A Mischief in the Snow

by Margaret Miles

  The lower level was lit by high windows that faced the south. It contained a cavernous room with a gigantic hearth, complete with a spit large enough for roasting an entire boar, as well as several side ovens for baking. Rusting utensils hung about the walls, but seemed usual enough. She saw a set of pipes coming down from the ceiling; they probably supplied water from a rooftop cistern, so that at least some water need not have been carried up from the marsh. This reminded her that the house was no more than a half century old, though its appearance, especially above, suggested great age. It was almost as if she were behind the scenes of a theater, she thought, something she'd heard Longfellow describe on occasion, from his travels.

  Further exploration showed her a huge pantry, nearly empty. At its end stood one more door. Upon opening this she felt a draft, and saw that she stood at the top of yet another set of stone steps. Below, there were no windows. Could it be a dungeon, used for torture by a man obsessed with his tiny island? Had he been like the duke in Horace Walpole's story, caring little for the lives of others, while he sought his own pleasures? She shuddered to think of it. And yet she felt herself wanting to learn more… if only to be sure.

  Someone had conveniently left both a candle and a tinder box on a table near the door. She lit the candle, supposing its presence indicated the lower room was still used for something; in the kitchen itself she'd seen no such amenities. That thought was strange enough to cause her to put a foot onto a stone step, and prepare to follow the rest down into the darkness.

  She stopped when she heard a sigh from below. Changing to a moan, it caused the hairs on her arms to rise. Could there be someone there in pain—even in chains? If so, should she go and see? Or should she retreat to safety, while she still had the chance? As she tried to decide, she felt a light hand settle onto her shoulder.

  She knew without turning that she would see no one there. And she'd recognized the familiar scent of horehound, a favorite remedy of Aaron's when he'd been alive. For several months, she'd missed her husband's lingering presence. Now, it seemed, he had returned.

  Again, the moan came from below.

  The hand rested quietly. Aaron's memory was still a comfort. When had she truly realized he was no longer a part of her life—or any other she knew? She'd loved her husband deeply, yet this was less than a shadow. And she wondered now what it cost him, to come back to her. Wrenching a last hope from her heart, she confronted whatever it was that remained.

  “Would you keep me from finding more?” she asked gently. “Would you stay, when you need not?”

  Finally, it was done. She felt his presence diminish, as if it slipped silently away. In a few moments, he was gone altogether.

  Her heart was in her throat, and it suddenly occurred to her that Aaron might have come with a warning. The candle she held continued to flicker; the moaning went on. With a breath, she took back her life, and walked down into the void.

  As she descended she felt the loss, too, of what little warmth the windows gave the kitchen above. A new coldness enveloped her, though it was less than the frigid spot in the gallery above. A wind seemed to blow—with no windows to give it entry.

  When the stone steps ended she smelled earth beneath her feet, and then the bitter scent of snow. But she had come upon nothing dire, nothing uncanny. Instead her candle showed her a room full of old furniture. Next to a jumble of chairs in need of repair stood a stack of several rods, once used for fishing expeditions—wine casks missing staves or bands served as supports for a pair of long ladders—tackle for horses lay strewn in a corner, though where animals had been kept on the island, she could not guess.

  She found herself drawn to an ornately carved headboard, taller than she was. It seemed to have been the back of a box bed. And where it leaned against a wall, a new moan seemed to have begun. Long and deep, this soon suggested a body in the throes of intense passion.

  But there was no one there! She stared at ornate carvings of stag and doe, garlands of leaves and acorns, all cut into joined planks of heavy oak. Her candle flickered violently, and she felt a fresh draft. Something, it appeared, was behind all of this—possibly behind the headboard itself?

  She bent down to set the candle on the floor. Then she stood to lean against the tall object before her. The whole bed would have been heavy enough, she supposed, to collapse the floor of a simple cottage. It might even have been the last resting place of old John Fisher. By squirming, she was able to see a little behind the wood, where a passage of some sort began. That, at least, explained the moaning of the wind. At its end, she glimpsed a faint light.

  As she had no hope of lifting the headboard, she decided to try to slide it enough so that she might slip behind. Shifting her position, she lowered her head and applied a shoulder to the wood. In another moment she felt it give, and then it began to move across the hard-packed floor. Elated by her success, and curious to see where the passage might lead, she renewed her effort.

  Then it seemed as though she'd been plunged into a painful night, under a sky full of swirling stars. The ground came to meet her with a crash, and she lay for a moment in a sort of twilight. Did she again hear music? Or was it only a roar of blood in her ears? Laughter seemed to sound as she continued to sink into a deep well. On its sides were faces, illuminated, laughing, passing by as the stars above receded. And there was a sound like the whirling of skirts, lulling her to sleep.

  Beside her still form, the candle danced. Something brown scurried past her skirts, frightened from its burrow. But Charlotte was unaware of anything that might have harmed her further.

  Some time later, she begin to revive. Someone called out to her from far away. The familiar voice drew nearer. Before long it came clearly.

  “Mrs. Willett? Mrs. Willett!”

  “Here!” she called back, but her voice sounded no more than a whisper. She stretched her neck to view the stairs. Soon a pair of legs strode toward her.

  “Oh God—Charlotte?” His exclamation was rather strange, she thought, and it seemed that a part of his voice, too, was trapped in his throat. Could something have happened?

  Richard Longfellow swooped to enfold her in his strong arms, protecting her at first, then settling his cheek against her own. She heard him murmur thanks as he cradled her, felt his warm breath, and saw a most unusual fear in his lovely hazel eyes. She recalled her earlier hesitancy on the steps, when she'd felt another hand on her shoulder. This touch felt far more urgent, and wonderfully real.

  While an arm continued to support her, a hand began to run searchingly about her face and into her gathered hair, where its fingers prodded gently. She felt a sharp pain and cringed, giving a startled cry as she fully recovered her senses.

  “I'm sorry, Carlotta,” he responded, his attention drawn to a growing bump that had caused her discomfort. “It seems there's no break in the skin, and no blood. By the sound of the crash, I imagined you'd found a way to bring the entire house down around you. What happened? And how did you nearly manage to crack your skull?”

  “I'm not sure,” she said, feeling the bump herself, amazed by its size. “I was only trying to move the headboard—”

  She looked to see that it had fallen to the floor; now it lay in several pieces. Pale tongues that had held the joints together were exposed.

  “The thing must have been dried and warped, waiting to spring apart when you touched it,” Longfellow decided.

  And yet she'd barely moved it, she recalled, while trying to see into the hidden passage—

  Soon Longfellow, too, arched his neck to stare at what she'd uncovered. A haze of light still beckoned from beyond, while an eddy brought air from the outside.

  “You saw no one else here?” he asked suddenly.

  “My head was down,” she admitted. “But I… I don't think so.”

  “I'm glad it was no worse. You gave me the devil of a fright. Do you suppose you can stand, Carlotta? I'll support you. Or I'll carry you, if you like.”

  Her attem
pt to rise gave her a new thrill of pain, but it passed quickly. She tried putting one foot in front of the other, testing her weight. It seemed nothing else had been damaged.

  “I'll recover soon. But where do you suppose this leads?”

  “It looks to be no more than a few yards long. Shall we see?”

  Longfellow picked up her candle and shielded it carefully, for they had no other. Holding her arm, he began to walk slowly into the mouth of the tunnel. In a few feet, it narrowed. It seemed they would have to walk one behind the other.

  “Can you manage alone?” he asked.

  “Yes. No one's been here before us; the floor is sandy, but there are no footprints.”

  “It would seem so. This slight rippling must have been caused by the wind.”

  They walked on, along the walls of a cleft filled from above by roots that clutched at fallen stone, while they fed on sifting soil. At the tunnel's end they met a high boulder. Rounding this, they found themselves on an airy platform, now in cold shadow. Both looked down. Far below were snow and dark branches the wind had freed.

  Looking above, they discovered a slope that could be climbed with no great difficulty. There were even clumps of vegetation one might use for hand holds. But a more striking sight was a little to the right. There, Magdalene Knowles stood at the edge of a precipice. Charlotte knew this to be at the end of a small yard, just beyond the room with the tall portrait, and the mirror.

  “See, here,” said Longfellow, drawing her attention to a spot a few feet above them. A branch had been torn from a stunted pine rooted among the rocks. Resin, still fresh, had oozed from the white wound. “It's been torn away, and could have helped someone to climb down, to enter the tunnel the other day,” Longfellow said with a frown. “It might also have been used as a broom, I suppose, to cover his steps as he left.”

  Charlotte peered back at Magdalene—and saw that Moses Reed had come for her. He held out a hand and took a step back, inviting her toward the house.

  “Hey there, Reed!” Longfellow called out. The lawyer gave a start. Advancing to look over the cliff's edge, he saw the movement of a waving arm.

  “Are you nearly ready?” the lawyer called down. “I believe we really should go.”

  “We'll meet on the front path.”

  “So,” Longfellow mused as they walked back through the great kitchen, “someone may have come into the house unnoticed, while Lem worked on the opposite side.” Charlotte nodded, keeping a new worry to herself. At the moment, she had little wish to pursue anything further—at least until they were all away from the island, and safe at home.

  Chapter 34

  IN THE MORNING, Charlotte lay again in her own bed, watching a dagger of ice slowly drip its brief life away.

  Touching the receding egg at the back of her head, she reconsidered her visit to Boar Island. She'd seen places where Ned and Magdalene spent many hours. She hoped some of them had been happy. What the future held for each might be less so.

  Climbing down from the cheerless house on top of its perilous crag, she'd imagined Magdalene leaving earlier— then circling back, entering through the underground passage, and doing what she wished to Catherine Knowles. Ned, too, might have done such a thing, if he'd discovered the passage… or if Magdalene had told him of it. Each possibly had a motive. Yet what had happened need not have been planned, after all. What if one of them had only gone to persuade Catherine to change her mind? But if that was so… why not go in through the front door?

  Outside the window, a cardinal seemed to strike a pose on a nearby branch, pulling her thoughts back to something else she'd seen. For yesterday, she'd finally met one of the island's fabled inhabitants.

  They'd nearly reached the bottom of the trail when they heard a snort. Then they saw him, lit by the low sun, standing upon a flat rock. The boar was a yard high at the shoulders, and appeared neither cruel nor demonic, as she'd guessed it would. He did have impressive tusks, but they seemed given for protection. Most creatures, after all, had enemies. Though his body was substantial, he had small legs and hoofs. Particularly surprising were large ears, soft and supple, standing in peaks. His tiny eyes stared, as if they did him little good, but his nose twitched busily while he considered their unknown scent.

  It suddenly seemed a shame this was an animal most often encountered as a head on a platter, or a body turning over a slow fire. Charlotte decided that in future she would imagine these creatures doing no more than living their own simple lives, away from harm.

  She had been shocked to see Moses Reed reach into his great coat to one below, and pull out a pistol. This he cocked, and it seemed he aimed to shoot. But the slight click of the mechanism had been enough to alert the animal above them. He turned abruptly, showed them a tufted tail, and leaped from the ledge to the brush below. They heard him crash about a while longer, as he scrambled away.

  Slowly Reed lowered the weapon, to find Longfellow regarding him. Magdalene had backed away, her eyes grave. She must have known what firearms could do, Charlotte imagined, from the time she'd lived with hunters. But according to Hannah, the attorney beside her was no stranger to the ways of the forest—and, presumably, of wild boars.

  “No need, I think,” said Longfellow. “He's no threat to us now.”

  Reed assented, uncocked the pistol, and put it back into his clothing. “Better safe…” he remarked.

  “Do you often use that thing?” Longfellow asked.

  “No. But I might, sir. Some would rob a man who travels regularly, as a lawyer must. In fact a circuit judge suggested to me the idea of carrying one, as he does.”

  “Yes, of course,” Longfellow replied. But Charlotte wondered if his look implied a greater concern. Had Reed feared for his safety when he came to Bracebridge? Or onto the island? Did he perhaps think someone else might join them there, uninvited?

  After their return to the village, the rest of the afternoon had given Charlotte a chance to stay home alone, while Lem visited Hannah and Martha, telling them the news. With Orpheus at her side, she'd gone into the blue study and built a fire.

  What, she'd wondered, had their visit proved, after all? That there were still some things that could hardly be considered natural, even by Science? She had not told Longfellow of her initial sensation that something was in the house with them, something other than the comforting spirit she'd encountered. But what did it matter? She'd seen the tunnel, and its newly brushed floor. Had someone used it on the day of Catherine's death? And if so, had that same person killed Alex Godwin?

  There was yet another possibility to consider. Yesterday, she'd felt that Aaron had given her a friendly warning at the top of the cellar stairs. But had she been given another, far less friendly, below? Again she touched her head, glad that her pinned hair had cushioned what could have been intended as a deadly blow. Had Moses Reed been right, after all? Was there cause to worry, still?

  Charlotte continued to watch the icicle beyond the window, realizing that today many other questions, at least, might be answered. For it was Saturday, and Christian Rowe had invited the village to the meeting house, to discuss what was known of the events that took place on the day of the ice harvest.

  Since she herself had earlier made certain suggestions to Hannah, and because wives had ways of finding things out, she expected that some progress had already been made. All in all, she decided as she rose to wash and dress, it promised to be a most interesting day.

  THE MINISTER'S MEETING had been set to begin at eleven. But by ten-thirty, the space between the long, whitewashed walls of the meeting house, lit by several plain and tall windows, had begun to fill. Certain of the boxes in the front waited for tenants who paid extra for them each year. Behind these, villagers with smaller savings, or a lesser sense of responsibility, sat in knots on pews, and on chairs added to the side aisles. Men and women together were strangely quiet, while groups of a single sex talked quickly, if softly, raising their eyes to see who else might join them. In a rear lof
t, youths and maidens mingled with more animation, occasionally admonishing younger children for complaining.

  Thus far, thought Charlotte, it was what she'd expected. With Lem at her side, she'd come in before those of Longfellow's household. She was glad they'd arrived early, for as she'd guessed, the village saw no reason to wait for the appointed hour to discuss what had happened to Godwin, where the base shillings had come from, and who might be to blame for either, or both.

  As she and Lem sat down one voice rose above all others, catching the attention of the room.

  “Where is John Dudley?” Sarah Proctor asked loudly, causing a good many who nodded and grumbled to look about.

  “He's not here,” called one of her neighbors. “He's not been seen in the village since yesterday morning! His family's not here, either. Maybe they felt it best to stay away—”

  “Dudley's whereabouts are known to some of us,” a farmer retorted. Today, like several others, he wore his grandfather's long white wig for warmth, and perhaps in honor of the special occasion. “Even if he didn't see fit to inform the women!” he finished from under his fall of curls.

  “Where is he, then?” Mrs. Proctor demanded.

  “Well, Sarah, it happens he went off to Worcester! Somebody had to tell Godwin's family what happened to him. And he is, after all, the constable. Said he'd be staying at the Three Ravens, if you care to go after him— looking for the young man's murderer!”

  “He'll be back, as soon as Thankful Marlowe decides he's drunk more than the selectmen will likely pay for,” predicted a wise man.

  “Here comes Mr. Rowe,” Lem told Charlotte, for he'd been turned about in his seat, waiting for Hannah's family to arrive. Christian Rowe indeed hurried to the front of the room, to the stand where he usually delivered his sermons.

  “We must have order,” he insisted loudly. “Let us wait until the hour. There's no need for hurry, with the boy dead some days—”

  “Fine,” said a large woman from under a pink quilted bonnet, “but what about these shillings? And what about our housewares?”