A Wicked Way to Burn

by Margaret Miles

  “But not this Frenchman of yours. Surely, though, he couldn’t have approached Lynch, at least in a threatening manner, unless it was from behind—which is not the way he was killed. Upon reflection, I don’t really believe the ax was thrown after all. I’ve been thinking, and I believe that if it had been, the gash would have been deeper. I have seen what that kind of an edge can do, when you fellows practice on trees. Yet you tell me that Fortier isn’t large. One very big individual, or two smaller—it comes to that again. Now, if one of a pair had provided a distraction, then the other might have come up close behind. At the last moment, Lynch might have turned, and—”

  Warren brought the side of a surprisingly delicate hand up like an ax against his forehead. Longfellow’s lips twisted, while he looked to their hostess, hoping to see her shudder. He only saw that Charlotte seemed far away. Following her eyes, he, too, watched the snow fall into the shivering maples beyond the curtains.

  “Or it might still be one person,” she murmured, “if the helper happened to be some kind of unseen agent.”

  “Agent?” asked Warren alertly.

  “If you mean whiskey,” ventured Longfellow, “don’t forget that Lynch was a man who could hold his liquor. He’d had a good deal of practice.”

  “What if he’d been lulled half asleep,” Charlotte said, still apparently trying the idea on herself, “befuddled, or even frightened by something else he didn’t know was affecting him? What if he’d been given some sort of concoction—a medicine, or even a poison? I know several things to quiet an illness that are easy enough to come by; so do most women who nurse their families. If I wanted to attack the miller myself, I’d first try to make him as helpless as possible.”

  “A good idea,” Longfellow responded uneasily. He was alarmed by the avenue of thought this opened up to him, but the doctor seemed encouraged.

  “Would you, Dr. Warren,” Charlotte asked hesitantly, “think to look for signs of anything of the kind, while you were examining a corpse?”

  “With an obvious injury to blame, no. I probably wouldn’t.”

  “I remember that the miller had a slight rash.”

  “Yes—a recent brush with nettles, I’d thought. But you’re right! Such a rash could have been caused by a reaction to some kind of plant, or even a poison. Unfortunately, my knowledge of botany isn’t great,” he added.

  “I can help you there,” Longfellow threw in. “Lynch might have been affected by a great many things. I know of several plants that plague our farms by causing harm to animals … although I’ve not seen detailed descriptions of how they affect man. At any rate, there’s Jamestownweed, for one—what Linnaeus calls Datura stramonium. Bad for sheep and cattle, though it’s sometimes smoked to relieve constriction of the chest. Then there are the banes. The Mediterranean henbane has unfortunately been introduced, and now grows wild here, dropping seeds that sometimes kill chickens; hence, the name.” He paused, and Charlotte took a breath to speak.

  “But—”

  “Wolfbane, or monkshood—aconite,” he continued, “is particularly deadly, though it’s sometimes used in small amounts as a sedative. Its blue flower is attractive, so it is frequently found in pleasure gardens. There’s also the wild arum, or wakerobin; cowbane, or water hemlock, very deadly; garden foxglove—to name but a few.”

  “I’m aware of problems with yew,” Warren added thoughtfully. “Especially when its red berries interest our children.”

  “In short, we have a plethora of plants that might be used to sicken or kill a man, woman or child, growing right outside our doors.”

  “But,” Charlotte tried again, to no avail.

  “And yet some, as you say, Richard, are used for medicines as well. Poison or medicine might be only a matter of degree. What holds off the gout in one man may kill a patient unused to it outright.”

  “You speak from experience?”

  “Well, I’ve only begun to practice, so I’ve not yet been in a position to kill off many on my own,” Warren retorted dryly.

  “You’ll get to it, if you’re like the rest. I’ll tell you, though, that if you’re looking for a killer, certain poisonous metals seem to be the preferred thing today.”

  “You’re referring, of course, to the therapeutic use of mercury, arsenic, antimony—”

  “But what,” asked Charlotte quite loudly, “about the miller? Could you discover now, Dr. Warren, if anything had been introduced into his system before he died, that might alter his abilities, or his perceptions?”

  “Tests of that kind are difficult enough when the victim is alive,” Warren admitted. “I need to observe symptoms while a patient is able to tell me how he feels, to be reasonably sure of the cause. I believe it’s circumstance that catches most poisoners—where they obtained the poison, who saw them applying it, that sort of thing. That, and their natural desire to talk about what they’ve done. It’s something we read about in the newspapers, time and again.”

  Longfellow nodded. “Just the other week, there was a story in the Mercury about a man in Newport—”

  “Yes, I saw that!”

  “Many times, too, it’s a woman who does the deed, remember.”

  “Yes, well, I’ll grant you poison is known as a woman’s weapon. Certainly, a man might be wary of a sex that would use deadly nightshade drops, simply for beauty’s sake. He might wonder—would they shrink from experimenting on him, especially if their minds had already been affected by the action of the plant?”

  “It does make one think.”

  “Not that females neglect the metals, either. You’ll remember Captain Codman, no doubt—fed arsenic by two slaves for weeks, until he finally died of it. Although he probably deserved his fate.” Dr. Warren went on to mull over the details, as well as the ghastly fate of a coconspirator, whose mummified body still hung in chains on Charlestown Common, across the river from Boston.

  Charlotte had given up trying to speak, and scarcely listened. Instead, she rose quietly and went out to look through the library shelves in the blue room. After that, she laid out a sheet of paper, opened some ink, took up a quill, and paused to consider. If she belonged to the circulating library in Boston … but at £1.8 per year! If only she were allowed to use the one at Harvard College, like her brother Jeremy. But that was unthinkable. No woman would ever be welcome in that place. Poisoning, Warren had said, was generally a woman’s work. Slightly peeved, Charlotte took small pleasure in their apparent concern at how easy it might be. But in several more minutes, when she returned to the table, she discovered that her guests had moved on to another topic altogether.

  “I must apologize for beginning to talk shop, Mrs. Willett, but I’ve just remembered meeting your merchant once, at the house of a surgeon who gave me instruction in dentistry. I’ve begun to tell Richard about the man’s work,” Warren explained, well aware of a social duty to win back his hostess’s approval. She nodded for him to go on, for teeth were a subject of painful interest to most people, sooner or later, even if they cleaned and cared for them as well as—

  What was it in the passing thought that made her jump in her chair? She had nearly remembered something important. She was sure of it … something that was trying to join itself to a statement the animated doctor had made but a moment before.

  “They can be wired directly onto your own, and fill in a gap or two quite well. There are, of course, now whole plates made of gold, and set in front with ivory teeth from all kinds of tusks; these make quite a good show if your own are completely gone. Not that they would be of any actual use in eating, but they do improve the appearance.”

  “Did you say,” Charlotte interrupted abruptly, “that Duncan Middleton had his teeth cared for by this man?”

  “Not his teeth, exactly. Prescott usually works in construction now. Although he still looks at live teeth, too. Which is fortunate, for you’d be surprised how many do nothing but pull and staunch the blood, when with a little planning, some could be saved. But since Midd
leton had none—”

  “Are you saying Duncan Middleton has false teeth?”

  “Oh, yes. He came to see if Prescott could adjust them. Middleton is as toothless as a turtle. Mrs. Willett, are you feeling well?”

  Quite well, thought Charlotte, if amazingly dull-witted. She remembered how Duncan Middleton had looked at her, with the eyes of a man who had something familiar on his mind. She recalled his pale complexion … almost as pale as Diana’s had been the next afternoon. She thought of the valise she had examined in Middleton’s room at the Inn, with its absence of toothbrush or cleansing powder, both of which a Boston man of wealth, certainly one who took the trouble to carry a shoehorn, would more than likely carry with him. Unless, of course, he had no use for them at all!

  Again, in her mind’s eye, she clearly saw the old man take a large bite of the new apple she’d given him. And she remembered how she had heard it crunch between what were obviously several sound teeth.

  “The simplest things,” she replied to both Longfellow and Warren, who were watching her face with some alarm, “are sometimes the least obvious. But I think—I really think that the Old man’ I saw on the road on Tuesday afternoon wasn’t old at all. And he most certainly wasn’t Duncan Middleton!”

  Chapter 23

  THE MAN I saw,” Charlotte Willett hurried on, “wore the merchant’s scarlet cloak. And rode his horse. But he had to be an imposter.” She want on to explain about the teeth, causing Longfellow, who was speechless for a time, to slap his thigh.

  “Montagu was so sure!” he exploded.

  “Sure that the merchant is missing from his home, and that we have his horse and clothes and traveling bag here. Beyond that, the captain had only our vague descriptions to go on, and I’m afraid they might have been misleading. Now that I stop to think, the figure I described was nearly covered by a hat and wig, a full cloak, probably face powder and possibly even some other kind of theatrical disguise, as well. The high voice that I heard speak very briefly, and that Mr. Lee also remembers, proves nothing, since we’d never heard it before—and remember that he took care to say almost nothing, except to Lydia. For all we know, the man might even have been an actor hired to play a part.”

  Longfellow threw down his napkin and leapt up, to begin pacing the floor. “It would explain why Middleton’s business and assets are intact. The real man only wanted to throw Montagu off his scent for a time! Drawing him here, the merchant would have had a few days clear. I wonder what else he has up his sleeve?”

  “And the horse!” Charlotte exclaimed.

  “Of course! Something did bother me when I heard Nathan’s description, so I had a look myself. Then, I managed to forget all about it.”

  “How do you mean?” asked Warren.

  “It’s too absurd. No—let me tell you. The horse had been habitually and recently flogged, a thing I always find irritating, and a damning indication of a rider’s poor sense and temper. Yet Nathan mentioned that its sides had already begun to heal when it got here. It was as though it had carried an altogether different rider on the day it came. And so it had.”

  On an impulse, Charlotte rose and closed the curtains. Then she moved away from the windows, closer to the fire. She remembered the tired animal that she, too, had seen. At least, she considered, the impostor who rode him into town was kinder to horses than the real Duncan Middleton had been. But what if …?

  “There is,” she said quietly, “another possibility.”

  “Which is?” Longfellow inquired, watching her sink back into imagination.

  “It could be someone knows that Middleton has died, and wants to hide the real cause and place—by making us think he came to Bracebridge. Don’t forget that Captain Montagu said Middleton left home on Monday. The man we saw didn’t arrive here until Tuesday, almost at evening.”

  “In that case,” said Longfellow, “our imposter might also be …”

  “A murderer.”

  “And where to you suppose that man is now?” Warren’s quiet words continued in a placid way that made the others remember he was a trained physician, after all. “If I were you, Mrs. Willett, I would take great care. YouVe just told us something that might also have occurred to the imposter as well. You, alone, saw this man in an unguarded moment, in an attitude outside his pose. He may feel that you, of all people, are able to identify him—by this, or even by some other little slip he could have made. Or might make.”

  “There’s still a good chance he left the area after performing his fireworks,” Longfellow ventured cautiously.

  “And you believe the two other deaths that occurred here were unrelated? In that case, I’ll be glad to get back to the safety of the city! Everyday village life appears to be very bad for one’s health.”

  “Warren, I think it’s time for us to visit Edmund Montagu. And time for you, neighbor, to bolt your doors and windows again.” Longfellow took Charlotte’s hands and rubbed some warmth back into them. “Inside,” he added with a grimace, turning for his hat and cloak, “it’s possible that you might manage to stay out of further trouble, Carlotta.”

  The physician, too, rose. “Walk me over to your study, Longfellow, and I’ll write out a quick report of my examinations of the miller and the boy. It might come in handy. Thank you again, Mrs. Willett, for your generosity. You will take care of yourself? And if there’s ever anything I am able to do for you—”

  Charlotte pressed a folded piece of paper into Warren’s hand. “I did wonder earlier if you would look something up for me, and send me word of what you find. I know you’re welcome to use our best scientific library.”

  “At Harvard College, you mean? Certainly. In fact, the place is on my way.”

  “It’s a list of complaints—or what you’d call symptoms. They’ve been the talk of Bracebridge lately. Witchcraft has been whispered as their cause. But I believe something natural might produce many of them. I suspect it’s an herb. I visited John Bartram’s botanical garden in Philadelphia a few years ago, and we spoke at length about the healing properties of some of his specimens, but I’m afraid this is something quite different. While you and Richard were talking, I leafed through my father’s copy of Josselyn’s herbal, but it only contains New England species, and I don’t think it’s a native plant we’re looking for. I know Richard has a great deal of knowledge about these things, but I’d hoped that as a physician you might also be interested.”

  Concentrating, Warren studied the list, and then returned her earnest look.

  “There really should be some universal reference for poisons, or plants that might induce illness rather than health, but I don’t believe one exists. I’ll see what I can do. Though I have heard of a treatise on wounds and the appearance of various causes of death, written by a man in Leipzig. What an interesting new science to pursue—medicine, as it affects criminal behavior. A fascinating thought. Well, if you can spare your young man, he could ride in with me to Cambridge; I’ll send him back with whatever I can find. Since I know the librarian, I don’t think I’ll have much trouble in borrowing a few volumes for a week or so. And Lem might like to see the sights of Harvard for himself.”

  “He could be needed here, especially now—” Longfellow began to object, but Charlotte stopped him.

  “I think he’d like that,” she said, giving the doctor her hand. She also promised to have Lem ready to ride, when Warren called early in the morning.

  CHARLOTTE’S FRONT DOOR had barely been opened to the cold when Diana Longfellow mysteriously appeared, nearly hidden under a forest cape whose shoulders were dusted with snow.

  “I’ve come to keep you company, Mrs. Willett. I’m afraid there’s very little hope of society at the house where I’m staying. But I see that you have some of your own! Good evening, Dr. Warren,” she finished with a brisk curtsy, after moving inside so that the door could be shut again.

  A few moments more and the men were off, leaving only their regrets behind. For consolation, the ladies sat to drin
k a pot of tea by the replenished fire.

  “Now there’s a curious man. Still, he’s not unattractive, and he’s unattached.” Diana gave her neighbor a meaningful glance. “By the way, did you see what I did with the small bottle of perfume I showed you at the inn yesterday afternoon?” she queried, slipping off a pair of her brother’s jockey boots that had previously hidden under her skirts.

  “The dragon bottle? No, I don’t think so.”

  “How maddening! It’s irreplaceable,” Diana said with a sigh, settling herself into a chair in her stockinged feet, “and I hadn’t even grown tired of it yet. Oh, well—perhaps it will turn up somewhere. I’m forever misplacing things, especially when I come here. At home I have much more to lose, but Patty always keeps an eye out. I’ve just come from the inn, where I had my own small dinner party with Captain Montagu, who still thinks he’s the most exciting man in town—which, unfortunately, he is. I wonder, though, how other women deal with his smugness. Deep inside, you know, I’m convinced he’s a passionate man. That doesn’t surprise you? You know how I love to find what’s underneath others’ pretenses, when there’s anything worth finding. In his case,” she added, poising a fingernail delicately in the air and dimpling at the thought, “I think there is. If I can get under his skin just a little further …”

  Charlotte had seen Diana’s pursuits before, and didn’t doubt that it would be an interesting time for both parties, whenever Miss Longfellow and Montagu might meet again.

  “You’d better watch your step,” she warned her coquettish friend. “The captain seems to be a clever man who usually gets what he wants. And I’m not sure he would approve of some of your friends.”

  “Well, neither do I, when it comes to that. Especially the ones who will dwell on business and politics. Hurrah for Captain Montagu, if he can keep them quiet on those subjects when he’s around! Incidentally,” Diana continued in a different tone, “you might like to know they’ve found the red cloak and other things in the millpond. Oh, and I should tell you before I go on—Mary stopped me as I was leaving, and asked me to thank you for all you’ve done. Now—have I told you about the patterns from Paris that Lucy Devens brought back last month? She swears it’s the new fashion to dress like a shepherdess and picnic in the woods! Can you imagine?”