if she's not of sound mind. Still, if her brother did so?…”
“Because he was a male, the best light was put on Peter's doubtful condition by the immediate family, so that they might not lose the fortune to another part of the line. With Magdalene, there was no reason to ignore the obvious. Catherine made a small provision for her future and instructed me to set it aside, which I've done. For years, she refused to bequeath the rest to anyone.”
“Was that wise?” asked Longfellow.
“Hardly. She was a woman who rarely listened to good advice! Then, a little more than a year ago, a will was made in favor of a sole individual…”
“Whose name you won't give us just yet,” Longfellow finished for him.
“This I can tell you—seven weeks ago I received another packet from Catherine Knowles. It contained a new will. Like the last, it was barely legible—but that came as no surprise, for I knew she could hardly see. Her signature, too, had greatly deteriorated, but it is one I've grown used to. And it was signed by a witness: Alexander Godwin. I decided that if Catherine signed it again in my presence, I would be more comfortable. However, after discussing it with a colleague, I believed it would stand.”
“Seven weeks ago?” Longfellow interrupted.
“We have all been busy in Boston lately, with many insisting their business be concluded before the revenue stamps arrived.”
“Of course,” said Longfellow. “But will you tell us who the final will names as her heir?”
“Soon… very soon,” the lawyer replied. His smile did not seem altogether happy. “There are things I must learn first. The interests of others are bound to be involved.”
“Perhaps we can help. You realize this situation could have a bearing on a murder,” Longfellow added, watching the lawyer's face carefully.
“Soon,” Reed repeated gently. “It's all that I'll promise, at the moment.”
“But the second will,” said Diana. “Do you suspect Catherine Knowles might not have sent it to you?”
“I think that she did, Mrs. Montagu; but I would like to question Magdalene on this point, as well. When she is ready.”
Longfellow rose and walked to the tall window that faced west, toward the village. Tonight no light was visible, but by the reflected glow from the house he could see snow eddying as it came over the rooftop, and around the corners. To the east, he imagined, it would be even worse.
“This is all very interesting,” he said finally, “but I suspect we'll get no further tonight. And there is no improvement in the weather,” he added to John Dudley. The constable leaped to his feet.
“I must be going. I may have to stay in the village after all.”
“As I've offered Mr. Reed a bed here, you might take his, John, at Reverend Rowe's.”
“Or I might make my way to the Blue Boar. That would save the preacher trouble.”
“And make Phineas Wise glad, I'm sure,” Longfellow returned. “I'll see you out.”
Moses Reed stayed with Diana, although he respected her silence with his own. When his host returned, the attorney left sister and brother to sit together, saying he would speak with Lem in the kitchen and give him the latest news.
“Someone will pay for Godwin's murder, I suppose?” Diana then asked, her voice weary.
“If we can find him,” said Longfellow. He, too, found the thought an unpleasant one.
“Richard, I hoped earlier that I could be of some help to you, in seeking some sort of justice. But after all that I've seen today, it seems to me I've had too much of death lately. All that I truly wish—”
“I know, Diana. I know. It's anything but easy. Yet whatever happens next, we'll face it together. Until something better comes along.”
“I hope it won't be long. If only Edmund—”
She suddenly seemed to fade, as she'd often done in the last week. He was about to say more to distract her, when his eyes shifted.
Had something moved, out in the snow?
There, through the dark window, he saw the ghost of someone coming along, making a path through the new drifts. Who could have come out of his barn on a night like this?
“Diana,” Longfellow said with a twisting smile, “I think we're in for another surprise.”
“Oh, what now?” she asked, trying to restrain her tears.
She might soon shed a bucketful if she wished, her brother told himself. “I'll be back in a moment,” he added aloud, leaving her.
Diana sank back into her chair once more, and drew a handkerchief from her bodice. Down the corridor, she heard the front door open. From the entry hall came a muttering of voices and her brother's ringing laughter, which jarred her. Neither did whoever had entered share his mirth—but that did not stop it. Another peal broke out, and then she heard Richard's heels clicking as he came toward the study. Behind him, someone shuffled feet that were far heavier.
Longfellow entered and stood to one side.
“You have a visitor, madam,” he said, extending a hand. What she saw next frightened her, for it was more a bundle than a man, covered by a cracking layer of snow. He flung his cloak open, and threw off his hat.
“Edmund!” she cried, running into her husband's quivering arms.
“My love,” he said with something that sounded like a sob, though Longfellow assumed the captain's voice had merely been muffled by his wife's neck, onto which his lips had fallen.
“Now it is my turn to go,” said Richard Longfellow, relieved to do so. Quietly, he shut the door on their renewed happiness, and went to see how affairs progressed in the kitchen.
Chapter 21
THE FIRE IN the farmhouse kitchen had fallen to a comfortable glow, as occasional tongues of flame rose above the red remains of logs. Together for several hours, the two women at the hearth enjoyed a companionable silence.
Earlier, they had spoken while Charlotte prepared a supper of eggs and cod, to be followed by a pudding of apples and currants. Magdalene Knowles had walked along the walls, softly touching the china teapot on the sideboard, a polished silver tray, the glazed crock containing dried beans. At last she'd seated herself to stare at the long hunting gun that hung above the fire. Occasionally, she reached a hand to Orpheus, who kept one eye open.
Now Charlotte sat as well. She recalled Diana's warning, then Magdalene's responses to her own brief questions. These had been answered with the directness of a child. Seeking to establish the extent of the woman's understanding, she'd learned that her guest was anything but stupid, whenever her attention could be captured and held. However, it soon seemed to return to a place within her—something Charlotte supposed was not surprising, when one considered Magdalene's life had been more solitary than if she'd lived within a convent's walls.
“Do you have a favorite kind of work?” she asked, after speaking of her own delight in her plantings.
“I ply my needle, to keep our clothes. We have no garden.”
Of course, thought Charlotte, for where would they have put one? Magdalene had said, though, that she enjoyed walki
ng about the island, so she must have watched many things grow. Did she also know the place had an odd reputation? Surely, she must have seen the boars. Had she no fear of them? Later, perhaps, she might ask.
“Would you like to help me in my garden one day?” she tried. Magdalene seemed unable to imagine such a thing. It would be a pleasure, in a few months’ time, to show her Longfellow's roses.
Charlotte next decided that she must inquire, after all, about that morning.
Magdalene showed no reluctance. She described Lem as he'd appeared at the front door. She had taken him to Catherine, as she'd recently taken Charlotte in. He told them Alexander was dead. Catherine then put him to work. Magdalene went out for a walk as she did each day. She knew nothing more of what went on in the house until she approached it again, and heard Lem calling her. By then he had wrapped Catherine in blankets, and told her to gather a few things of her own, which might serve as the old lady's pillow. He told her they would walk over the ice to the village. It was something she'd often longed to do, but could not.
When asked why that was, her guest became evasive for the first time. Was it, Charlotte asked, because Mrs.
Knowles would not allow it? Magdalene nodded, and added something more.
“How could I go? I had to wait for him.” This she would not clarify. Charlotte decided to ask nothing else until she could make more sense of what she already knew.
Only Lem and Magdalene had been on the island when Catherine fell into the fire. If it had been no more than that, there would be nothing else to do about it. But the woman had accused someone of pushing her. Such an action would have amounted to murder. Who could have wished her dead?
Catherine surely possessed a heightened sense of her own importance in the world; no doubt she'd also formed strong opinions about a number of things. Her outward manner had not been pleasant—yet her description of her marriage gave some indication of why she had become embittered. Perhaps it had done more than that? Had Catherine been entirely sane before she died? Since she'd lived with no restraints, and with only one companion of limited abilities, it would hardly have been noticed, had her mind become unbalanced.
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