The same, she supposed, could be said of Magdalene.
Still, Catherine could have stumbled, causing her own death. Dying, though, she had spoken as if she were sure. Had she been pushed after all? Who could have done it? Not Lem, of course—and no one would imagine he'd had a motive. Even if Old Cat had baited him, as she'd enjoyed teasing Alexander Godwin. Even if Lem had taken offense and lost his temper, and then—?
Could Magdalene have been capable of such a thing? It was true she'd had a long and difficult servitude. Might she have been overcome, in the end, by an urge to give one savage thrust? Had she the ability to plan? What if she'd somehow come back into the house quietly, meaning to blame someone else for the old woman's death once she'd accomplished it herself? Could Magdalene be clever? No—a woman able to plan would have left Boar Island long before this! Today, she'd not found it difficult to walk to the village.
You, madam, you… find out if the boy was… if… the boy…
Alex Godwin was dead. What other boy was there but Lem? Catherine had not been off the island for years. Who else, Charlotte wondered, might have gone there lately, and especially this morning?
Once again she considered the spoon, and the canvas bag taken up by Constable Dudley, after Lem had put it down by the fire. Might Dudley have carried it off for a reason? As soon as he returned home, the spoons were discovered in their usual place in Rachel Dudley's locked cupboard. If, as Charlotte already suspected, Dudley had first taken the spoons himself, and then lost the one she'd found, he must have decided the best thing to do would be to retrieve the rest. Had someone near the bonfire slipped them into the bag, then, with a nod to alert him?
But it wasn't only the spoons—a good deal of silver, and some pewter too, had gone missing in the last several weeks, in Bracebridge and beyond. What had become of it all? Had it been taken to Boston? If so, why had she found a piece of it on Boar Island?
Lem had told her he'd once been to the island, but he'd discouraged her from returning—as had Ned and Jonah. Hadn't he withheld something else from her lately? For one thing, there was the fact that he was fond of visiting the Bigelows.
Lem had also said there was a house in a hidden part of the island. Hannah had mentioned fires in the night, and phantom torches bobbing along the shoreline. Recently, these occurrences seemed to have increased.
What else might happen to a set of spoons, once they were sold? A caudle bowl, part of a silver tea set, a box full of shillings? Melt them down, add some pewter from an old porringer, a dented mug or two, and what would you have then? Something less than silver. And yet, perhaps something more?
Was this what some men in Bracebridge had been doing lately, keeping it to themselves? Hadn't their wives seen something unusual going on, without being able to put a finger on it? Could Longfellow know? Was that why he'd been avoiding her? And what if Lem and Ned, too—? Did they sometimes meet on Boar Island, a place Alex Godwin visited regularly? She'd supposed he only went up the path to the stone house, and back down again. But what if Alex had begun to suspect something else was happening on another part of the island? Might he have told Catherine Knowles of his suspicions? Or had someone decided to prevent him from doing so?
Her head reeling, Charlotte looked to Magdalene. She had taken daily walks about the place. Might she have known what went on? She must have! But had she the sense to realize it was not only unusual, but against the law? It seemed she'd told Catherine Knowles nothing about it. Did she enjoy keeping secrets?
Magdalene raised her eyes from the fire, sensing something new in the air. And Charlotte began to pose a new series of questions.
“Magdalene, do you recall seeing men on your island?”
“Once, many came. They sang… danced… fought. They came to kill the boars. Then they went away.”
“But recently?”
“There was one…”
“Within the past year?”
“One who came for me. He promised to return.”
For years, according to Catherine Knowles, Magdalene had waited patiently at the cliff's edge for a lover. Had there been such a man, long ago?
“Magdalene, what was his name?”
“She won't allow it! I can never speak of him. When he looked at me, when he touched me, then, how his eyes would dance! But I know… I'll see him no more. His eyes—his eyes are now my son's.”
“You have a son!”
Magdalene turned, her own eyes wide. “He has come back to me,” she insisted. “But please, you mustn't say. She would send him away.”
“Magdalene, you do know… that Catherine Knowles is dead?”
“But now that I am here, how will he know where to find me?”
Magdalene sank back. She shook her head slowly, as if she felt the return of a familiar, coursing pain.
Charlotte became aware of a drop in the wind's savage roar. Now it almost sobbed along the eaves. Enticingly, it began to whisper…
Some time later, she looked up to see Magdalene watching the flicker of the fire, her eyes staring, her hands folded in her lap. Loss, thought Charlotte, was something about which she herself knew a great deal. And yet, her own had been nothing like this.
Nothing at all
Chapter 22
TO THE RELIEF of all but the youngest in the village,.by the next morning the storm had blown itself out, leaving behind only a west wind to cut through the sharp sunlight. Drifts of snow had made a sort of white washboard across much of the village, including its lanes and the two main roads.
As the villagers emerged from their burdened houses, they found a world fresh and clean, through which teams of oxen pulled heavy sledges to compact the snow. Everyone, it seemed, was eager to be out, wishing to trade stories, and suspicions that had been born in the night. To this end not a few bundled themselves up and headed for the Blue Boar across the village bridge. Others took a different direction, stomping uphill and then through the welcoming door of the Bracebridge Inn, proceeding to the taproom to find an audience that was more civilized than the one found in the rival tavern.
Still others, mostly women and girls, made their way to nearby houses where they found chattering companions; together, they then ventured further afield, frequently stopping at the shop of Emily Bowers.
A lone woman and her dog had the best view of the dazzling new blanket that lay over the broad marshes and the town, below a wind-whipped sky. All of this she admired, as her skirts plowed a path from her farmhouse down to the lower abode of Richard Longfellow.
Though covered from head to toe, Charlotte shied at a gust that raised crystals of ice in a fierce flurry, then spawned smaller devils that skittered off across the buried herb beds. While the air was exhilarating, she began to wish she'd taken the road after all, as she encountered a drift that came up to her waist. She might have led one of the cows out of the barn after milking, and walked behind with a switch—but that had seemed less than kind. She smiled, too, at the thought of reaching Richard Longfellow's door with an unexpected guest, its bell clanging to warn of their arrival.
Even Orpheus, who'd started by frolicking at her side, had now decided to follow her, easing his steps and avoiding the biting wind. Somehow she hadn't felt comfortable with the thought of leaving him with Magdalene, though she doubted her guest would rise before her return. More than once, she'd awakened in the long night to hear the other woman pacing the floorboards above. Magdalene might well need extra sleep, after the frightful day she'd endured.
Reaching Longfellow's back door, Charlotte opened it to step into a cool kitchen. No one was there. She wondered if she could be too early for the household. But the fire had been stirred. She removed her outer wrappings, and left them at the hearth. Then she walked through the hall to Longfellow's study.
This, too, was empty, and as yet had no fire. She supposed he could have decided to take his coffee in the sunny front parlor. As she walked on to the front hall, she heard low voices, and her nose informed her that coffee
was nearby.
“Good morning,” she said boldly at the parlor door, intending to make her presence known before she overheard what seemed to be a close conversation. She saw two men holding china cups, leaning forward in their chairs so that their heads nearly touched. They turned at the sound of her voice. One rose quickly—the other took his time.
“Edmund?” she asked in amazement. “How is it that you're here?”
“Good morning, Mrs. Willett! You didn't know I'd been summoned?”
The captain came and took her hand and kissed it gently. She went further, inviting him briefly into her arms.
“He sent for you?” she then asked, while her neighbor watched with an expression she could not quite understand.
“Richard? Yes. I presumed you knew that. Have you two had a falling out?” Their silence caused Edmund to nod slowly. “Possibly an oversight.”
“It was intentional, Carlotta, I'm sorry to say,” Longfellow offered.
“There's no need to tell me anything you wish to keep secret,” she said. But her look assured him she was not entirely easy.
“I have never wished—” he began. Recalling his own injured feelings, he reconsidered. “Perhaps I did. But only after… well, the truth is I sent Edmund a message on Tuesday. It had to do with something odd I found by the ice—a piece of silver.”
He watched a flush of crimson mounting Charlotte's cheeks, as if he'd touched on something to embarrass her. What that might have been, he could not imagine. Perhaps, he thought, she would tell him later.
“I wasn't sure,” he continued. “And I thought you might already know about it, at any rate.”
“Know about what?” she demanded. “I've begun to feel I know very little lately—and, that there's a good deal you've not told me. I have been forming my own ideas. But how,” she added as a new thought rushed into her head, “could you have known on Tuesday of either of the—of either death?”
“I didn't.” Her neighbor paused, considering her precise choice of words. Then he plunged on. “I presume you can keep a secret, Carlotta. Will you keep the one I'm about to tell you?”
“Of course, if you ask me to.”
“All right, then. First, let's all sit down. Would you like some coffee? Here—take mine. By the way, did you see anyone in the kitchen when you came in?”
“No. Where are the others?” she asked, entering the covert spirit of the discussion she'd interrupted.
“Diana is still in bed,” said Edmund Montagu. “Reed, as well.” He brought a third chair, and sat beside her.
“Cicero,” said Longfellow, “is out in the glass house, stoking the stove. Lem should still be shoveling out front.” He looked through the window, and was satisfied to see the young man at his task. While the wind took some of each raised shovelful of snow, the rest was tossed to one side of a lengthening passage.
“I've had several aggravating moments recently,” Longfellow admitted as he came to sit with the others. “But the thing that united my growing suspicions was this.” From his waistcoat, he produced a shilling. He gave it to Charlotte.
She took the coin and examined it briefly. Then, looking straight into her neighbor's eyes, she held them.
“Is it counterfeit?”
“A lightning conclusion, Carlotta. Unless you know something else that led you in that direction. Something you have yet to tell me?”
Instead of answering, she turned to the captain with a question of her own.
“Edmund, is this why you've come? And not for Diana's sake? Are you, too, interested in this silver?”
“Yes and no,” he answered truthfully. “I will admit I was glad to have another reason to visit. My wife, you see, bolted from our home, leaving only the briefest message for me to find. From what little it said, and its vehemence, I had to assume she had no wish for me to follow.”
“Oh—I'm sorry.”
“After we had watched one another suffer for several weeks, I truly believed that a separation might help both of us to mend. It was necessary to let some things settle, I supposed, before we could hope to begin again, on better footing.”
“I should have told you earlier how—how affected Richard and I both were, to hear of your loss,” Charlotte told him earnestly.
“You both must know…” The captain looked now to Longfellow. “We all fear losing what we love one day. It's a hard thing, but loss must be felt by all whose lives are not very lonely. Or very brief, as my son's was. I hope Diana learns to accept this.”
“Perhaps she already has, to some extent,” said Longfellow. “But you'll not mention to my sister that I called Edmund for quite another reason, Carlotta?”
“I suspect you only found a roundabout way to be helpful. You could have waited a while, after all, before calling for assistance. I wonder what will happen now that you have,” she finished, a new concern in her voice.
“What will happen, do you mean, to our good villagers? That remains to be seen. But if you, too, have felt as if you were kept in the dark, then just how did you learn of this criminal scheme?”
Charlotte started at the beginning, telling them— though she was thoroughly sick of doing so—of her recent visit to Boar Island. She saw the two men grasp the arms of their chairs while she briefly mentioned falling through the ice. They remained speechless as she went on to describe her visit with Mrs. Knowles, and her observations of Magdalene's circumstances.
The discovery of the silver spoon beneath the landing seemed the culmination of her story. But she assured them a little breathlessly that this was not all. She'd learned that it belonged to Rachel Dudley, who'd lost several others—though every one had now, mysteriously, come back to her. She'd also been told that women from Bracebridge to Concord had found silver or pewter objects missing within the last few months. Each, however, had been discouraged by her husband from accusing anyone of a crime.
“Small wonder!” Longfellow finally exclaimed. “For I don't doubt their husbands were responsible! Never was much ‘lost’ or taken, I presume—and what was gone would soon have come back to the household in newly struck shillings, each remarkably close to the real thing. This one I suppose, like many others, is mixed with pewter—tin, a little copper, more lead—debased enough in value to earn each of those who participate in the scheme some small profit.”
“But how did you know?” she asked, examining the shilling she held between her fingers more closely. “It seems to me no different from any other.”
Holding the coin so that it caught the strong sunlight, she saw the familiar profile of the late king, large pouches under the eye and chin, a laurel wreath resting atop long curls. She read around the curved edge, “GEORGIVS II DEI GRATIA.”
“This may help,” said Longfellow, offering her a pocket lens he'd taken from a table; she presumed he and the captain had already scrutinized the coin together. She re-examined the front of the object, then looked at its back. Coming out to the edges were the usual four emblems, surmounted by crowns, and a date—1758. Between these ran a series of letters: M-B-F-ET-H-REX-F-D-B-ET L-D-S-R-I-A-T-ET-E.
“Do you suspect anything yet?” asked Longfellow.
“No. But I've wondered for years,” she admitted, “exactly what these mean.”
“The letters? Ask Edmund to reel it off for you. He's been at court far more than I.”
“The letters,” said Captain Montagu, “stand in place of Latin words. The translation is, ‘King of Britain, France, and Ireland, defender of the Faith, Duke of Brunswick and Luneburg, Arch-Treasurer and Elector of the Holy Roman Empire.’ Their four emblems make a cross, you see, with a sunburst at the center.”
“A remarkably close match to the genuine article,” said Longfellow. “And one showing an excellent hand. But to the carefully observant eye, the whole is not entirely successful. You'll note that this coin does seem to have been milled, for there are diagonal cuts all around the edges. In the course of wear and handling, such indentations naturally become tarni
shed, and fill with minute amounts of oil and other debris. The edges above them, like the faces, are more exposed to abrasion, and so they should be shinier than what lies below. However, you'll see that on this coin, which must have been intentionally soiled, the inner marks are still bright in many places. This indicates that they've been newly minted— yet the date is several years old, and for good reason. The year of 1758was the last in which a large run of shillings was made.”
“Then how—?”
“I believe this shilling was created in a mold with at least one set of faces. And I suppose the ‘mill marks’ were added by hand. Look closely and you'll see they're somewhat irregular. There, I think, is where the nub, which once attached the piece to a pouring chamber, has been filed off.”
“But how did you come to look for these things?”
“As soon as I picked this up from the snow, early on the day of the ice harvest, I thought it strange no one nearby would claim it, though one of them must have dropped it from a pocket.”
“Who was there?”
“Flint and Tinder, Jonah Bigelow, and young Ned.”
“I see.” Charlotte felt her heart beat faster. “But Edmund, this hasn't come to your attention, I hope, in Boston?”
“Once,” the captain told her. “I've not yet learned enough to tell Hutchinson; as you know, he sees himself as quite an expert on the currency question. But several found their way into a bagful about to be melted down by one of the town silversmiths. Seeing that the weight was not right for the number of coins on his scale, he looked more carefully, and then let us know what he suspected. Some coins were heavier than they should have been, no doubt because your coiner's pewter had a great deal of lead in it. I understand much is re-melted in the colonies, and eventually becomes so. Not surprising, since there are no guilds here to assure the quality of metals.”
A Mischief in the Snow Page 16