Looking down at her feet, she missed seeing the Frenchman as he watched her approach from behind a tree; nor did she have time to do anything more than let out a small scream when he leapt out after she’d passed. In an instant, Fortier threw his arms around Mary’s slender waist. Before she could do anything at all his mouth covered hers; then hot breath warmed her frozen cheek while tears of pleasure spilled through her eyelashes, and trickled back onto her ears. Suddenly, he pulled away. Twining his cold fingers between her own, he pulled her up and over the granite boulders that guarded his hiding place. When he finally stopped, he took the food she offered, and laid it under a projecting ledge.
“Never leave me,” he demanded, rather than asked, and her eyes widened.
“Never,” she gasped as he clutched her to him. She could feel the strength of his arms beneath heavy woolen clothing.
“No matter what they tell you?”
Mary watched him lovingly, through a mist of tears.
“What do they say of you,” she finally asked, “that couldn’t as easily be said of me? We both had reason to hate him. I’ll fight too, if I have to! We’ll make our plans, and then we’ll leave this place behind!”
There was a trace of wildness in her voice, as well as a new strength that Gabriel had not heard before.
“There’s more to do first,” he reminded her. “For now, I’ll wait here. And you will go back to safety.”
“But you’ll freeze!”
“I’ll build a fire when it’s too dark for anyone to see the smoke from below.”
“Gabriel, I think I know where you can hide inside, where it’s warm—somewhere they won’t look for you.”
“Where?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow. I’ll come for you as soon as I’m sure.”
“Why do you love me, chère Marie?” Gabriel asked, pulling her close again.
“Because you’re handsome, which you know is true,” she answered, managing a smile. He brushed back her hair, wondering at its new perfume. Again, the space between them closed and words became unnecessary. For a while longer, they huddled together for warmth, then sought something more. The wind continued to howl, and a fresh, clean snow fell like a blanket all around.
“THE KILLER MUST have been an unusually strong man.” Joseph Warren settled the quilt over Sam Dudley’s throat, softened now that rigor mortis had gone from the young body.
Longfellow had watched closely as the doctor made his examination, guessing Warren’s conclusions before they were spoken. Now, he looked to Lem, who still stood uncertainly by the door, staring at the neighbor he had long known.
“Impossible,” the physician said finally, “to be certain of all the damage done. The crushed area I showed you would have been enough to make the boy lose consciousness; then, his face could have been immersed while he was unable to struggle. If he died from the throttling, there would be no water in the lungs … but I don’t think there’s any reason to look for it. Either way, we know someone was responsible for his death.”
“So there’s no longer a chance that it was an accident,” Richard Longfellow concluded. He watched Lem’s face harden. Then, he turned back to observe Warren’s expression in the fading light.
“I’d say none at all. No more than with the miller.”
“Which is what I thought.”
“Although,” Warren continued, “how the Devil that leviathan you showed me at the church was overcome in the open is another question I’d like to hear the answer to.”
All three were silent for a moment before Warren had an inspiration.
“It could be that whatever struck him was thrown.”
“A tomahawk?” Lem asked suddenly.
“I suppose that’s unlikely, isn’t it? It’s probably a special talent.”
“Not particularly special, around here,” Longfellow allowed.
“I did notice that the blow was a little off center,” Warren went on, “if that’s any help to you. If it was caused by someone holding on to a shaft, then it was probably held by a person who generally uses his right hand.”
“Which would be most of us,” said Longfellow, wondering again at the extent of the doctor’s dedication to Science.
“And I could be wrong. As you know, this sort of thing isn’t usual in Boston, either—for all the wild Indians said to live there.”
“If someone did manage to strike at him from an ambuscade” mused Longfellow, “say, from somewhere inside his mill where a hatchet was handy—then why, and how, did he take the miller outside? He’s nearly the size of a side of beef.”
“He is that,” Warren agreed. “Another difficulty, and again one requiring a powerful individual. As for the why, I imagine the killer might have wanted to get the body out of the mill to hide it—although the corpse naturally rose to the surface later, in spite of sinking initially. Most might not realize that it would. But—if he was dragged to the pond after being killed … as we believe Sam here was put into the water after he was throttled … that could be a further indication, could it not? Showing a similarity of habit.”
“Then you feel we are looking for one large, cold-hearted, somewhat tidy double murderer.”
“Or, two smaller—who both did the deed, and the dragging?” Warren countered, one eyebrow climbing. “What, Richard, do you say to that?”
For once, Longfellow only scowled, and said nothing at all.
OUTSIDE, THE SKY had stopped dropping snow, at least for a while, and there was a welcome lull in the wind for their walk back. As the three figures started away from the house, a smaller shot around the corner from the back, trying to catch them before they went far. Anne Dudley had been unable to reach the ear of her tall visitor earlier in the day, when he’d been with the constable, and the man from Boston with the lovely buttons. Now, she had another chance.
“Mr. Longfellow, please?” her tiny voice asked.
Longfellow looked down after feeling a tug on his sleeve. He saw again a short blond creature, and noticed familiar tortoiseshell combs inexpertly nestled above her braids.
“Yes, madam?” he asked, bending. “What is it you require?”
“I was told you’re very fond of crowns,” the child said boldly. Joseph Warren laughed long enough to bring a smile even to the face of the solemn little girl.
“A secret monarchist after all, Richard?” the doctor chided. “This will be quite a story for our club. Sam Adams will be particularly thrilled.”
“Friend Adams can …” Longfellow hesitated, then addressed the little girl with curiosity. “What kind of crowns?”
“Silver ones—” Anne held her two first fingers apart at the proper distance, to give him a better idea.
“Silver … on Spanish dollars, do you mean?” She beamed her approval, and he thrust a hand deep into a pocket to see what he could find, while he asked a further question—though he was certain he knew the answer.
“May I know who told you so?”
“Mrs. Willett. Charlotte’s a queen’s name, too, my mother says, just like mine. Mine’s Anne.”
“A very good name.” He brought out a coin, examined it for a moment, and then gave it over to a remarkably quick hand, while Lem watched with disapproval.
“Mrs. Willett’s quite right. I am fond of them, which is why I occasionally give them to my friends,” said Longfellow, straightening. He was rewarded with a low curtsy before the little girl rushed away.
“Not a very honest way to make a profit,” Lem threw after her. Dr. Warren seemed interested, and answered the boy’s accusation himself.
“So you think talk and flattery are poor things to be paid for?”
Longfellow took the girl’s side. “It was well done, and well coached, if you ask me. Young Anne might make a fine actress on the stage some day, if they ever allow a decent one in Boston.”
“She has lost something this day, as well as gained,” Warren reminded Lem. “Mrs. Willett, I take it, has been here before us,” he ad
ded to Longfellow.
“A woman of unusual curiosity, Warren, so beware. Though she’s an admirable neighbor, and a good example to follow, in most things. You might ask this young man about her; he’s apparently begun to formulate opinions on women.”
Longfellow leaned over and ruffled Lem’s wayward hair, before they began the walk back.
“Do you suppose Mrs. Willett noticed what those who found him apparently missed?” Warren eventually asked.
“I believe she did. She thought to call a medical man earlier today, before I’d mentioned you were coming.”
“One more thing … should we report to your village constable before we enjoy our dinner, or after?”
“After. But then, I think we’d do better to go and tell Edmund Montagu instead—”
“Montagu!” Dr. Warren stopped in his tracks. “Is he here?”
“He’s staying at the inn.”
“Is he?” Warren’s pale eyes flashed. “Then there must be even more here than I’ve seen so far.”
“You know him?”
“Of course. As someone who takes a particular interest in what the governor and his quiet men are up to, I would.”
“Would you, indeed?” Longfellow asked as he regarded the other, wondering how far his new friend would be willing to explain. Warren, meanwhile, attempted to hide his curiosity from man and boy by scanning the clouds above them, as all three crunched along the snowy road.
Longfellow noticed that Lem, too, usually so dull with company, had seemed quite interested in the doctor’s remarks. That, and other things, made him decide it might be time to begin to study this boy more carefully, to see exactly what he was made of—and to guess, from that, what he might become.
IN THE SMALL parlor attached to his bedroom at the Bracebridge Inn, Edmund Montagu sat and stared at a length of steaming wool. He had spread the scarlet cloak over the back of a tall chair, where it continued to drip in front of the fire. Other clothes had been found tied up in the cape, along with a large stone. These were stretched over a nearby table. They, too, matched what had reportedly been worn by Duncan Middleton on the day the merchant disappeared. But why were they here?
Montagu had already looked each article over carefully. The only thing of interest seemed to be that it had all been hidden in the same pond where they’d found the body of Peter Lynch a few hours before. The searchers had hoped to find the missing ax, and find it they did on a later pass with their hooked poles, although the weapon’s recovery had been unable to excite the waiting crowd as highly as the first unexpected find. To them, the bundle of clothing was certain proof that someone had wanted to hide what was left of Middleton.
Montagu was still convinced that the merchant was alive. But he couldn’t help wondering why the man hadn’t simply taken his cloak away … or at least the smallclothes that had been pitched into the water. Perhaps the cloak was too bulky, too conspicuous to risk leaving with. But all the rest? Montagu smiled to think of the old rascal itching now in some farmer’s Sabbath attire.
At any rate, he hoped there would be no more nonsense from the villagers about a mysterious fire lit by witches. He pulled his hands from his pockets and rubbed them together briskly. His work here was nearly over. But there was something else he needed to reconsider. Someone had very likely helped Middleton in his “disappearance” and his flight. Time had pointed a finger at Peter Lynch, whose mill stood conveniently near the scene of the merchant’s fiery show. If the odd pair had met before, was Lynch also the agent who was planning to take the tainted rum off Middleton’s hands? If so, it was no surprise that Lynch had a gold coin to spare, to give proof to his tale about the Frenchman. Middleton could have arranged for the miller to supply him with a horse and a place to wait until he might leave Bracebridge unnoticed. But now, Peter Lynch was dead. Why?
Had Middleton come back later, surprised the miller, and killed him to protect the fiction of his demise? Unlikely, if Lynch was part of his future plans. And it wouldn’t have been an easy job for an old man. The captain thought again of the scenario Charlotte Willett had followed, when she described Middleton jumping down to hide under his cloak at the side of the road. It had sounded plausible at the time; but now, he wondered.
Another thing—if Middleton had murdered the miller, it meant the merchant had hidden somewhere in the vicinity for at least forty-eight hours. Why had he waited? And where? Someone would certainly have noticed the old devil skulking around, white and crabbed. Who in Bracebridge would not see him and tell others, when everyone was aware of what they thought was the man’s spectacular demise? No, Montagu still believed Middleton was long gone, and that there must be a better answer to the question of who had killed Peter Lynch.
The Frenchman, of course, was the most likely candidate. Gabriel Fortier had a very good reason to want the miller dead, and soon. He had youth and agility, even if he wasn’t especially large. And further, if Lynch had encountered him in the dark, and Gabriel Fortier already had the hatchet in his hand, surprise or even a quick woodsman’s toss could explain how he had avoided the miller’s steely arms. Montagu happened to know from experience that a man carrying a candle at night made a superb target. And afterward? For Gabriel to have carried the miller outside by himself was just possible. Montagu also knew, from witnessing events of the battlefield, that a fatal head wound might take minutes or even hours to kill. Often, the most ghastly wounds did not to stop a man from speaking, or babbling at least; an injured man might even get up and run a while before he collapsed and died. The brain was still a mystery to medical men, however much they peered and prodded when they got the chance.
So—the wounded miller could have stumbled out of his mill, dislodged and thrown away the ax in his death throes, fallen, and landed in the water. Or, the hatchet might have been thrown far into the pond by the Frenchman, who would undoubtedly have been following to see a proper end to his work. If things had gone as he had just imagined, thought Montagu, one thing was clear. It would be difficult for Gabriel Fortier to claim self-defense if ever he came to trial.
At any rate, the sodden cape hung before him; it would be something to show to Longfellow and his lovely sister. A fascinating creature, but on the whole, he wasn’t sure if he wouldn’t be happier spending a quiet evening with Charlotte Willett. There was a woman who came from a different mold. And she was fair in more than the usual ways. Her conclusions concerning the disappearance of old Middleton had been brilliantly simple, and quite possibly correct—although her theory now seemed to him a little skewed. Maybe Mrs. Willett hadn’t been entirely right, after all. Still, she had certainly led the pack at the start.
It would be interesting to hear her views on the murder of the miller, as well as thoughts she might have on Mary and the Frenchman, and on Fortier’s current whereabouts. He even longed to know what she thought about the trials of Pratt the landlord, and the devious wife with her simian lover. One thing was certain. These people he’d met here were hardly the Puritans he had imagined still populated Massachusetts. This place was a good deal like England, after all!
Almost as an afterthought, he added the death of the boy to this bubbling stew. What had Dr. Warren concluded about young Dudley? Montagu would know before long. But very soon, he would have to let someone else take over the problem of finding Fortier, and bringing the boy’s killer, whoever he was, to justice. His own problem was still to discover the whereabouts of Duncan Middleton. And it was barely possible, he had to admit, that the old man himself was in no way connected to these two deaths at all.
Still, coincidence could be pushed only so far. And yet—
Was it also possible that something else was going on here, something he hadn’t even begun to understand? Reaching for his glass of wine, Edmund Montagu lifted both feet onto the low table in front of him, settled into his cushioned chair, and stared intently into the dancing fire.
Chapter 22
AFTER DINNER, WHILE logs crackled in the grate over a bed o
f squeaking, popping coal, Charlotte offered coffee to Longfellow and Dr. Warren.
Before returning for their promised fare, the doctor had agreed to stay the night in one of Longfellow’s extra bedrooms. Now, in no hurry to go, both men took their ease, while outside the window a drier, colder snow fell gently, drifting over garden, lawn, and fields.
It was a shame Diana had chosen to stay at her brother’s with Cicero, thought Charlotte, but she had found it necessary—she said—to wash and curl her hair. Possibly, she waited for a visit from a certain captain. And probably, she realized that death must be dinner’s main subject—as it had been.
Warren had repeated for his hostess his reasons for believing that Sam Dudley’s death had not been accidental. For her part, Charlotte took the story of the Dutch gold one step further; she told them how, according to the boy’s young sister, a piece of gold had been given to Sam. And she explained her notion that the coin had been taken away after his death by whoever killed him. She also offered her earlier thoughts on Peter Lynch’s connection to both Middleton and the boy. The next problem was to come up with a way to explain the miller’s murder. They had each stopped talking, and spent several moments in thought.
“The miller,” Warren began again, “from what I’ve heard, probably knew several men who might have wished him dead.”
“An accurate epitaph,” Longfellow interjected with a bleak smile, “if not a very happy one.”
“So there probably weren’t many he would have welcomed,” Warren continued, “on hearing someone in his mill after his usual hour for closing. And untrusting, he would seem to have been a very hard man to undo. An interesting paradox.”
“Lynch had at least a few friends, for all his lack of charm. Jack Pennywort, for instance, listened to his boasts and stories, and Wise, the tavern keeper, fed him on a fairly regular basis. There might have been one or two more.”
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