As dusk turned to dark, the ladies talked of many things, each cleverly managing to keep the other (or so she thought) from worry.
EDMUND MONTAGU REACHED out and accepted Dr. Warren’s report from Longfellow’s hand. Before examining it in front of the fire, he provided his guests with claret.
While he read, the others examined the cloak and smallclothes, which still hung from the furniture.
“This has more to do with your problems than mine,” said the captain when he had finished, handing the paper back. He recrossed his silk-clad legs and cleared his throat before continuing. “I had planned to help with your investigations only as far as they advanced mine. Now, I find I have to leave them to you. Only a moment ago, I received word from friends in Boston who tell me that a body, naked and as yet officially unclaimed, was washed up along the coast near Providence. On Tuesday.”
“Duncan Middleton,” Longfellow returned quickly.
“A guess, of course.”
“Hardly that. A scientific deduction, based on fact.”
“How?” asked Montagu. And how were they always a jump ahead of where he imagined them to be? He watched Longfellow set the tips of his fingers together carefully, and draw them apart again.
“Actually, I had it from Mrs. Willett. The man she saw here, she now tells me, was an impostor. As to the how, she notices little things. And little things with her often lead to larger ones. For instance, there was the time when one of her hens disappeared, and she eventually discovered—but I digress, Captain, when you have more serious things to consider. I take it you still plan to return to Boston, in order to watch what happens to Middleton’s estate?”
“Indeed,” Montagu replied, further annoyed. He would have to guess about the hen, and would miss learning more about Mrs. Willett’s methods. Whatever they were, they succeeded. For an instant, he imagined he saw the shorebird of the same name. Rather unspectacular, until she decided to fly; then, the willet displayed an arresting wing pattern, white and black bands that could hardly fail to catch the eye and raise the spirit. Another instant decided him.
“But please,” he insisted, reaching for the decanter of claret. “Go on. I would like to hear Mrs. Willett’s reasoning.”
“It has to do with teeth,” Longfellow went on, as his glass was refilled. He related all that Charlotte had concluded after dinner. At the end, Montagu had to admit that the affair was far from finished.
“Do you have,” he queried, “further plans of your own?”
“I had meant to ride to Worcester tomorrow, to see Mary Frye’s father. Now, that seems unnecessary, strictly speaking. But I believe I’ll still go and talk to him, and ask a few others if anyone has seen a man of means who might have arrived there on Wednesday, possibly carrying Dutch gold. I may have some luck. And I’ll inquire about the miller’s stay earlier in the week—if in fact Lynch went that way. He might have dropped hints about this imposter he was in league with.”
“You will save me the trouble. And I’m sure someone of your experiences can speak with a frontier person better than I. Send me word if you discover anything of interest.”
The three men rose, but Montagu had not quite finished.
“Please give Mrs. Willett my regards, and my regrets at not having more time to spend with her. You might also take my respects to your most unusual sister. I suppose our paths will cross again, in town. Dr. Warren, I look forward to seeing you as well.”
“The question is, will I be seeing you, Captain?” Warren asked knowingly.
Montagu nodded slightly, acknowledging the hit. “That’s a question I wouldn’t wager on, either way,” he finally smiled, putting down his glass and walking them to the door.
THE NIGHT HAD begun to clear by the time Charlotte retired to her feather bed. She curled her toes around a squat stoppered jug full of kettle water, while she watched the stars that crept westward behind racing clouds, winking like distant eyes. Drifting toward sleep, she began to imagine others in their beds throughout the village.
Diana, of course, would be in her scented boudoir, draped in satin, kept warm by who knew what secrets and desires. Always a late riser, she was probably still at a book, or writing in her diary.
Then there were those at the inn. Charlotte wished she had managed to speak with Edmund Montagu again—Diana had told her he planned to leave in the morning. Together, they might have discovered why certain things, like the coins, connected the three confirmed murders. (She had been only partly relieved to hear from Richard, when he returned for his sister, that the merchant’s body had, in fact, been found far away.) Willing herself to forget about serious matters, she pictured Captain Montagu readying himself for bed, his wig beside him on a chair looking like a small, sleeping dog; she smiled to think what he might look like without it.
Resting near Edmund Montagu would be Mary, and Jonathan, and Lydia. Where would Lydia be sleeping now, she wondered? In a room usually kept for guests? It would be a cruel wound to Lydia’s pride, though a source of amusement (and a warning) for most of the village. She wondered what Nathan would have to say on the subject in days to come.
Mr. Lee would probably be in an upstairs room at the Blue Boar, if he was in bed yet; more than likely, he was still in the noisy room downstairs. He would certainly be the victim of many jokes in poor taste. But he would probably be the receiver of more than one free pint as well. Would he be telling further stories for his supper? Surely, he would be urged by the rest of the men to “spill the beans.” She wondered if she might find a way to talk with him again, without setting tongues wagging. As a naturalist with a knowledge of plants, he might be able to instruct her. Beyond that, Lee could have learned more from Lydia when they were, well, together … about what exactly Lydia had discussed with Middleton or, more accurately, with the imposter, on the day he disappeared.
As sleep began to overtake her, a darker image of Gabriel Fortier loomed in her thoughts. Somewhere out there, in the wind, she seemed to see—no, not Fortier, but a short, dark figure with its back to her, coming closer—a back bent over and unaccountably moving along like a crab, sideways, but growing larger, and larger, until it flapped its dripping red cape, and turned to show a face that had been eaten away—a sight which woke her abruptly, and left glistening sweat on her lips and forehead.
In a move as familiar as childhood, she patted the side of her blankets and whispered softly. Orpheus, thus invited, rose stiffly to his feet and climbed up beside his mistress, where he settled with a happy groan.
For a long time after, comforted by the soft breathing beside her, Charlotte continued to look up at the flickering stars.
Chapter 24
Saturday
FRIDAY’S SNOWFALL WAS followed by a day of clear sun and brisk wind, with the sky a deep blue. As usual on Saturday, people hurried about, trying to complete the week’s chores before sundown when the Sabbath began. In homes along the road, birch brooms swept at the open doors, beans simmered in pots, and linen fluttered on lines and trees.
Two horses clopped and snorted through the early morning air, over a landscape covered with shining, melting snow. As they left Bracebridge behind, Warren amused Lem with stories of life in Boston, sensing unborn ambition in the boy. In fact, he might well benefit from encouragement, Warren thought, and become a force for change, or at least resistance to all that was threatening the future of Boston. Most people who were given purpose, the doctor believed, could do amazing things. He himself had left Harvard in ‘59 to enter not only into medical studies, during his indenture to Dr. Lloyd, but into political life as well. A member of what was softly called the Long Room Club, he met others at unannounced meetings above the office of the printers Edes and Gill, who put out the Boston Gazette. Here, men worked to develop friendships, public spirit … and treason, according to some.
Warren believed young men should be helped to knowledge that might allow them to lead their countrymen, especially when they showed a talent for leading. He ha
d recognized something he liked in Lem Wainwright on the previous afternoon. If someone—say, Longfellow—were to sponsor the boy at Harvard, anything might happen—as long as the lad held onto his native reserve and pride, and kept a natural suspicion of both the British and easy money.
Eventually, through the fields, they saw the spires and rooftops of Cambridge ahead. The town of about fifteen hundred souls was no larger than Worcester, but its atmosphere was vastly different. Here, the bells of Boston could often be heard coming across the water, and that city was a nourishing presence which provided a good deal of money, as well as a constant flow of new thought and information.
They soon passed a large Congregational church, whose yard held many of the Commonwealth’s founders, Warren observed. Then, on the left, they saw an open quadrangle of buildings neatly fenced off from the ordinary world.
There was Massachusetts Hall, four stories with a large clock that faced the road, Harvard Hall with its bell towers and unbelievable library of 3,500 volumes, and Stroughton Hall—all three constructed of redbrick around a large, bare courtyard, where students crossing and recrossing between meetings continually wore out the grass.
Warren had already told his youthful companion about Professor Edward Wigglesworth, the scholarly old man who still prepared most of the future theologians of Massachusetts, while he also taught the students Greek and Latin, rhetoric, logic, and ethics. Now, the doctor told several amusing stories about the far less ancient John Winthrop, who was responsible for teaching mathematics and natural philosophy, as well as calculus, astronomy, and geography. It was Winthrop who had created and still presided over the experimental laboratory on the second floor of Harvard Hall. There, a twenty-foot telescope had enabled him to learn more of the nature of sunspots, and comets. Winthrop also had an orrery in his apparatus chamber; this showed, by means of hanging brass bells moved by a wheel-work, the paths of the principal bodies in the solar system.
But when they entered Harvard Hall and looked in at the laboratory on their way to the library, it was a hanging skeleton that stopped Lem and held him dumb. Warren took the opportunity to show his new friend just how Sam Dudley had been approached and strangled, to the considerable interest of several students occupying the room.
Somewhat later, Lem sat under the eye of a watchful librarian, looking through a book he’d found on a huge oak table before him. As his eyes flitted over the pages he let the smell, the sight, and the sounds of the place work on his agitated mind. Poring over a single volume by the fire had once been a thrill. But now, that prospect gave him only a brief glow. Here, an entire world of books surrounded him, all of them waiting to be tasted, acting on the boy like a bonfire—even if, as Dr. Warren had warned him, three-quarters dealt with divinity.
Lem’s own questions had more to do with the stars and their names, details of inventions, places mentioned in the newspapers, and the curious habits of weather and atmospherics described in the Almanac. How, and why, figured largely in Lem’s unspoken thoughts, along with an occasional and sometimes even heretical why not?
One question that didn’t trouble his mind at the moment (although he was later to wonder why about that, too) was this: What was going on at home, in the house of Charlotte Willett, which he had left unprotected? And why, he might have wondered (had he been looking down from his favorite hillside perch at that moment)—why was a crouched figure creeping up to Mrs. Willett’s kitchen window, looking around to make sure Hannah Sloan continued on her way down the hill on a quick errand, then stealing like a shadow to the unbolted door?
EDMUND MONTAGU, TOO, had passed Harvard College as he came through Cambridge very early, on his way back to Boston. But Montagu had no thought of stopping. Continuing on, he reached Roxbury and crossed over the Neck.
Nothing much, he decided with satisfaction, looked to have changed. Boston claimed a population these days of well above fifteen thousand, and its business kept on growing, in spite of the latest conflagration in 1760 which he’d often heard mentioned, and a currently rumored depression. He could see the masts of ships that had hurried to cross the Atlantic before the worst of the winter storms, clamorously unloading now on the wharves at the ends of east-running streets. As he rode on, he passed farm carts from the western mainland towns rumbling along the Common, bringing produce to markets and warehouses, as well as the cargo holds of the tall ships.
Commerce would always take care of itself, he thought—unlike one particular participant of the Boston trade, whose business was finished. Soon, Montagu would mount granite steps he’d only watched before. A constable had already made inquiries there, when word of Middleton’s disappearance first arrived from Bracebridge. Later, he’d received word that Constable Burns had what nearly amounted to a wrestling match with the merchant’s housekeeper, a Mrs. Elizabeth Bledsoe. It appeared to have been a draw.
This time, the captain would try himself. All through his journey, a homily had rarely left his head: Where there’s a will, there’s a way. And a will was just what Montagu wanted to find, now that Duncan Middleton was known to be really and truly dead.
Leaving his horse at a nearby stable, he stopped briefly at his rented quarters in a house in Pond Street. After that, he strode the half mile down to the big house off Water Street, near Long Wharf. Eventually, he lifted the heavy knocker on the large carved door.
After he had knocked several times more, the door was opened by a kitchen maid with greasy hands and a crooked cap, and coal dust around her nose. Montagu was about to ask to speak to someone else, when a bleating sound behind him announced the timely return of the housekeeper.
“Good afternoon, sir.” She slid by him, shooing away the unpresentable maid. Mrs. Betty Bledsoe was, as reported, a very ruddy and cheerful woman. She was also very round, and despite the cool weather, her face was covered with perspiration from her morning’s marketing. There was no doubt that she could use a good washing. The image of Mrs. Bledsoe in a bathtub helped considerably as the captain struggled to maintain a pleasant smile, while both caught their breath, for quite different reasons.
“Good day, madam,” he finally responded, and bowed.
Mrs. Bledsoe had already admired the fashionable young gentleman from behind; now, she enjoyed admiring him face to face, while trying to decide if his visit promised fair weather or foul.
“I’m afraid the master’s not in at the moment. Might I be of some service?”
“Certainly, for it’s you that I came to see, Mrs. Bledsoe.”
“Oh! Then you’d better come into the parlor. Unless—you might like to follow me into my kitchen? Nice and warm there, sir, and I could offer you a pot of tea, and some fresh buns, too.”
Having won a small victory, Mrs. Bledsoe led the way, taking just a moment to send the maid upstairs to polish a distant pair of andirons.
When the kettle was on the fire, the housekeeper lowered herself into a chair. Montagu watched her feet rise into the air, before hearing them meet the floor again with a plop. Curls like yellow sausages hung beside her flaming cheeks, and bobbed vigorously as she began uttering pleasantries, which soon moved toward the colony’s many faults. Montagu had quickly discerned that she was an Englishwoman. As it turned out, Mrs. Bledsoe had been born in Portsmouth, and proudly considered herself more loyal to the king than most of those around her. Had she, he asked, suspected that some of Middleton’s dealings had been less than aboveboard, when it came to their monarch’s interests?
Oh, they all stretched the laws a bit, didn’t they, businessmen? Especially these colonials. And didn’t the government generally overlook these things, for its own good reasons? Not that she could ever condone what sometimes went on.…
“Anyways,” she concluded, “wherever was I to find an honest man to work for? My own Mr. Bledsoe always believed America to be the land of opportunity, but when he left … when he died” she stressed, “I had very little. I really had no choice but to take a post here in Boston. Unfortunately, my upb
ringing was not quite fine enough to get me a position in the house of a real English gentleman.”
“Of course,” said Montagu, bringing the conversation grandly back to his own design, “one doesn’t always have a choice. But I give you one now, as a personal representative of His Majesty.” He almost expected the woman to raise a hand in salute, considering her new expression. “I can only tell you so much, you understand … but I can say that you might assist your king and country greatly—and perhaps yourself—by answering a few questions.”
He now dropped a Dutch gulden on the table, causing Mrs. Bledsoe’s pale eyes to widen. “Certainly,” she replied, moistening her lips, “I’d like to accommodate a gentleman like yourself, especially if, as you say …”
“Mrs. Bledsoe. Betty … have you seen many of these before?”
“Didn’t they come in with the Jenny Dean! One of our ships, that was, back from Curacao just this August. I remember quite well, as I saw Mr. Middleton counting them out before he hid them away in his strongbox.”
“And where is this strongbox, Mrs. Bledsoe?”
“Oh, sir—” A sudden coldness in his expression decided her. “Well … it’s in the master’s study.”
Montagu again smiled affably. “Show me,” he said firmly, sweeping the gold to one side of the table, without taking his gaze from her.
Mrs. Bledsoe licked her lips again and swallowed. Then, seeing that the coin was not about to disappear by itself, she led the way down a hall. Rising to follow, Montagu quickly pulled a small flask of rum from his coat pocket, and poured a dollop into her teacup.
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